Ain't Misbehaving Read online

  “How? Last I heard they were booked out for the day and weren’t taking more applicants.”

  “Jennifer McDougal,” someone said in a loud voice.

  “This isn’t over,” Jenny said. “Mum will hear about this.”

  Charlotte watched her stepsister glide over to the woman waiting for her by the door, graceful despite her high heels. She held an elegant brown leather briefcase in her right hand and, like everyone else, appeared ready to step onto a catwalk in cream trousers and a sleeveless bronze shirt. A pained sigh escaped Charlotte. She’d told Gran this was a bad idea, that it would cause friction at home. And she didn’t have any qualifications, which worried her most of all. But then the other part of her—the feisty part who had slept with Zorro because it was something just for her—told her to grow a pair. She wanted this, didn’t she? Hell, yeah, Ms. Feisty continued. You go in there and knock their socks off. I wanna see bare feet and skin, she added slyly.

  Charlotte gave an inward ahem and mentally knocked Ms. Feisty off her soapbox. Back to the job at hand. After Gran informed her about the appointment, Charlotte had done several online searches to investigate Marlborough Media and their founder Ashley Marlborough. Mr. Marlborough was in his early thirties and had built the business from scratch. He’d made his first million with inordinate ease and was worth much more now. Nicknamed The Beast in the media because of scars on his face and upper torso, women chased him, and he was a regular feature in the local gossip magazines. She’d clicked through photos taken during social events and seen stunning blondes and gorgeous brunettes hanging on his arm as if only he could keep them standing upright.

  She’d read about the way he’d lost his mother in the same fire that had left him scarred, and how his father took sole care of him while he recovered. She’d studied his face until it became familiar to her. Oh, she’d heard Jenny go on about the scars and how she couldn’t look him in the eye. If he was in the interview room, Charlotte didn’t want to react in a manner to show her in a negative light. He had pretty eyes—a pale blue that contrasted with his inky-black hair and drew attention. His crooked smile contained a hint of mischief. The rascal in him had pulled a return grin from her, even though she was only studying his photo.

  “Yes?” The blonde receptionist pulled her from her thoughts.

  “Charlotte Dixon. I have an appointment at five thirty.”

  The receptionist referred to her computer screen and tapped a few keys. “Good. They’re running a little over, so your appointment will be closer to six. Is that okay?”

  “That’s no problem.” She was already in trouble with Jenny for attending the interview and had a lecture about her ungrateful manner and terrible attitude in her near future. Arriving home late wouldn’t add much to the severity of the lecture. Besides, Gran knew her appointment time and would have an idea of when she might arrive home.

  The assistant called names one by one. Charlotte glanced at the blue cardboard folder on her lap, cowed by the parade of smart people with their glossy leather briefcases. She focused on her breathing and fought her escalating anxiety. Even breaths. In. Out. In. Out.

  Part of her wanted to stand and leave, but Ms. Feisty forced Charlotte to remain seated. Gran had gone to a lot of trouble arranging this interview, although Charlotte still wasn’t sure how she’d managed it. In answer to questions, Gran had muttered something about special contacts, tapped the side of her nose and refused to say more. Gran and Esther had spent the weekend helping her to work on her portfolio, taking photos of some of the craft projects she’d done over the years and listing her qualifications and experience. Gran had insisted on adding a list of the craft classes they’d done together plus the partial diploma in graphic design she’d completed at night school. All practical experience, she’d insisted.

  This preparation did nothing to quell the nerves galloping around the inside of her stomach. She’d bet ten dollars the other applicants possessed professional qualifications and experience stretching from the tips of their pointy shoes to their immaculately coiffured hair.

  A mature woman appeared in the doorway. Her navy-blue suit skimmed her body, giving the impression of smart femininity. Her efficient gaze zeroed in on Charlotte, a pleasant smile taking her wrinkled face to pretty. “You must be Charlotte Dixon.”

