The Boss's Bedroom Agenda. Nicola Marsh

her body when he touched her.

      It had taken all her will-power back in his office not to lean into him when he’d taken hold of her arms in a purely reflex gesture, the type of rescuing gesture a guy like him would make.

      He was a gentleman, no two ways about it, so what was she doing here flirting with her boss?

      This was madness. What had she been thinking?

      She hadn’t thought as usual, caught up in living for the moment, flying by the seat of her pants.

      Story of her life, really.

      ‘You didn’t answer my question.’ He released her hand before taking a healthy slug of his boutique beer. ‘Why professor?’

      ‘It’s a term of endearment.’

      She raised her martini glass in his direction before draining the rest of her drink. Better to down her drink and appear a lush than accidentally upend it over his chest.

      Though if she got a chance to dab at that broad expanse of muscle because of it…

      His lips twitched, drawing her attention to their shape. They looked tailor-made for imparting instructions to his employees… or for kissing crazy women not doing a very good job when their dreams depended on it.

      ‘But we hardly know each other. Not to mention I’m your boss and have taken you to task several times today, and you find me endearing?’ He shook his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. ‘You’re full of surprises.’

      If he bowled her over with his touch, his charismatic smile slugged her with its sensual power and she cast a frantic glance towards the bar, wishing it weren’t inappropriate to get tipsy in front of the boss on the first day.

      ‘So tell me a bit about yourself—something I wouldn’t know from reading your résumé.’

      Twirling the delicate martini glass stem between her fingers, she decided to have a little fun. If the professor wanted her to do a better job, why not impress him with a little knowledge?

      ‘I collect vintage hotties,’ she said, trying not to giggle at his incredulous expression.

      ‘What?’

      ‘You know, old hot-water bottles made from porcelain.’

      As if.

      The only old stuff she collected came in crates, the bits of scrap metal essential for her unconventional creations.

      However, Lana collected old hot-water bottles and Beth had been drilled in the finer art of what a good hottie entailed considering the museum had an extensive collection and she’d need to expound its virtues on her tours.

      ‘Really?’

      By the sardonic quirk of an eyebrow, he was having a hard time believing her. ‘Tell me about them.’

      Wishing she hadn’t drunk her martini in record time, she tried to recall every boring detail Lana had imparted, though she doubted her cousin had envisaged the cosy couch and drinks when they’d been practising the Q and A routine.

      She certainly hadn’t and, while she might have a razor- sharp memory, sitting this close to him, trying to stay focussed on his eyes and not his lips, trying not to inhale for fear of copping another delicious lungful of the faintest ripe blackcurrant so reminiscent of her favourite Shiraz, it was increasingly difficult to string two coherent words together, let alone recall boring facts.

      ‘Well, they date back as far as eighteen ninety. Of course, they’re not practical, made from porcelain and all, but I love their uniqueness. My favourite is a cylindrical foot warmer made by Lambeth Pottery in London, closely followed by a brown ceramic hot-water bottle in the shape of a Gladstone medical bag. That one’s made by Bourne Denby England. Then there’s the foot warmer in the shape of a pillow, which bears the word Osokosi, a play on the phrase “oh so cosy”.’

      She slapped a hand over her mouth, pretending to shut herself up when in fact she couldn’t remember any more of the facts she’d rote-learnt.

      ‘Look at me, running away at the mouth. I’m sure you didn’t expect such a long-winded answer.’

      Something shifted in his eyes, a hint of shrewdness mingling with confusion, as if he wanted to believe her but didn’t.

      ‘On the contrary, I’m fascinated by your hobby. Tell me more.’

      He was testing her. She could see it in the triumphant glitter in his eyes, in the smug smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

      Too bad she’d run out of hottie facts to bore him senseless with. Oh, hang on a second, that was her being bored out of her brain. He probably lapped up mindless drivel like this, considering he had to be fixated on old stuff to be an archaeologist in the first place.

      Faking a trill little laugh designed to distract, she placed her glass on the table in front of them and clapped her hands together.

      ‘Uh-uh, that’s enough about me. What about you? Is there more to the professor than meets the eye?’

      She half expected him to tell her to knock off the professor stuff, but to her surprise he slugged back the rest of his beer before answering her.

      ‘Not much to tell. I’m an archaeologist by profession who has temporarily traded in his trowel for a briefcase.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘My dad’s unwell and asked me to fill in for a few months, which is about all I can handle. The thought of being stuck behind a desk for longer than that drives me crazy. I’m a nomad through and through.’

      He spun the empty bottle in his hand, the expression on his face surprisingly sombre for the discussion they were having. Since when did trading small talk get so serious?