NATALIE ANDERSON

CHAPTER ONE

"PLEASE, please work." Imogen slowly pushed the card in before just as slowly pulling it out. Nothing happened. The little green bubble just refused to light up. She tried again. Pushed it in slowly then whipped it out fast. Nothing.

Fast in. Fast out. Nada.

"Damn." Getting desperate she tried fast in, slow out. "Give me the green light, give me the green light. I do not have time for this."

She didn't have time for anything. A quick glance at her watch showed precisely ten minutes remained until the meeting began. Ten minutes to wash off the mix of mud, blood and sleet and change into the new shirt and skirt she'd bought from the overpriced shop three doors along precisely eight minutes ago.

"Please, please, please." Why did this have to happen now? She wanted to wail. Why, when she'd gotten all her reports together well ahead of schedule, when she'd found something to wear after her cringe-worthy disaster on the street, when the receptionist had been so sympathetic… why did she have to fall at the final hurdle?

She pulled her wet shirt away from her skin. It was cold and muddy and she felt hideous and sore. She'd gone for such a spin on the icy path - landing awkwardly, and sliding flat on her front ending up in a puddle of nasty water. She cursed the hidden ice that never seemed to melt on these Edinburgh footpaths. She couldn't master walking on them at all. No matter what shoes she wore, she still slipped. And the one time she needed to get somewhere fast and in one piece, she'd gone for the biggest spill of all.

And still the damn hotel door wouldn't open. The smiling receptionist had practically leapt to attention when she'd explained why she was there and who she was meeting and what had happened on the way. She'd handed over her wool coat and been assured it would be delivered to the drycleaners and then been given a key card to a room.

"Please use the room to shower and change. No charge."

The no charge bit was a huge relief because the emergency outfit she'd had to buy had not been cheap. Nor was it the kind of office wear she usually wore. Her wardrobe consisted of a neat uniform of black below the knee skirts and discreet jackets - not attention bringing at all. Imogen didn't want attention, she just wanted to get on with the job - and do it well. But the nearest clothing boutique had stocked far more stylish and figure revealing items than her usual mass produced form concealing choices. She'd frantically pulled aside the hangers in a quest for something conservative and simple. And she'd been in too much of a hurry to even try her selection on. Surely the black trousers and green shirt that she now held in the large carrier bag, would fit - she was a standard size. Surely, hopefully, please lord, it would be fine?

Well it wouldn't be if she couldn't get into the wretched room to wash up and change.

She flicked the hunk of hair that had fallen free of its hair tie back over her shoulder, breathed in deeply and tried to control her rising temper with a slow count out.

"One… two… three… fourfivsixseveneighnineTEN." She inserted the key card one last time. "Damn it!"

Nine minutes and counting. She was never going to make it. She was going to have to meet the new manager of Mackenzie Forrest wearing a sodden shirt and dirt on her hands. She banged those hands hard on the door in front of her and swore. "Open, damn you!"

And then it did. So quickly she stumbled. Regaining her balance with a wince of pain from her knee, she looked up. Lost all her remaining poise as he spoke - dry and unconcerned.

"Can I help you with something?"

Stunned, she stared, stared and stared some more. He was wearing nothing - nothing - but held a white towel to his... his... lower middle. There was acres of chest - lightly bronzed, so broad, so bare... and he was dripping wet.

Imogen couldn't help following the light dusting of hair... down.

Couldn't resist following the angles of his muscles... down.

Couldn't stop following the drops of water... down, down, down.

Down to where that broad hand was holding the fluffy towel that was catching those slow drips of water. She'd never seen a body so perfect - not even in billboard ads for underwear or aftershave. She'd certainly never seen a torso with such muscle definition. Not body-builder, too many steroids, bulging veins kind of muscles, but strong and smooth and sharp. There was not an ounce of fat for those muscles to hide behind - they were all on show. And she'd never before seen a belly button that her tongue basically begged to touch. In fact it seemed her whole body had gone brazen - and so had her brain. Blatantly watching as his fingers tightened on the towel and his other hand came to support it. Blatantly fascinated as each of his abdominal muscles moved, revealing even greater distinctness.

"M'am?"

Hearing his broad American drawl, she dragged her gaze back up. Looking into his face she simply stared some more as the brightest of blue eyes captured hers. Peripherally she saw the straight nose, the even brows, the angular jaw but the eyes held hers with their unbelievable colour and their focus and their sudden flicker of something that looked a lot like a 'you wanna dare?'

At that whisper of wickedness she closed her eyes for a second, holding back the wave of sensual feeling that wanted to spread over her, forcing herself to pause the porn show her imagination wanted to screen, and instead get on top of what she was supposed to be doing.

"This isn't your room." She didn't mean to snap. But she was embarrassed and confused.

"Actually, I think it is."

Oh did he have to have a voice to match the body? All amused and confident and capable of turning her pause button off again?

"Actually it isn't." Pause button back on. She was in control and fighting for her rights. "The receptionist said I could use it to tidy up and change."

"Well, that was nice of her. But it's my room."

"It was a him."

"Ah," he nodded and that dare in his eyes became a very naughty looking challenge. "I'd have said yes too. Beauty in distress."

She wasn't distressed, she was flustered, getting hot and rapidly approaching full on panic mode. "I can't get the key card to work."

