Undone by her Ultra-Rich Boss

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

‘Quem és tu e que raios fazes na minha cama?’

In response to the deep, masculine, insanely sexy voice that penetrated the fog of sleep enveloping her, Orla Garrett let out an involuntary but happy little sigh and burrowed deeper into the cocoon of beautifully crisp, cool sheets she’d created for herself.

Duarte de Castro e Bragança usually paid her dreams a visit the night following the day they’d spoken on the phone. Every time his name popped up on the screen her stomach fluttered madly. The ensuing conversation, during which his velvety yet gravelly tones sent shivers racing up and down her spine, unfailingly left every nerve-ending she possessed buzzing.

They’d never met in person and their calls weren’t particularly noteworthy—she ran an ultra-exclusive invitation-only concierge business of which he was a member, so they generally involved his telling her what he wanted and her assuring him it would be done—but that didn’t seem to matter. Her subconscious inevitably set his voice to the photos that frequently appeared in the press and which she, along with probably every other hot-blooded person on the planet, couldn’t help but notice, and went into overdrive.

It was unusual to be dreaming of him now when she hadn’t spoken to him in over a month. Even stranger that he was speaking in his native Portuguese when he only ever addressed her in the faintly accented yet flawless English he’d acquired thanks to a British public school education, followed by Oxford.

But she knew from experience that there was little she could do to prevent it, and really, why would she want to even try? The moves he made on her… The way she woke up hot and breathless and trembling from head to toe… It was as close as she got to the real thing these days, not that the real thing had ever been any good in her albeit limited experience, which was why she gave it such a wide berth.

Besides, there was no harm in a dream. It wasn’t as if she harboured the secret hope that the things he did to her would ever become reality. The very idea of it was preposterous.

Firstly, quite apart from the fact that she steered well clear of things she wasn’t any good at, getting involved that way with a client—any client—would be highly unprofessional.

Secondly, there was no way a staggeringly handsome, fast-living aristocratic billionaire winemaker would ever notice her in the unlikely event they did get round to meeting.

And finally, the entire world knew how devoted reformed playboy Duarte had been to his beautiful wife and how devastated he’d been when she’d died of an overdose six weeks after giving birth to their stillborn son, even if he was now reported to be handling the double tragedy with unbelievable stoicism.

No, her dreams were private, safe and, even better, unlike reality, completely devoid of the hyper-critical voice that lived in her head, constantly reminding her of how much she had to do and how, if she wanted to feel good about herself, she must not fail at any of it. In the dreams that featured Duarte, perfection wasn’t something to strive for; it was a given.

‘Hello,’ she mumbled into a gorgeous pillow that was neither too hard nor too soft but just right.

‘I said, who are you and what the hell are you doing in my bed?’

This time he did speak in English, his spine-tingling voice a fraction closer now, and, as a trace of something deliciously spicy wafted up her nose and into her head, warmth stole through her and curled her toes.

‘Waiting for you,’ she murmured while wondering with a flicker of excitement what he might do next.

Thanks to a last-minute let-down, she’d been working flat out for the past week, preparing his estate for the annual meeting of the world’s top five family-owned wine-producing businesses. Her exhaustion ran deep. Her muscles ached. A massage, even an imaginary one, would be heavenly.

‘Get up. Now.’

Well, that wasn’t very nice, was it? Unlike those of Dream Duarte, who generally smouldered and purred at her before drawing her into a scorchingly hot clinch, these words were brusque. This Duarte sounded annoyed. Impatient. Where was the smile? Why was the hand on her shoulder shaking her hard instead of kneading and caressing? And, come to think of it, why could she smell him so vividly? His scent had never been part of her dreams before…

Realisation started off as a trickle, which swiftly became a torrent, and then turned into a tsunami, crashing through her like a wrecking ball and smashing the remnants of sleep to smithereens.

With her heart slamming against her ribs, Orla sat bolt upright and cracked her head against something hard. Pain lanced through her skull and she let out a howl of agony that was matched in volume by a thundering volley of angry Portuguese which accompanied a sudden lurch of the mattress.

Ow, ow, ow.

God, that hurt.