  “Yes.” Charlotte rose, taking a second to ascertain her knees wouldn’t fold under the strain of acute nerves. She’d watched the other applicants enter the inner office one by one then leave again, their expressions ranging from confident to downright depressed. And now Charlotte followed the woman into another office, Jenny’s smug whisper ringing in her ears. You’re wasting your time. The job is mine.

  A great exit jibe on Jenny’s part. Charlotte sighed. Maybe her stepsister was right, and she was squandering everyone’s time. Don’t listen to her! Ms Feisty shrieked. We can do this.

  “Take a seat,” the woman said, gesturing at two chairs. “They won’t be much longer.”

  The door opened after five minutes and a petite blonde in a chic red trouser suit and skyscraper black heels sashayed from the inner sanctum. She exited, leaving Charlotte and the lady alone.

  A phone rang inside the inner office and a husky voice answered. Another male chatted with a woman, their low murmurs discernible to Charlotte from where she sat. But it was the husky voice that grabbed her attention. Every muscle in her body tightened, the distinct twang of her lady parts signaling a warning. The man speaking in the office sounded an awful lot like Zorro.

  Chapter Two

  Ashley Marlborough—Ash to his friends—cradled the phone under his chin and leaned back in his executive chair. He listened to the customer run through their concerns about their latest ad campaign and assured them Marlborough Media would come up with something suitable to set them apart from their competitors. He put them on hold and spoke to his secretary before transferring the call.

  As he replaced the phone on the charger, his gaze caught the artificial apricot rose sitting in a small crystal vase on the shelf to his right. The inner petals of the silk held a deeper hue—almost a blush pink. The beginnings of a smile tickled his lips as he wished he’d managed to get the woman’s name. It hadn’t seemed important when all he’d wanted was to strip off her clothes and surge inside her damp heat. His cock twitched and he castigated himself. Mind on the job. They had one last interview—the granddaughter of the persuasive elderly woman who’d caught him on Saturday. A friend of his grandmother’s, she’d said, and they corresponded on a regular basis. The conniving pair of women had finagled him, teaming up to set the perfect ambush. Once she’d caught him on the phone, the elderly woman had pressed her case in verbal bullet points, and he’d succumbed to her polite, determined charm, slotting in one final interview in a day crammed to capacity.

  “This is the last one,” he said to Laura, his personal assistant and John, his vice president.

  “Lucky last,” Laura chirped.

  “I hope so,” John said. “I don’t think there are more than two or three even remotely suitable for the position.”

  Ash sighed. Personally, he’d put the rate of prospective applicants even lower. Maybe the guy with the red streaks in his hair. He’d had some interesting things in his portfolio and gave them an innovative answer to their design question. He buzzed his secretary to show the last applicant in and studied the rose while he waited.

  Maybe he’d set a private detective on the case. The casual questions he’d put to his grandmother last night had solicited nothing but frustration. Prior to the ball, his grandmother had told him to look for the princess in the apricot gown, had acted quietly insistent about it. Now, when he wanted information, she’d become stubbornly silent.

  He wanted to see Princess again. They’d conversed easily throughout the night, and for the first time in years a woman hadn’t thrown herself at him with clear dollar signs as her motive. He’d kept his mask on to screen some of his telltale scars and even though she’d noti
ced the ones on his torso during their lovemaking, she’d taken his casual explanation of an accident with an ease that left him relaxed and desperate for her hot pussy. So they’d kept their anonymity intact with their masks, foregone intros and gone straight for raunchy sex. A smirk curled through him at the remembered pleasure. Sex hadn’t been a bad trade off.

  The redhead who entered his office stood out from the rest of the applicants. She wore a simple outfit and minimal makeup. She’d chewed off most of her lipstick and was nervous, although she didn’t hesitate to shake hands with each of them and meet their gazes. He shook hands last and was surprised when she sent him a direct look and gave a small smile in return to his welcoming words and apology for the delay. His scars threw most people, at least until they knew him better.

  She sat in the upright chair, her knees pressed together in a prim manner and a large envelope folder on her lap.

