Read Online Outbid by the Boss by Stephanie Browning - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephanie Browning
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door jam. "This is becoming a bad habit," she said.
"Of mine?"Chas quirked a black brow. "Or yours?" He took a few steps into the room and paused, his face almost expressionless, only his eyes gleaming in the half-light.
A rush of heat suffused Sam’s face as she became suddenly conscious of the silky blue nightgown she wore beneath her shawl. That was all she wore beneath the shawl. Which immediately slipped off her right shoulder. Chas' eyes fell along with it coming to rest on her right breast.
Hidden by the thinnest of material.
Which was held up by the thinnest of straps. Why hadn’t she packed her pyjama pants and a t-shirt? Maybe because she’d expected to be alone in the climate controlled room of a five star hotel in New York, not confronting the mysterious lord of the manor in an ancient country house – at midnight. Sam fought a sudden hysterical urge to giggle. Instead, she tugged her wrap back where it belonged and held it tightly against her chest.
"I see you’ve finished your business," she charged.
Chas cleared his throat. "For the moment." The corner of his mouth twitched as he raised his gaze to meet her scowl. He advanced further into the room. "Do you know that before today I'd never seen you in anything other than a charcoal suit or a demure little black dress with pearls. And now this...not conventional of course, but I must say I approve."
The light from the sideboard threw his shadow across the room so that it lay at her feet. Her bare feet. Sam curled her toes in embarrassment. "Actually, I was about to leave."
"Finished poking about have we?" His eyes were almost black in the half-light.
Sam fought the flush of guilt but it was, as always, written all over her face. The set of his jaw showed her that he had seen, and correctly interpreted her reaction.
“I beg your pardon?” Sam asked, feigning innocence. “I just put the key back in. It had dropped out.”
You'll never be a good liar, her grandmother had told her, clucking her tongue when Sam tried to get away with an extra cookie or when she was older, an illicit cigarette. Her complexion was a telltale she had inherited from her mother, a slight flush that would start at the base of her neck and rise to the roots of her hair.
Chas Porter was a completely different judge.
“This cabinet,” she cleared her throat, "it's rosewood, isn't it? Like the Regency cabinet we have coming up for auction next month."
"You've broadened your area of expertise." Chas moved closer.
Sam picked up a hint of whiskey. Chas still wore the oxford cloth shirt he'd had on earlier. There was not an after shave, nor cologne nor musk in a bottle that could compete with the intoxicating scent of warm cotton, male testosterone and well-aged whiskey.
Her own breath, on the other hand, was ragged.
Sam shrank back. In London where the Chas Porter she knew neatly fit into everyone's perception of an unemotional, cold, calculating yet devilishly handsome boss, it had been far easier not to see the intense reality of this man.
The brass key nudged into the small of her back.
"I…I haven't actually agreed to work with you yet," she stammered.
Chas head cocked to one side. "I don't remember you having any choice. Slight thing with that candlestick we were both after. We really must talk about that. The silversmith’s wife was equally talented as I recall."
He moved in still closer, and his scent became stronger. Her heart was speeding up. The air between them had thickened with the silence between their words. The sound of their breathing.
Sam nodded, her mouth suddenly dry. "Hattie," she whispered. "Her name was Hattie. She specialized in small work, teaspoons, buckles."
Chas ran his hands gently over the gleaming wood of the cabinet. "You do know your history, don't you?" His lips barely brushed the top of her hair. "Only the inlays are satinwood by the way," he murmured tracing the fine grain of the wood with his fingertip, "the carcass is
"Of mine?"Chas quirked a black brow. "Or yours?" He took a few steps into the room and paused, his face almost expressionless, only his eyes gleaming in the half-light.
A rush of heat suffused Sam’s face as she became suddenly conscious of the silky blue nightgown she wore beneath her shawl. That was all she wore beneath the shawl. Which immediately slipped off her right shoulder. Chas' eyes fell along with it coming to rest on her right breast.
Hidden by the thinnest of material.
Which was held up by the thinnest of straps. Why hadn’t she packed her pyjama pants and a t-shirt? Maybe because she’d expected to be alone in the climate controlled room of a five star hotel in New York, not confronting the mysterious lord of the manor in an ancient country house – at midnight. Sam fought a sudden hysterical urge to giggle. Instead, she tugged her wrap back where it belonged and held it tightly against her chest.
"I see you’ve finished your business," she charged.
Chas cleared his throat. "For the moment." The corner of his mouth twitched as he raised his gaze to meet her scowl. He advanced further into the room. "Do you know that before today I'd never seen you in anything other than a charcoal suit or a demure little black dress with pearls. And now this...not conventional of course, but I must say I approve."
The light from the sideboard threw his shadow across the room so that it lay at her feet. Her bare feet. Sam curled her toes in embarrassment. "Actually, I was about to leave."
"Finished poking about have we?" His eyes were almost black in the half-light.
Sam fought the flush of guilt but it was, as always, written all over her face. The set of his jaw showed her that he had seen, and correctly interpreted her reaction.
“I beg your pardon?” Sam asked, feigning innocence. “I just put the key back in. It had dropped out.”
You'll never be a good liar, her grandmother had told her, clucking her tongue when Sam tried to get away with an extra cookie or when she was older, an illicit cigarette. Her complexion was a telltale she had inherited from her mother, a slight flush that would start at the base of her neck and rise to the roots of her hair.
Chas Porter was a completely different judge.
“This cabinet,” she cleared her throat, "it's rosewood, isn't it? Like the Regency cabinet we have coming up for auction next month."
"You've broadened your area of expertise." Chas moved closer.
Sam picked up a hint of whiskey. Chas still wore the oxford cloth shirt he'd had on earlier. There was not an after shave, nor cologne nor musk in a bottle that could compete with the intoxicating scent of warm cotton, male testosterone and well-aged whiskey.
Her own breath, on the other hand, was ragged.
Sam shrank back. In London where the Chas Porter she knew neatly fit into everyone's perception of an unemotional, cold, calculating yet devilishly handsome boss, it had been far easier not to see the intense reality of this man.
The brass key nudged into the small of her back.
"I…I haven't actually agreed to work with you yet," she stammered.
Chas head cocked to one side. "I don't remember you having any choice. Slight thing with that candlestick we were both after. We really must talk about that. The silversmith’s wife was equally talented as I recall."
He moved in still closer, and his scent became stronger. Her heart was speeding up. The air between them had thickened with the silence between their words. The sound of their breathing.
Sam nodded, her mouth suddenly dry. "Hattie," she whispered. "Her name was Hattie. She specialized in small work, teaspoons, buckles."
Chas ran his hands gently over the gleaming wood of the cabinet. "You do know your history, don't you?" His lips barely brushed the top of her hair. "Only the inlays are satinwood by the way," he murmured tracing the fine grain of the wood with his fingertip, "the carcass is
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