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‘Fine.’ She swallowed any indignation she felt. It was pointless. Cormac Douglas was her boss and he could do what he liked. Even in her own house. ‘Is that all?’ she finally got out in a voice of strangled politeness.
‘No.’ Cormac continued to stare at her, his gaze narrowed and uncomfortably assessing. On the stove the pot of tomato sauce bubbled resentfully.
After a moment he sighed impatiently and, without another word, he turned on his heel and headed for the stairs.
Lizzie’s mouth dropped open. ‘Just where do you think you’re going?’
‘Upstairs.’
She followed him up the steep, narrow stairs, unable to believe that he was invading her home, her privacy, in such a blatant and unapologetic way. Yet why should she be surprised? She knew well enough how Cormac Douglas operated. She’d just never been on the receiving end of it before.
She’d never been important enough to merit more than a single scornful glance and a few barked-out instructions. Now her clothes, her home, her whole self were up for scrutiny.
Why?
Cormac strode down the hallway, poking in a few bedrooms, mostly unused and shrouded in dust-sheets.
‘This place is a mausoleum,’ he remarked with casual disdain as he closed the door to her parents’ old bedroom. ‘Why do you live here?’
‘This is my home,’ Lizzie snapped. Her voice wavered and she stood in front of him, blocking his way down the hall towards her bedroom. ‘What are you doing here, Cormac? Besides being unbelievably nosy and rude.’ A disconnected part of her brain could hardly credit that she was speaking this way to her boss. Another part was surprisingly glad. She glared at him.
‘Seeing if you have appropriate clothes,’ Cormac replied. ‘Now, move.’
He elbowed past her none too gently and Lizzie was forced to follow, grinding her teeth as Cormac strode into her bedroom and looked around.
Her bed was rumpled and unmade, her pyjamas still on the floor, along with a discarded bra and blouse. The stack of paperback romances by the bed suddenly seemed revealing, although of what Lizzie couldn’t even say.
She didn’t want Cormac here, looking over the detritus, the dross of her life. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.
It was incredibly uncomfortable.
He glanced around once, taking in every salient detail with narrowed eyes, a smile of complete contempt curling one lip, before he strode to her wardrobe and flung open the doors.
Lizzie watched with a growing sense of incredulity, irritation and shame as he thumbed through her paltry rack of clothes, mostly sensible skirts and dresses, a few different blouses to go with her black suit. There had never been any need for anything else.
‘As I thought,’ he said with an aggravating note of cruel satisfaction. ‘Nothing remotely suitable.’
‘I’m your secretary,’ Lizzie snapped. ‘I hardly think you’ll lose this commission because I’m not dressed like—like one of your tarty girlfriends!’
Cormac swivelled slowly to face her, light beginning to gleam in his eyes. ‘What would you know about my girlfriends, tarty or otherwise?’
Lizzie swallowed and shrugged defiantly. ‘Only what I see in the tabloids.’
He laughed softly. ‘You believe that tripe? You read it?’
‘You do it,’ Lizzie snapped back, goaded beyond all sense of caution.
‘Do I?’ He took a step forward, his voice dangerously soft. ‘Is that what you’re after?’
‘What I’m after,’ Lizzie replied, her voice turning slightly shrill with desperation, ‘is getting you out of my bedroom and my house. You may be my boss, but you don’t have any rights in here.’
‘I wouldn’t want any,’ he scoffed, and too late Lizzie realised how it had sounded. Bedroom rights. Sexual rights. With a small smile, he bent down and hooked the strap of her discarded bra on his little finger, dangling it in front of her. ‘A bit too small for my taste.’
She flushed, thought of threatening a sexual harassment suit and knew she never would. ‘Please leave,’ she said in a voice that was entirely too weak and wavery, and realised with a stab of mortification that there were actually tears in her eyes. She was pathetic. Cormac certainly thought so.
‘Gladly,’ he informed her, ‘but you’re coming with me.’
Lizzie blinked. The threat of tears had thankfully receded, leaving only bafflement. ‘Coming with you? Why?’
‘You don’t have the proper clothes,’ Cormac said as if speaking to an idiot, ‘so we’ll have to get you some.’
‘I don’t want—’
‘This isn’t about what you want, Miss Chandler. It’s about what I want. Get that straight right now.’