  The interview began with Laura and John asking the questions. Simple ones about her past work experience and qualifications, designed to set her at ease. Ash listened with half an ear, surreptitiously surveying her. Something about her was strangely familiar. It might have been the way she cocked her head or it could have been the lilting note in her voice, but she reminded him of his lost princess. She’d had dark brown hair, and while this woman’s eyes were the right color, the lashes and her brows matched her red hair. This Charlotte had the same enthusiasm for design as his princess though.

  “Can we see your portfolio?” John asked.

  She chewed her lip, drawing Ash’s avid attention to her mouth. “Of course.”

  Ash didn’t think that was what she’d intended to say, but she pulled out several sheets of drawings and art layouts. Color and strong forms popped off the pages, and a profusion of texture and three-dimensional elements grabbed his attention. Laura and John were struck too. He heard the sharp intake of breath as they fanned the designs out on the desktop. A series of black-and-white portraits wouldn’t have looked out of place on a gallery wall while the selection of rugby-themed artist trading cards were tiny masterpieces in their own right. The girl possessed raw talent, something he hadn’t seen in ages.

  “Have you done anything in video?” his assistant asked.

  “No, I haven’t used the medium yet.”

  Silence fell as they studied her portfolio in greater detail. Charlotte Dixon clasped her hands in her lap. Her gaze skittered around his office and he witnessed the exact moment she spotted the apricot rose in the crystal vase. She froze, her breath catching, then shot a quick glance at him, her face blanching of color when she discovered him eyeing her closely.

  Well, hell.

  No need to employ a private detective. Princess had walked into his parlor under her own steam.

  Charlotte swallowed hard, battling the urge to bolt from the office. It was Zorro in the flesh. She’d had hot, naked jungle sex with Ashley Marlborough, the founder of Marlborough Media.

  “Did you say something, Miss Dixon? Can I call you Charlotte?” the wretched man asked, maintaining his steady gaze.

  Bother. All she’d wanted was a little uncomplicated fun. Now her desire for a night away from drudgery exploded in her face. Elizabeth was still asking questions about the hickeys on her neck, Jenny was furious because of the job interview situation, and now Zorro was sitting within spitting distance, looking at her in the same manner a hungry cat eyeballs a cornered mouse.

  “This is very impressive,” the vice president said.

  “Thank you.” Charlotte forced the words past the lumpy constriction in her throat, glad to tear her attention from Zorro.

  “You’re the type of applicant we’re looking for,” Zorro said.

  “Um, thank you.” Dread roared through her mind as she frantically wondered what to do. What was the etiquette when coming face-to-face with a man you’d spent the night with? A man who’d felt her naked body sliding against his?

  Zorro glanced at his coworkers, and Charlotte witnessed the silent communication between them, the faint nods. “I’d like to offer you the position.”

  He went on to describe the hours, the remuneration and other employee perks. Charlotte tried to concentrate, but pleasure roared through her, the noise similar to the rush of a locomotive through a tunnel. They’d liked her work. They wanted her to work with them, train with them.

  “So, are you still interested in working at Marlborough Media, Charlotte?”

  She nodded, thankful for once when Ms. Feisty took over and did everything necessary to secure her this job. Gran and Esther would be excited for her. Jenny—not so much. “Thank you so much for this opportunity, Mr. Marlborough.”

  “We’re fairly informal here. Call me Ash.”

  “Um, Ash. Thank you.”

  All three stood and Charlotte followed suit. She darted a quick look at Zorro—no, Ash—and intercepted his surreptitious sweep of her body. A quick up and down. Charlotte scowled, remembered where she was and smoothed out the attitude. She didn’t want them to change their minds, which told her everything. In spite of Jenny’s probable animosity and despite enjoying bedroom acrobats with her new boss, she intended to fight to keep this job.

  Finally, since Gran was adamant it was time for Charlotte to spread her wings, she had a chance for independence. With Gran’s approval and support, plus a wage coming in each week, maybe she could move into her own flat. She could make friends and still see Gran on a regular basis. Heck, she could have a life and never feel alone again. That happy thought kept her going for the entire bus ride and walk home.

