Chapter 9

It’s after twelve. My head is a little woozy and stuffy as it’s ridiculously hot in the office now, stiflingly so, and it’s making me feel nauseous. I’ve called maintenance twice to find out why they still haven’t fixed the AC; it’s blowing out tropical heat rather than cold air and it’s baking us all. My face is flaming and my pulse is beating so fast and hard like I’ve been sprinting. My clothes are clinging to me with dampness, and I’m irritated because of the inability to breathe or find relief. It’s oppressive.

Margo has left for lunch and I’m to follow on her return. She was wavering in the heat as much as I was, but I told her I was okay to stay, wanting to prove my abilities.

Ever the hero, Emma! Good move.

This is a huge sign of trust and I think she’s testing my capabilities, leaving me to man the fort and cope alone during a very busy schedule. It’s been three days since Jake returned and I feel like Margo is relying on me a little more, that I’m living up to her expectations and taking it all in my stride.

I can’t stand this heat on my cheeks and my blouse is clinging in places it never has before, sticking like a second skin. I’m obsessively clock-watching for her to return to relieve me for an hour from this damned, infernal sauna before I pass out. My switchboard lights up and my insides tighten as Mr. Carrero’s voice comes across the buzzer.

“Emma, can you come in here please?” he says, deep, low, and sexy. At the sound of his voice, I get the now familiar tingle in my stomach which I still have no control over.

I falter but reply, “Yes, Mr. Carrero.” This is not what I need when I’m melting into a puddle in my chair and already out of sorts.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

I’m on my feet trying to peel my blouse from between my shoulder blades and smooth it down without success. I pick up my notebook and pen and glide past Margo’s open office door and into his, pushing open the heavy dark wood and sliding in. I want this over quickly.

“Yes, Mr. Carrero?”

He looks casually seductive today sitting behind his desk amid an open laptop and piles of folders. His pale blue shirt has its top two buttons undone at the neck, his dark hair ruffled out of its normally spiked style as though he’s been running his hands through it, and his sleeves rolled up revealing one of the tattoos on his inner left arm, a reminder of his rebel teen years. I know from images I’ve seen online that he has a few across his body, all black tribal tattoos and symbols. The effect is devastating, even on me, and I try not to react, annoyed that he still does this to me.

“Are maintenance any further forward with fixing the AC? It’s way too hot up here!” He leans back, putting his hands behind his head in a very ‘guy’ manner. He stretches out and showcases that beautiful physique, his biceps increasing in size while straining at the fabric of his shirt. It is hard not to get a little quickening of the pulse rate.

Eyes down!

“I’ve called down twice, sir. They’re apparently on it.” I keep my eyes averted, my tone level and sounding as normal as possible.

“Emma, you look like you’re about to pass out; I think you need to head to another floor and cool down.” His eyes run over me; I’m already conscious that I must look disheveled. I feel it. But passing out would have more to do with the way he’s sitting now and my body being overly aware of how much sexier he is in just a shirt. It removes the formality somehow.

Really, Emma? He’s your boss!

“I can’t leave until Margo … Mrs. Drake … returns, sir.” I blink at him and resist the urge to let my eyes wander over his figure.

“When is she due back?” He frowns at me, oblivious to the riot of hormones raging through my body. Or just unbothered by them.

“Soon, maybe fifteen minutes or so. She’s on her lunch early, and I’ll go on her return.” I sound polite and factual, trying not to squirm in my damp shoes and hoping I do not look as awful as I feel.

“Soon as she’s back, I want you to go cool down; it feels like it’s melting up here. In the meantime, I need to dictate a letter. Maybe you’ll feel cooler in here as I have the air vents open.” He gestures at the wall of windows, and I note the blinds moving a little as the small amount of air gets in. He’s right; it is cooler in here … marginally. Well, it would be if he wasn’t sitting looking like that.

Emma, again? Really?

“Ready when you are,” I say, holding up my notebook to move things forward and kill my train of thought. He turns his chair so he’s facing the couch to the left of me and gazes at it, deep in thought.

“It’s for the CEO of Bridgestone … a man called Eric Compton. You’ll find his details on the system.” He is in business mode, tone serious and face focused already.

“Yes, sir.” I scribble it down in shorthand.

“Emma?” His questioning tone clicks my attention back to him.

“Yes?” I look up at the tone of his voice, sure I’ve done something he doesn’t like, momentarily phased.

“You can sit down, you know?” He’s smiling at me, amused, and nods at the chair beside his desk, pretty much in his line of vision. It was why he’d turned his chair. I blush and abruptly come around to sit in front of him. I hate that since coming to work for him my inability to control my blushing has returned, but he has a knack for making me feel childish.

“I don’t bite … much!” He smiles with his I-know-I’m-irresistible look. My eyes snap to his, alarmed, and I see the thinly veiled humor. I give a short, embarrassed smile to cover my reaction, my heart moving up a gear, and I inwardly chastise my stupidity.