Lizzie bit hard on her lip. She couldn’t afford to dig in her heels now, not over something like this. She needed her job, her salary, especially now Dani was at university, requiring fees, living costs, books and a bit to enjoy herself with. Lizzie couldn’t afford to antagonise Cormac Douglas, especially not over a few outfits.
‘Fine,’ she finally said, her voice clipped. ‘I assume you’re footing the bill?’
He smiled. It made her insides curl unpleasantly. ‘Of course. You couldn’t afford a pair of panties from the place we’re going.’
‘I wouldn’t want any,’ Lizzie snapped, but he’d already walked out of the bedroom, no doubt expecting her to follow, trotting at his heels.
CHAPTER TWO
LIZZIE sat stiffly on a cream leather sofa while Cormac spoke in a hushed voice to the sales assistant at the expensive boutique he’d brought her to on Princes Street.
What kind of man inspired the respect, awe and, most likely, fear that kept an exclusive boutique open for its only customer at eight o’clock at night?
The answer was right in front of her, in the arrogant, authoritative stance and the assessingly dismissive look Cormac shot her before turning back to the assistant.
‘Don’t let her choose her own clothes. She wouldn’t know what to pick.’
Lizzie pressed her lips together and gazed blindly out of the rain-smeared window. He was right; she wouldn’t know what to pick. But he didn’t have to tell the assistant that, and certainly not in that tone.
On the taxi ride to the boutique, she’d made the decision not to get angry at Cormac’s rude and arrogant ways. She just wouldn’t care.
He was known as ruthless and cold, she reminded herself; he was indifferent to the point of rudeness. He was also respected because of his incredible talent and building designs.
Right now those designs didn’t seem to matter very much.
‘All right, miss.’ The assistant, a sleek woman in a grey silk suit, came forward, smiling briskly. ‘Mr Douglas would like you to be outfitted for the weekend. Will you come this way?’
With a jerky nod, refusing to look at Cormac, Lizzie followed the assistant into the inner room of the boutique.
‘I’m Claire,’ the woman called over her shoulder as she began pulling clothes from the racks. ‘You’ll need at least two evening dresses, some casual wear, a swimming costume…’ The list went on, washing over Lizzie in an incomprehensible tide of sound.
She’d never spent much time or money on clothes, never had the inclination or interest, not to mention the means. Now she reached out and stroked a cocktail dress of crimson silk, the material sliding through her fingers like water.
Why was Cormac doing this? Surely, surely as his secretary she didn’t need clothes like this, no matter how promising or prominent this commission could be.
Did he feel sorry for her? Impossible. Embarrassed for her? By her? Lizzie considered it, but decided Cormac Douglas didn’t have enough sensitivity towards anyone to feel such an emotion.
So why? Because she knew, more than anything, that Cormac didn’t do anything unless there was something in it for him.
‘Miss Chandler?’ Claire indicated the sumptuous changing room and, with a little apologetic smile, Lizzie entered.
An hour later she was trying on the last outfit, a slinky silver evening dress with skinny straps that poured over her slight curves like liquid moonlight.
Lizzie smoothed the elegant material over her hips, amazed at the transformation. Her pale blond hair fell to her shoulders in a soft cloud, and her eyes were wide and luminous. It looked, she thought ruefully, as if the dress were too big for her, even though it fitted perfectly. She looked overawed by the glamour, and she was.
Just what was Cormac trying to turn her into? Because it wasn’t working.
What kind of woman did he want her to be this weekend…and why?
Perhaps she was paranoid to be so suspicious, yet she couldn’t shake the unreality of the situation…the impossibility.
‘Gorgeous,’ Claire murmured, and gestured her to leave the dressing room. ‘Mr Douglas will want to see this.’
‘I don’t think—’ Lizzie began, but Claire was already pulling her hand, and from the corner of her eye she saw Cormac stand up, alert and ready, lips pressed together in a firm, hard line.
She stood in the middle of the room, conscious of the way the dress clung to her body and swirled about her feet, leaving very little to the imagination…to Cormac’s imagination.
He surveyed her from top to toe, his hazel eyes darkening, his face expressionless.
‘Good,’ he said after a moment. ‘Add it to the rest.’
With a nod, he dismissed her. Feeling like a show pony, Lizzie retreated to the dressing room and peeled off the evening gown, adding it to the heap of clothes that had to cost at least several thousand pounds piled next to her.
‘I’ll just take these to the front,’ Claire said, and Lizzie felt she had to protest.