  “Where have you been?” Elizabeth demanded before Charlotte even had a chance to remove her shoes.

  “I told you she went for a job interview at Marlborough Media,” Jenny snapped, coming up behind her mother.

  Pesky midgets, Ms Feisty muttered as she slid off her shoes. Charlotte stared down at them from her lofty five-foot-nine and withheld a chuckle. “Gran knew where I was. She made the appointment for me.”

  “Mum is in the hospital,” Elizabeth snapped. “You should have been here.”

  “What? What happened?” Charlotte shoved her feet back into her shoes. “Which hospital?”

  “Auckland hospital,” Elizabeth said. “Intensive care. It’s her heart, a complication from the lupus.”

  “Where are you going?” Jenny said. “What about dinner?”

  “I’m going to see Gran,” Charlotte said, running a jerky hand over her hair. She dropped her portfolio on a side table and turned to leave.

  “She’s stable. Visiting hours are over for the day, and they only allow family to visit,” Elizabeth said. “They won’t let you in to see her.”

  Charlotte came to an abrupt halt, flinching at the verbal strike. She gaped at her stepmother in disbelief. “You’d do that to me, to your mother? We mightn’t be related by blood, but I’ve looked after her ever since I left high school. I love her.”

  “You’re a bad influence,” Elizabeth said. “She overdoes things because you encourage her with your stupid crafts and activities. She requires bed rest.”

  Hands curled to fists at Charlotte’s sides, only the bite of fingernails keeping her fury internalized. Her chest tightened under the pressure until it was hard to breathe. Somehow, she’d get into intensive care to see Gran tomorrow, no matter what Elizabeth said. Gran would want to hear the good news. Damn it, Charlotte wanted to hear the sly cunning in Gran’s voice when she slapped Charlotte with her litany of I told you so.

  “What’s for dinner, Charlotte?” Rachel appeared at the top of the stairs. “Why are you all standing by the door?”

  Without another word, Charlotte stomped to the kitchen. She rang the hospital, asked to be put through to the intensive care ward and requested a status report on Gran.

  “She’s comfortable and resting now,” the ward nurse said. “I checked on her myself ten minutes ago. The drugs have helped with pain relief, and there’s nothing more we can do until the doctors conduct additional tests.�
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  Charlotte asked about visiting hours and after thanking the nurse, hung up. With her worries momentarily calmed, she strode to the fridge, stared at the contents then started preparing pasta for dinner. Once dinner was over and she’d completed the clean up, she’d slip out of the house and go to visit Esther. She’d tell Charlotte what the situation was with Gran.

  The phone rang and Charlotte didn’t bother answering, continuing with dinner preparations. As she’d expected, one of her stepsisters answered in the lounge. She chopped two onions with sharp, downward pressure of the knife. The rising fumes attacked her eyes. Tears trickled down her cheeks and kept coming even when she moved on to crushing garlic and dicing button mushrooms. Logic told her Gran would have collapsed even if she’d been here, yet guilt ballooned inside her.

  Gran didn’t care about their lack of blood relationship. She treated Charlotte the same as her real grandchildren. Charlotte hadn’t minded looking after her even though it meant spending most Friday and Saturday nights at home. Gran had repaid her in other ways—her interest in crafts and design sparking the seeds of a career for Charlotte. And the interview—

  “Phone for you,” Jenny snapped, temper contorting her pretty face into a caricature mask.

  “Me? Who is it?” Charlotte’s fingers itched for a pencil and paper to record her stepsister’s expression.

  “Answer it and you’ll find out. Don’t hog the line for too long. I’m expecting a call from Steve.”

  And heaven forbid Jenny missed a call. Charlotte picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Charlotte, it’s Ash.”

  Charlotte heard a shocked gasp on the line before the phone in the lounge clattered down, shutting off the background noise from the TV. Her stomach turned a slow somersault. Answer the man, Ms. Feisty ordered. Don’t make me get out my pointy boots.

  “Hi,” Charlotte said. Great conversational skills, not!

  “I enjoyed meeting you at the ball.”