Jerking back, she clutched her forehead, rubbing away the stars while frantically blinking back the sting of tears, until the pounding in her head finally ebbed to a dull throb and the urge to bawl receded.

If only the same could be said for the shock and mortification pulsating through her. If only she could fling herself back under the covers and pretend this wasn’t happening with equal success. But unfortunately she couldn’t and it was, so gingerly, with every cell of her being cringing in embarrassment and horror, she opened her eyes.

At the sight of the man sitting hunched on the bed, shaking his head and running his hands through his dark, unruly hair, her breath caught. She went hot, then cold, then hot again. Her stomach flipped and her pulse began to race even faster.

Yes, Duarte was actually here, very much not a figment of her imagination, and oh, dear lord, this was awful. He’d caught her asleep on the job. She’d all but invited him to join her in bed. And then she’d headbutted him—her most important, wealthiest client—and that was saying something when to even be considered deserving of an invitation their members had to have a minimum net worth of half a billion dollars.

At least she’d kept her clothes on when, energy finally depleted, she’d crashed out, which was a mercy, even if they were on the skimpy side, since it was hot in the Douro Valley in June. But how on earth was she going to redeem herself?

That he hadn’t been expected back for another three weeks was no excuse. Her company promised perfection on every level. Their clients demanded—and paid outrageously for—the very best. This was the absolute worst, most mortifying situation she could have ever envisaged.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she breathed shakily, deciding that grovelling would be a good place to start as she pulled up the spaghetti strap of her T-shirt, which had slipped off her shoulder and down her arm.

Duarte snapped his head round, his dark gaze colliding with hers, and the breath was whipped from her lungs all over again. The pictures she’d seen of him in the press didn’t do him justice. Not even slightly. They didn’t capture the size or presence of the man, let alone his vital masculinity, which hit her like a blow to the chest and instantly fired parts of her body she hadn’t even known existed. They didn’t accurately reflect the breadth of his shoulders or the power of his jean-clad thighs that, she noticed as her palms began to sweat, were within touching distance. Nor did she recall ever seeing in any photo quite such cold fury blazing in the obsidian depths of his eyes or a jaw so tight it looked as if it were about to shatter.

‘Can I get you some ice for your head?’ she managed, inwardly wincing at the memory of how hard she’d crashed against him before remembering the emergency first-aid kit that she kept in her bag just in case. ‘Painkillers, perhaps?’

‘No,’ he growled, his expression as black as night, tension evident in every line of his body. ‘You can answer my question.’

Right. Yes. She should do that. Because now was not the time to be getting caught up in his darkly compelling looks that were having such a strangely intense effect on her. Now was the time for damage control.

‘My name is Orla Garrett,’ she said, praying that despite his evident anger Duarte was nevertheless reasonable enough to see the amusing side of the situation once she explained. With the exception of this lapse in professionalism, the service her company provided him with was excellent and that had to count for something. ‘I’m co-owner and joint CEO of Hamilton Garrett. We’ve spoken on the phone.’

His brows snapped together and she could practically see his reportedly razor-sharp brain spinning as he raked his gaze over her in a way that made her flood with heat.

Should she hold out her hand for him to shake? she wondered, a bit baffled by the electricity that was suddenly sizzling through her. Somehow, with her still beneath the sheets and him still sitting on top of them not even a foot away, it didn’t seem appropriate.

Far more urgent was the desire to surge forwards and settle herself on his lap. Then she could sift her fingers through his hair and check his head for bumps. She could run her hands over his face and examine first his impressive bone structure and then the faint stubble adorning his jaw. At that point he could wrap his arms round her and flip her over, set his mouth to her neck and—

Agh.

What was happening? What was she thinking? Was she nuts?

Appalled by the wayward direction in which her thoughts were hurtling but deciding to blame it on possible concussion, Orla swallowed hard and pulled herself together. She had to ignore the scorching fire sweeping along her veins and the all too vivid images cascading into her head, the reasons for which she could barely comprehend. There’d be time for analysis later. Right now, she needed to put some space between her and her client, so she scrambled off the bed on the other side and onto her feet.

