Mr. Bossman

It’s the story of Kit Mallory’s life. Born under an unlucky star, she’s always been a jinx. Since taking the position as head of Testing and Research at The Toy Company, it’s only gotten worse. Whether it’s
blowing up the lab, accidently annihilating her boss with killer missiles, or starting a three-alarm fire, if anything can go wrong, it definitely will!

Stephen “the Iceman” St. Clair is at his wit’s end dealing with the endless disasters caused by his newest employee. He’d fire her if not for one small problem . . . . He can’t keep his hands off her. From the moment they first meet, the Iceman has been on fire. One way or another, he intends to have her—assuming she doesn’t jinx them both on the way to the bedroom!

But even when romance offers a promise of forever, a painful secret threatens to part them permanently. It’s up to Kit to find a way to turn disaster into destiny. All she has to do is find a way to melt an Iceman’s heart.

“You idiot!”

A thick cloud of purple powder wafted out from under the door of the Testing and Research Department of The Toy Company and spun in lazy circles before settling like a gentle blanket onto the pristine, cream-colored carpet. The door thumped open, releasing a huge cloud of the brightly colored powder, along with two people coated from head to foot in the dust.

“You idiot,” Kit repeated, glaring at her assistant.

Why? Why did this always happen to her? Her entire life people had told her she’d been born under an unlucky star. Well, here was more proof. She whipped off a pair of goggles, exposing two round circles of white skin, and threw them down, choking on the mushroom cloud of powder billowing from the carpet.

It took her three tries to clear her throat enough to speak. “How could you be so clumsy?” she demanded.

Todd hunched his thin shoulders. Tall and gangly, he epitomized the stereotypical “science geek” image. “I said I was sorry, Kit. What do you want, blood? It was an accident. I was thirsty and the water just spilled.”

“Into both the ammonium nitrate and ammonium chloride?” Sarcasm laced the question. “How is that possible, Todd? The compounds would have had to be already mixed with the zinc and iodine to get that sort of reaction.”

He shoved a lock of once-black hair off his brow, leaving a florid streak across his forehead. “That’s gratitude for you! I was trying to do you a favor. Just trying to be helpful by having the chemicals premixed and all ready to go. But do you appreciate it? Oh, no, of course not.”

Kit squeezed her eyes shut for a brief moment, seeing again the water hitting the chemicals and the resulting cloud of dense, billowing purple smoke rising to swallow them. “Why in the world did you have to make it in such a large quantity?” She issued the question through gritted teeth—gritty, gritted teeth. She didn’t have a single doubt her smile would be as purple as the rest of her. “We only needed a tenth of what you prepared, if that.”

At Todd’s silent shrug, Kit surveyed the filthy hallway and formerly cream carpet and then looked through the open door of Testing to see the powder settling over the once spotless interior. “Damnation!
What a disaster. St. Clair is going to throw a fit if he gets wind of it. Just who do you think is going to clean that mess?”

“Precisely what I was about to ask,” a deep voice broke in. “I’m afraid St. Clair has gotten wind of your little fiasco. Literally.”

In unison, Todd and Kit turned, their mouths dropping open at the sight of the president and CEO of The Toy Company. She groaned, swearing beneath her breath. Why? By everything holy, why? Just once, even just once in a blue moon, could she pretty, pretty please experience a little good luck instead of an unending run of bad?

A cold smile played about Stephen St. Clair’s well-formed mouth, a smile that didn’t begin to touch the wintry expression in his startling blue eyes. A smile that revealed a distinct lack of appreciation for the light dusting of violet clinging to his lashes and to the burnished gold of his hair. A smile that caused layers of powder to settle into the deep creases of his rugged face. Nor did the damage stop there. Kit’s gaze drifted downward over impressive shoulders and an equally impressive body, all encased in an impeccably tailored suit. She somehow doubted the suit began the day colored such a virulent shade of purple.

“I was interested in the experiment, so I entered Testing through the other door.” Long, muscular arms folded across a broad chest, the movement causing powder to waft serenely away from his large body. “And guess what happened?”

