‘Don’t be silly. You don’t have to apologise for smiling.’
I ache to exclaim I don’t, Sah? in a surprised, mock southern drawl, with a splayed hand to my chest whilst fluttering my eyelashes, but hold back.
‘And don’t call me sir. I hate it.’
He should try sounding less stern then. ‘Yes s – I mean, Mr Demetrio.’
‘Alex.’
‘Yes, Alex.’ I want to ask if he’s sure letting me use his first name is appropriate given his need to maintain boundaries, but it’d probably be pushing it.
A horrible thought chokes me. Is the point about boundaries something he tells all female staff or is it just directed at me? Does he know who I am? A trickle of cold sweat runs down my spine, the droplet trickling into the waistband of my trousers.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asks, broad body swaying with the movement of the car. ‘You look like you’ve been told your grandma’s been run over by a bus.’
‘N–nothing.’ I shake my head. Paranoia is setting in. Studying his face for any hint of a hidden agenda, I clock only bewilderment and annoyance shining in his eyes and curling his mouth. ‘But let me assure you I’ve no problem keeping my work and personal lives separate. I’m more than capable of being professional.’
‘Good.’ He runs a tanned hand through his hair, leaving it ruffled in messy spikes that make fireflies circle in my stomach. ‘Keep it that way.’
‘No problem.’ Crossing my arms and legs, I turn to stare out the window, wishing I could leap out of it. Gorgeous or not, the man needs a major attitude adjustment. Plus his behaviour has reinforced why I’m off men; my career and putting my life back together are what matter, not a pretty face and a hard set of muscles.
During the next few minutes of suffocating silence I gaze at passengers in passing cars, smiling slightly as I take in a piece of leftover mistletoe stuck up hopefully in a rear windscreen. Alex alternates between fiddling with his phone and staring out of his window.
‘Miss Caswell, I should apologise,’ he mutters, glancing at me from the corner of his eye.
I look over at him. If he’s trying to say sorry it’s a poor attempt, ‘And are you?’
‘Am I what?’ He looks half confused, half cross.
‘Apologising?’
‘Yes, I am.’ He lets out an exasperated laugh, a shade of tension dropping from his expression. ‘I’m sorry.’
Scrutinising his face to gauge his sincerity turns out to be a dangerous move, because my breath catches in my throat, my heart beating so hard I can detect every pulsing rush of blood.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
My brain and body are definitely not on the same page. My head says stay away! in massive, neon, flashing letters whilst a warning klaxon sounds, but my rebellious sex drive is suggesting it’s right and natural to slide along the seat towards him and–
Stop! Check yourself Charley. This isn’t like you. Angling myself so the door handle digs into my left kidney, I use the discomfort to refocus, fixing on one of Alex’s defined cheekbones to avoid getting lost in his deep-blue eyes. ‘Apology accepted,’ I reply at last. He seems genuine enough. ‘However, I’d ask you not to judge me by other people’s actions. You don’t know me.’ Do you?
‘You’re right.’ He sits straighter, eyebrows folding together. ‘And I know it must sound like I’m making a generalisation, but I have my reasons—’
‘I’m sure you do, but you don’t have to explain them to me.’ I interrupt. Better to keep my distance.
‘Thank you.’
I nod rather than get caught in further conversation but am aware of him studying me as I turn to the tinted car window. The dual carriageway and metal barriers slide by outside but I don’t see them, too distracted by irritation and confusion. At him. At myself.
Yeah, I’ve got to keep my distance.
However, it doesn’t take much for my attention to boomerang back to Alex. When he pulls out a computer tablet and starts flicking things across the screen with a long-tanned finger, my gaze lands on his muscular thighs, superbly shown off by expensively tailored trousers. The idea of being flung over his shoulder and carried off to his cave and ravished pops into my head. It doesn’t make sense at all; I can’t stand male chauvinists. Which is surely what he is if he thinks no woman can make it in the corporate world without surrendering to romance. I mean, what about men? They’re just as guilty as getting involved in workplace relationships.
Added to which, growing up with three older brothers who delighted in winding me up at every opportunity means I hate chauvinist behaviour. In my teens they always taunted me about kitchen sinks and ironing boards and how real women should have dinner on the table when their husbands got home. I lost count of the number of times they provoked me into losing my temper or embarrassed me in front of my latest crush.
Now we’re all adults I’ve forgiven them their comments. They only made them to get a reaction. Still, I learnt from the older generation in my home village that some men really do view women like that. Outdated attitudes I was keen to escape. So it’s easygoing, supportive guys I date, not alpha males who have liquid testosterone running through their veins. Men like Alex.
No, it can’t be genuine attraction. It’s a hormonal thing, I’ve been sex-starved for too long. Perhaps it’s time to change that. Just not with Mr Standoffish.
Stamping hard on the brakes, the driver gives a muffled curse as the car skids to a stop with a squeal of tyres. I’m wrenched out of my thoughts and, despite my seatbelt, fly sideways with a lurch, ending half-sprawled across Alex’s lap, my boobs against his shoulder and my hand on his upper thigh.
It’s very hard, and very hot.
‘Oops, sorry.’ Straightening, I gaze into his eyes, cheeks scalding, heart racing again. It takes enormous willpower not to squeeze his thigh to test exactly how firm it is.
‘No problem,’ he replies, ‘it was an accident.’ He lifts my hand off his leg. ‘But if you don’t mind, you can have this back.’
‘Thanks.’ I can’t help noticing how big and warm his hand is, the palm rough against my fingers, which flex automatically, fingertips brushing his wrist. His touch transmits a basic message to my ultra-aware body and my unruly hormones go into party mode again. ‘Mr Demetrio,’ I breathe.
‘Yes?’
‘I … um.’ Hot and extremely bothered, my skin tingles with waves of sexual awareness. My toes are curling, no, practically corkscrewing in my boots. Bet he’s phenomenal in bed. Not that it matters. Snap out of it. Clearing my throat. ‘Nothing.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ the driver calls through. ‘Someone cut across me to get to the exit. I don’t think he saw me.’
‘No problem,’ Alex replies. ‘The main thing is we’re all okay.’ He looks down at our joined hands and frowns.
I snatch mine away, sliding across the back seat as the car starts moving again. With a small shake of his head, Alex retrieves his tablet and resumes work.
Rubbing my shoulder where the belt burnt into it, I cast around for a distraction. ‘How far to the airport?’ Fresh air and a change of scenery may do me good.
He glances at his expensive gold watch. ‘Another twenty minutes or so.’
‘Right, thank you.’
‘Is