here she was, back at the helm and nothing and no one was going to stand in her way.
The relief at seeing her office unchanged swept over her; the sunshine streaming in through the stained-glass floor-to-ceiling windows highlighting the wood panelling, tiled floors and her beautiful walnut desk—the very same one commissioned by her great-grandfather for this room in nineteen twenty-five—the bookshelves and photos, her chaise longue, her...
Hang on. Her eyes skittered back; that hadn’t been there before.
Or rather he hadn’t.
Nope, Polly was pretty sure she would have remembered if she’d left a half-naked sleeping beauty on her antique chaise longue when she’d stormed out.
Frankly, the mood she’d been in, she probably would have taken him with her.
She moved a little closer, uncomfortably aware of her heels tapping on the tiled floor, and contemplated the newest addition to her office.
He was lying on his front, his arm pillowing his head, just the curve of a sharply defined cheekbone and a shock of dark hair falling over his forehead visible. His jeans were snug, low, riding deep on his back exposing every vertebrae on his naked torso.
It was a tanned torso, a deep olive, and although slim, almost to the point of leanness, every muscle was clearly defined. On his lower back a tree blossomed, a silhouette whose branches reached up to his middle vertebrae. Polly fought an urge to reach out and trace one of the narrow lines with her fingers. She didn’t normally like tattoos but this one was oddly beautiful, almost mesmerising in its intricacy.
What was she doing? She shouldn’t be standing here admiring the interloper. He needed to wake up and get out. No matter how peaceful he looked.
Polly coughed, a short, polite noise. It was as effectual as an umbrella in a hurricane. She coughed again, louder, more irritated.
He didn’t even stir.
‘Excuse me.’ Her voice was soft, polite. Polly shook her head in disgust; this was her office. Why was she the one pussyfooting around? ‘Excuse me!’
This time there was some effect, just a little; a faint murmur and a shift in his position as he rolled onto his side. She couldn’t help flickering a quick glance along the lean length. Yep, the front matched the back, a smattering of fine dark hair tangled on his upper chest, another silky patch emphasising the muscles on his abdomen before tapering into a line that ran down inside the low-slung jeans.
Polly swallowed, her mouth suddenly in need of some kind of moisture. No, she scolded herself, tearing her eyes away, heat flushing through her. Just because he was in her office she didn’t have the right to stand here and objectify him. She gave the room a quick once-over relieved that no one was there to witness her behaviour; she was the CEO for goodness’ sake, she had to set an example.
This had gone on long enough. This was a place of business, not a doss house for disreputable if attractive young men to slumber in, or a hidey-hole for her PA’s latest boyfriend. Whoever he was she was going to have to shake him awake. Right now.
If only he were wearing a shirt. Or anything. Touching that bronzed skin felt intrusive, intimate.
‘For goodness’ sake, are you woman or wombat?’ she muttered, balling her fingers into a fist.
‘Hello.’ She reached over and took a tentative hold of one firm shoulder, his skin warm and smooth against her hand. ‘Wake up.’ She gave a little shake but it was like shaking a statue.
All she wanted was to sit at her desk and start working. Alone. Was that too much to ask? Anger and adrenaline flooded through her system; it had been a long journey, she was jet-lagged and irritated and in need of a sit-down and a coffee. She’d had enough. Officially.
Polly turned and walked crisply towards her small en-suite cloakroom and bathroom, this time uncaring of the loud tap of her heels. The door swung open to reveal a wide, airy space with room for coats and shoes plus a walk-in wardrobe where Polly stored a selection of outfits for the frequent occasions where she went straight from work to a social function. She gave the room a quick glance, relieved to see no trace of Raff’s presence. It was as if he had been wiped out of the store’s memory.
That was fine by her. He had made it quite clear he wanted nothing to do with Rafferty’s—and although they were twins they had never been good at sharing.
Another door led into the well-equipped bathroom. Polly allowed herself one longing glance at the walk-in shower before grabbing a glass from the shelf and filling it with water, making sure the cold tap ran for a few seconds first for maximum chill. Then, quickly so that she didn’t lose her nerve, she swivelled on her heel and marched back over to the chaise longue, standing over the interloper.
He had moved again, lying supine, half on his back, half on his side revealing more of his features. Long, thick lashes lay peacefully on cheekbones so finely sculpted it looked as if a master stonemason had been at work, eyebrows arching arrogantly above.
His wide mouth was slightly parted. Sensual, a little voice whispered to Polly. A mouth made for sin.
She ignored the voice. And she ignored the slight jibe of her conscience; she needed him awake and leaving; if he wouldn’t respond to gentler methods then what choice did she have?
Resolutely Polly held the glass up over the man’s face and tipped it. For one long moment she held it still so that the water was perfectly balanced right at the rim, clear drops so very close to spilling over the thin edge.
And then she allowed her hand to move the glass over the tipping point, a perfect stream of cold water falling like rain onto the peacefully slumbering face below.
Polly didn’t quite know what to expect; anger, shock, contrition or even no reaction at all. He was so very deeply asleep after all. But what she didn’t expect was for one red-rimmed eye to lazily open, for a smile to play around the disturbingly well-cut mouth or for a hand to shoot out and grab her wrist.
Caught by surprise, she stumbled forward, falling against the chaise as the hand snuck around her waist, pulling her down, pulling her close.
‘Bonjour, chérie.’ His voice was low, gravelly with sleep and deeply, unmistakeably French. ‘If you wanted me to wake up you only had to ask.’
It was the shock, that was all. Otherwise she would have moved, called for help, disentangled herself from the strong arm anchoring her firmly against the bare chest. And she would never, ever have allowed his other hand to slip around her neck in an oddly sweet caress while he angled his mouth towards hers—would have moved away long before the hard mouth claimed hers in a distinctly unsleepy way.
It was definitely the shock keeping her paralysed under his touch—and she was definitely not leaning into the kiss, opening herself up to the pressure of his mouth on hers, the touch of his hand moving up her back, slipping round her ribcage, brushing against the swell of her breast.
Hang on, his hand was where?
Polly pulled away, jumping up off the chaise, resisting the urge to scrub the kiss off her tingling mouth.
Or to lean back down and let him claim her again.
‘What do you