"That's because it's my room."

"It's not it's -"

She broke off as he took half a step closer. "What's your room number?"

Her pause button slipped and she answered breathlessly, staring at that chest once more. "67."

"Ah."

At that know-it-all sound she looked up. He was nodding again and this time accompanying it with a wide, perfect white teeth, all too devastating, smile.

"Ah what?" Her heart couldn't beat any faster. She couldn't feel any hotter. And the wild thing was she was wishing she could forget the silly meeting with her stuffy new boss and just stand here all day. Staring.

"This is my room, number 69. Yours is just along the corridor a bit."

She slowly looked behind him and read the number on the door. She could have sworn that nine was a... oh hell, could she really be so stupid? "69?"

"69."

"And I'm…" not 69, not thinking 69, not thinking… Ohhhhhh. The sensual feeling rippled. Imagine - those muscles, that size, that heat... and tasting it all.

Her mental x-rated movie started rolling again.

His head angled and he almost whispered. "You can come in here if you want."

Unconsciously she mirrored him, angling her head so she could keep the same gleam of light in his eyes. Then what he'd said sank in. "What? No."

"Oh ok." He was out and out grinning now. "I thought for a second there you looked like you might want to."

Oh great. So her lust moment had been totally transparent. She put her hand to her chest protectively, hoping her nipples weren't prodding through the wet shirt like twin missiles aimed at him. They sure felt like they were. "What I want is to find my hotel room." Frozen speech now. Dignity had to be recovered.

"Well, like I said, that's just along the corridor a little."

She curled her fingers and pulled the halves of her shirt closer together. This time it was his gaze that dropped. His smile widened as he gave her torso a very thorough inspection.

She could feel herself responding even more to his warm appraisal. Couldn't believe she was standing in a hotel corridor being turned on just by looking at a complete stranger - and by him looking at her.

"Ok," she croaked. She turned - too fast for her recently scraped knee and couldn't quite stifle her groan of pain.

His glance went lower. "Hey, you've hurt your leg. It's bleeding." He stepped after her. "Can I get you a plaster?"

The change from teasing flirt to concerned gentleman was too fast and too damn sweet. Infatuation threatened to slip over her - to send everything sensible from her head - what little was left already.

Embarrassed even more by her ridiculous response to him she muttered. "No, I'm fine." She added her "thanks" way too late as she tried to walk normally but her leg had really stiffened now.

"Are you sure you're ok?" He followed her into the hall. "I'm good with first aid."

She turned back and nodded, unable to stop her eyes slipping south one last time. She was quite sure he'd be good at everything. Did he have any idea how good he looked right now? His legs were long, really long, and every bit as beautifully muscled as his chest. And the way his hair was wet and sitting like it had been pushed back with a hand - all left a gleaming, bronze statue waaaaay better than Michelangelo's marble David - this one was all real man. But she didn't answer, made it to her door instead. The card worked instantly, little green light flashed and she heard the lock mechanism sliding. Thank all the gods.

She didn't even try to resist taking one last look. He'd gone back to his room, but had paused in his open doorway, still smiling like he knew everything she was thinking, and still not wearing anywhere like enough clothing.

Far too hot for this freezing winter's day, she let the door slam behind her and tiptoeing on her sore leg, taking the weight on her good, hobbled into the bathroom. Caught a glance in the mirror and froze.

Oh no.

She blinked. Took another look to be sure.

Oh yes.

She hadn't realised the extent of the rip in her blouse. The sleeve had all but come away completely from the seam and there was a tear from her underarm across the front. To make it worse, the way she'd been holding it just then had pulled that gap even wider. Towel Guy had had a first class view of her breast. Her scarlet bra cupped breast.

Scarlet and lace-based bra.

Her mind raced back to her sprint out of the flat early that morning - wanting to get to work and have everything just so for the arrival of the new lord and master. Usually she wore a black bra, or skin tone, plain, nothing too fancy that would show outlines under the fabric of her simple cotton shirts. But with all the extra study she'd been doing to get her last assignments in ahead of the Christmas madness, she'd been behind on the laundry. Like weeks behind. So she'd grabbed this one from the drawer, figuring no-one was going to see it anyway and besides, wasn't it the kind of day when she needed the extra 'lift' the colour gave her? She'd bought the set on a whim once in the store's sale simply because she loved the colour. Just looking at it had gave her inner confidence a boost - her toenails were painted the same colour even though they spent all the day hidden away in her ankle boots. Scarlet underwear, blood red toenails. Not because she was some sexy vamp, but because that deep, almost burnt red was her favourite and wearing it gave her a pick-me-up - yes underneath she was covered in confidence. It was still fake, but it was better than none at all.

Only now she didn't see it as a confident, colour of a winner, it was trashy streetwalker, in your face tarty - and she was crimson with embarrassment.

No wonder the hotel receptionist had been so happy to help and so full of smiles.

No wonder the towel guy had been so bold about inviting her in.

She was flashing the world half her vixen clad assets.

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From the book The Millionaire's Mistletoe Mistress
by Natalie Anderson
Published in Christmas with the Boss
Publication Date: November 2009
ISBN: 978-0263876987
Copyright © 2009 by Natalie Anderson
® and TM are trademarks of the publisher.
The edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
For more romance information surf to: http://www.eHarlequin.com