‘As per your instructions,’ she said, fighting for dignity, for control, and smoothing shorts that suddenly felt far too tight and uncomfortably itchy, ‘I’ve been preparing the guest accommodation for your conference. So far, all the bedrooms are ready except this one.’

Which was the one that looked to require the least work. The other five had been complete tips. Bed and bath linen had been left awry and crusty wine glasses had been abandoned on surfaces thick with dust. Downstairs had fared no better. Coffee cups overspilling with mould had littered the drawing room and empty wine bottles had filled a crate in the kitchen.

Trying not to gag at the smell, Orla had wondered what on earth had been going on here before reminding herself sternly that it was none of her business. Her job was to see that her clients’ wishes were fulfilled and that was it.

‘I’ve agreed the menus for the weekend with Mariana Valdez,’ she said, hauling her thoughts back in line and focusing on the tiny stab of triumph she felt at having acquired the only chef in the world to currently hold ten Michelin stars, who was virtually impossible to hire for a private function, ‘and all dietary requirements will be catered for. I’ve instructed Nuno Esteves,’ the Quinta’s chief vintner, ‘to make available the wines you stipulated for dinner on the Friday and Saturday nights. The river cruise has been scheduled for the Sunday afternoon and the crew is prepping the boat as we speak. Everything is on track.’

Duarte shifted round to glower at her, clearly—and unfairly—unimpressed by what she’d accomplished under very trying circumstances. ‘And all the while you’ve been sleeping in my bed.’

‘No,’ she said with a quick, embarrassed glance at the rumpled sheets, which didn’t help her composure at all. ‘I haven’t. I booked into the hotel in the village, and I’ve been staying there. The nap was a one-off, I swear. Not that that makes it any better. It’s unforgivable, I know.’

Not to mention inexcusable, even though excuses abounded. Duarte wouldn’t be remotely interested in the fact that she’d been let down at the last minute by the team she’d put in place to carry out his requests and had had no option but to see to the situation herself, however inconvenient and however long the hours. It wasn’t his problem that she’d somehow found herself in possession of the wrong set of keys and had had to break a window to get in so she could unlock the back door from the inside and proceed from there. Like all their clients, he paid a six-figure annual fee to have his every instruction carried out, without question, without issue, free from hassle and the tedious minutiae of implementation.

‘I can assure you that it will never happen again,’ she finished, mentally crossing her fingers and willing him to overlook the blip. ‘You have my word.’

He let out a harsh laugh, as if unable to believe her word counted for anything. Then he gave his head a slow shake, at which her pulse thudded and panic swelled, because as the dragging seconds ticked silently by she got the sickening feeling that he wasn’t going to forgive. He wasn’t going to forget. The tension in his jaw wasn’t easing and his mouth wasn’t curving into a smile as she’d hoped. The anger in his dark, magnetic gaze might be fading but the emptiness that remained was possibly even worse. His expression was worryingly unfathomable and his voice, when he spoke, was icy cold.

‘You’re right,’ he said with a steely grimness that made her throat tighten and her heart plunge. ‘It won’t happen again. Because you’re fired.’

*

Duarte barely registered the soft gasp of the woman standing beside the bed, staring down at him with the mesmerising eyes the colour of fifty-year-old tawny port that had sent a jolt rocketing through him when they’d first made contact with his. He hardly noticed the way she tensed and jerked back, her expression revealing shock and dawning dismay.

He couldn’t think straight. His head throbbed from the earlier collision. His chest was tight and his muscles were tense to the point of snapping. It was taking every drop of his control to repel the harrowing memories that had been triggered by setting foot in this house for the first time in nearly three years. To contain the savage emotions that were battering him on all sides.

Frustration and surprise that his instructions had not been carried out correctly warred with fury that his fiercely protected privacy had been invaded. Shock on finding a beautiful, golden-haired woman fast asleep in his bed clashed with horror at the desire that had slammed into him out of nowhere at the sight of her. The grief and guilt that he’d buried deep had surged up and smashed through his defences and were now blindsiding him with their raw, unleashed intensity.

