Overtime in the Boss's Bed. Nicola Marsh

he’d agreed to see her.

      For business purposes, of course. He was desperate, having had four temps walk out on him in the last twelve months, and he’d reached the end of his tether.

      He’d tried every temp agency in Melbourne over the years, had been pushed to the limits every time. The temps they’d sent had covered the spectrum from too timid, too slow, too unmotivated, all the way to over-efficient, controlling, bossy types who’d tried to tell him how to run his business.

      He refused to settle for anyone less than capable any more, and only worked with the best agency—the only one he trusted to deliver exactly what he needed. The one that couldn’t send him anyone for eight weeks, apparently.

      Then Starr had called, conjuring up an instant reminder of her feisty attitude, her dedication to her dancing in travelling to a new city to follow her dream, and the undeniable spark between them.

      He’d had to hire her.

      Desperation might have been his primary motivator, but he knew in his gut she’d be as driven to succeed in this job as in the rest of her life.

      But working with the woman who for one unforgettable night had brought out an inner wildness he’d gone to great lengths to tame? Crazy.

      He’d been determined her reappearance wouldn’t rattle him. Yeah, that had worked.

      Rattled? He was beyond rattled. Try unsettled, agitated, perturbed. Seriously perturbed on a level he didn’t want to acknowledge, let alone recognise for what it was.

      Seeing her again had resurrected the arguments he’d been having with himself since that night in Sydney: his voice of reason urging him to forget her while he’d contemplated looking her up, the impact she’d made on him versus concentrating on work, the one solid, dependable thing that had got him through the last fourteen years.

      That was part of the problem too: his business had suffered because he couldn’t stop thinking about her—something he wouldn’t tolerate.

      So he’d come to a decision: wait another week, then instigate steps to find her. If he saw her again, got this ‘thing’ for her out of his system, his equilibrium would be restored and everything back to status quo.

      All nice in theory, and he should be thankful she’d approached him, but…he still burned for her. Seeing her in the flesh had dealt a total whammy to the cool, unemotional persona he’d spent half a lifetime developing.

      And that didn’t sit well with him. He didn’t have time for emotions, let alone for a woman with a cheeky smile and twinkling eyes.

      While he might have solved his PA dilemma, he had a feeling his troubles were only just beginning.

      Starr waited until Callum had disappeared up the garden path before plopping onto a lovely squishy sofa and fishing her mobile out of her bag.

      Hitting number two on her autodial—number one had been reserved for Sergio, and now stood satisfyingly empty—she waited for Kit to pick up.

      ‘Hey, guys and dolls, you’ve called Kitty. Leave a message. I’ll get back to you pronto. Toodles.’

      After wrenching the phone from her ear and glaring at it, she shouted into Kit’s answering machine.

      ‘It’s just after eleven so I know you’re there. Pick up or else.’

      She waited, counted to ten on her fingers, and had just raised her pinkie when a loud click signalled her nocturnal friend had finally surfaced for the day.

      ‘Whaddayawant? Can’t a girl get a little beauty sleep—?’

      ‘Rise and shine, cupcake. Because I have news!’

      Kit grunted in response, a loud rattle indicating she’d pulled her Roman blind down further.

      ‘I found a job.’

      Another grunt, followed by a muffled, ‘What?’ as Kit snuggled further under her duvet.

      ‘It isn’t a dancing position, but the cottage I get to live in is sublime, and I’ll keep job-hunting for something suitable, and—’

      ‘Who you working for?’

      ‘Callum Cartwright.’

      ‘Hot.’

      ‘Pardon?’

      More duvet-ruffling before a much clearer and more exasperated sigh filtered down the phone line. ‘I said hot. Apparently Callum Cartwright is a babe.’

      ‘That’s not the problem.’

      ‘Problem?’

      ‘He’s the guy from the party.’

      ‘What party—? Ooooh! That party. Working for a sexy boss. Putting in some serious overtime. Lucky you.’

      ‘Lucky? I have to act all professional and organised and immune, when all I can think about is—’

      ‘How hot he was in the sack?’ Kit let rip with a big fake sniffle. ‘Boo-hoo.’

      Starr smiled and tapped the phone.

      ‘Hello? Looking for a little sympathy here. A little Ooh, you poor thing, Starr, having to work for a guy you feel uncomfortable around.