‘I don’t really need…’ she began, and Claire shook her head.
‘Mr Douglas said you might protest, but he was very firm, Miss Chandler. He wants you to be properly outfitted.’
‘Does he?’ Lizzie muttered, yanking her jeans back on. ‘And what Mr Douglas wants, Mr Douglas gets.’
‘That’s right.’
With a little yelp Lizzie whirled around and saw Cormac standing in the doorway of the dressing room.
‘What are you doing here?’ she cried.
‘Telling you to hurry up.’ He braced one hand against the wall, his glinting eyes sweeping over her, his mouth curving in a knowing smile that brought colour rushing to Lizzie’s face.
And not just to her face…Lizzie felt her body react to that assessing gaze, felt her breasts, clad only in a greying, worn bra, tighten and swell. She’d never been looked at in this way by a man—any man—and certainly not by a man like Cormac.
She didn’t like it. Her body might react, treacherous and helpless, but her mind and heart rebelled against the assessing way his eyes raked over her, a mocking little smile playing about his mouth.
She put her hands on her hips and lifted her chin. ‘Had a good look?’
She thought she saw a flicker of surprise in Cormac’s eyes before he smiled coolly. ‘Not much to see.’ He turned away before she could reply, and Lizzie put on her shirt with shaking fingers.
Outside the boutique, a pile of boxes and bags at their feet, Cormac hailed a taxi.
Rain still misted down, as soft as a caress, but cold on Lizzie’s face. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said as the driver loaded her parcels into the car. ‘Make sure you bring all of that. I want you dressed properly.’
‘So you’ve said.’ Lizzie realised she should probably say thank-you, as he’d spent a rather indecent amount of money on her, but somehow she couldn’t get herself to form the words. She hadn’t wanted the clothes, and he was too overbearing and obnoxious for her to feel any proper gratitude.
The boxes were loaded, the driver waiting, and still, Cormac paused. ‘That silver evening dress,’ he finally said, his voice gruff. ‘Wear that the last night.’
Lizzie opened her mouth to reply, her mind blank. Nothing came out.
‘See you at the airport.’ Without waiting for a response, he turned away and began walking down the street.
Lizzie watched him go, saw the rain dampen his coat and his hair, and wondered yet again just what kind of man he was…and what she was letting herself in for this weekend.
Lizzie was breathless and flushed when she finally checked in and made her way to the first-class lounge at the airport.
Cormac, the lady at the register had informed her, had checked in half an hour earlier.
Lizzie gritted her teeth. If she hadn’t had all those ridiculous bags, filled with clothes she couldn’t possibly need, she might have made better time.
‘You’re late.’ Cormac looked up from his sheaf of papers, frowning, as Lizzie made her way into the lounge.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly. ‘I’m not used to travelling with so much luggage.’
Cormac turned back to his papers. ‘I doubt you’re used to travelling at all,’ he replied, and Lizzie opened her mouth to retort something stinging, but closed it without even framing a response.
What could she say? It was true, and she could hardly argue with her boss anyway. Still, she wished he wasn’t right. She wished he didn’t know it.
She sank into the seat across from him, conscious of the outfit she wore—slim-fitting black trousers and a cranberry silk blouse, unbuttoned at the throat. She’d pulled her hair back with a clip and fine wisps fell about her flushed face. So much for looking smart.
Cormac lifted his eyes, let his gaze travel slowly over her, from her tousled hair to the pair of black leather pumps that pinched her feet. Lizzie tried not to squirm.
‘You should have had your hair cut,’ he remarked, and then turned back to his work.
Stung, Lizzie replied, ‘If you wanted me to have a complete makeover, you should have given me a bit more warning. As it is, I have no idea why the Hassells will be analysing your secretary!’
He continued to scan the papers as he replied, ‘I think I’ve already explained to you what kind of impression I—we—need to make.’
‘And you’re afraid a bad hair day is going to make or break the deal?’ Lizzie jibed, only to fall silent at Cormac’s icy look.
‘Nothing will break this deal,’ he said in a tone that was ominous in its finality. ‘Nothing.’
‘Perhaps you could tell me a little bit more about what to expect, then,’ Lizzie said after a moment. The freezing look in Cormac’s eyes thawed only slightly and she tried for a conversational tone. ‘Will there be other guests?’
‘Later,’ he replied, and she knew she was dismissed.