None of it was welcome. Not the swirling emotions, not the clamouring memories of his difficult, deceitful wife and tiny, innocent son who had never got to draw a breath, and certainly not the unexpectedly gorgeous Orla Garrett here, in his space, wrecking the status quo and demolishing the equilibrium he strove so hard to maintain.

‘I’m sorry?’ she said, sounding dazed and breathless in a way that to his frustration made him suddenly acutely aware of the bed, and had him leaping to his feet.

‘You heard,’ he snapped, striding to the window and shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans before whipping round. ‘You’re fired.’

Her astonishing eyes widened. ‘Because I took a nap?’

The reasons were many, complicated and tumultuous, and very much not for sharing. ‘Because you’re clearly incompetent.’

Her chin came up and her jaw tightened. ‘I am many things, I will admit, but incompetent is not one of them.’

‘Then what would you call this?’ he said, yanking a hand out of his pocket and waving it to encompass the bed, the room, the house.

She flushed. ‘A lapse.’

‘It’s more than that.’

‘The circumstances are extenuating.’

‘And irrelevant.’

She stared at him for a moment, frowning, as if debating with herself, then she took a deep breath and gave a brief nod.

‘You’re right,’ she said with enviable self-possession. ‘I can’t apologise enough for all of this. For hitting you in the head and, before that, implying that I was waiting for you. Obviously, I wasn’t. I was asleep. Dreaming. About someone else entirely.’

Who? was the question that instantly flew into his thoughts like the sharpest of arrows. A husband? A lover? And what the hell was that thing suddenly stabbing him in the chest? Surely it couldn’t be disappointment? That would be ridiculous.

Despite having spoken to Orla frequently over the last few years, which had presumably given her an insight into certain aspects of his life, he knew next to nothing about her. But that was fine. He didn’t need to. Their relationship, if one could even call it that, was strictly business.

Whether or not she was single was of no interest to him. So what if her voice at the other end of the line had recently begun to stir something inside him he’d thought long dead? Given that he’d sworn off women for the foreseeable future, the wounds caused by his short but ill-fated marriage still savagely raw, it was intrusive and annoying and not to be encouraged.

‘You’ve been working on the wrong place,’ he said, angered by the unacceptable direction of his thoughts when he worked so hard to keep them under control.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I instructed you to fix up the accommodation at the winery. This is not the winery.’

Her brows snapped together. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘This is Casa do São Romão, not Quinta do São Romão. So you’ve broken into what was once, briefly, my home. You’ve been poking your nose into places where you do not belong and sleeping in my bed. And in the meantime, the task I did assign you remains unfulfilled.’

She stared at him, confusion written all over her lovely face. ‘What?’

‘You’ve made a mistake, Ms Garrett,’ he said grimly, although actually, to call Orla’s actions ‘a mistake’ was an understatement. She’d invaded his space. Whether she knew it or not, she’d seen things he’d never intended anyone to see. Not even he had ever again wanted to have to confront the evidence of his torment, his grief and his guilt, which he’d indulged at length before locking away for ever. If this house had been left to rack and ruin, taking with it the memories contained within and turning them to dust, that would have been fine with him.

But at least the contract between him and Orla’s company had come with an NDA. At least the truth about his supposedly perfect marriage would never emerge. The thought of it brought him out in a cold sweat. He judged himself plenty. He didn’t need judgement from anywhere else.

‘I can’t have,’ said Orla, visibly blanching, evidently stunned.

‘Are you suggesting it’s I who’s made the mistake?’

‘What? N-no. Of course not,’ she stammered, the blush hitting her cheeks turning them from deathly pale to a pretty pink. ‘There must have been a communication error. I’m so sorry. I’ll make this right.’

There was nothing she could do to make anything right. What was done could not be undone. He should know. His son couldn’t be reborn with a heartbeat instead of without one. He couldn’t rewind time so that he could both erase the argument that had caused that and subsequently see what was happening with Calysta in time to stop her taking her own life. No one could. What he could do was get rid of Orla before he lost his grip on his fast-unravelling control.

‘You have five minutes to get your things,’ he said, his voice low and tight with the effort of holding himself together when inside he was being torn apart, ‘and then I want you gone.’