Okay, not only bad luck, but bad luck with St. Clair as a witness. Guaran-frigging-teed, the moment something went awry, Mr. Über-Boss appeared, his slightly crooked nose flaring in disdain, his mouth curled into a mocking half smile, his frosty gaze slicing through her.

“Mr. St. Clair, I’m really sorry,” Kit began. “We were trying to improve the magician’s package and—”

“And I presume, Ms. Mallory, you did your customary fine job and made a royal mess of things,” he cut in, his gaze sweeping over her. “As usual.”

A tiny jolt shot through Kit’s body, the touch of Stephen’s stare creating an actual physical sensation. It had been like that from day one. The minute they’d been introduced by Miss Dobson, the head of personnel, Kit had experienced an intense awareness, one which had grown stronger each day for the past six months.

She’d begun to suspect the odd electricity between them added to her overall problems. She’d become self-conscious at work, jumpy at the idea he might appear at any moment. And he watched her with hawk-like vigilance, the predator eyeing the prey, streaking toward the helpless mouse with talons outstretched.

She shivered, forcing the image aside. “Again, I apologize, Mr. St. Clair. We’ll get everything cleaned up within the hour.”

She’d failed to pacify him. “You know, Ms. Mallory, everyone has insisted, despite these—” he waved a long-fingered hand toward Testing “—these incidents, that you’re quite an asset to the company. I must
admit I was somewhat skeptical before. Now I flat-out don’t believe it.”

“If you’d let me explain—”

“Certainly. You have ten minutes to be in my office with your explanation. I’ll be interested to hear why you shouldn’t be fired on the spot.” With that, he turned and stalked toward the bank of elevators, little swirls of dust spinning out from behind him. There he turned around to
survey the silent duo, a small cloud of regal purple settling at his feet like a prince’s robe. “I suggest, Mr. Templeton, you start cleaning up this disaster. Immediately.”

* * *

You’re late! You’re late! You’re late! Kit rushed into St. Clair’s outer office, the refrain echoing through her brain. A
quick glance around the silent room filled her with dismay. No executive assistant. No boss man. Now what? She glanced at the door leading to his private sanctum. It stood ajar. For her? Without further thought, she crossed the room and entered his office.

A small sound from the far side of the room caught her attention and she approached a second door, one fully open. A split-second later, she realized two vital facts. First, the second door led to a large,
luxurious bathroom, and second, she’d made a serious tactical error in not knocking before entering.

Stephen St. Clair stood within the embrace of a huge, natural stone shower stall, separated from the rest of the bathroom by a curved wall of glass bricks. Though the rippled glass prevented her from seeing him in exact detail, she saw enough to realize he possessed an athlete’s physique with wide shoulders and well-muscled arms, narrow hips, and strong, powerful legs. He stood with his back to her, one hand braced against the wall while water cascaded over him, shooting from multiple jet heads.

She must have made some sound that alerted him to her presence. No doubt that little mouse squeak of shock—okay, and serious appreciation—she’d been unable to contain. Forcing her legs to move, she took a stumbling step backward. But she’d lingered a millisecond too long. He turned, his growl of fury causing her to backpedal even faster. She also caught a glimpse of parts of her boss she had no business glimpsing.

“Son of a bitch!” he roared.

To her utter shock, he emerged from around the glass wall of the shower stall like Neptune emerging from the sea. All he needed was a crown and trident to complete the picture, though the one trident he’d been gifted with by nature would have made Neptune’s wife an utterly ecstatic woman.
He started toward her, water streaming from his godlike body, fully revealed in
all his—oh dear Lord—very impressive glory. She didn’t know whether to shout “Hallelujah” and rip off her own clothes or turn tail and run.

“Is it your intention to stand there all day indulging your voyeuristic tendencies?” He was so angry it was a wonder his body didn’t instantly steam itself dry. “Get the hell out of my private office and knock
like any civilized person would have.”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t realize—”

He didn’t wait for her explanation, but slammed the bathroom door in her face. She almost fell over backward in her haste to escape to the outer office, more relieved than she could express that St. Clair’s assistant hadn’t returned to witness her latest humiliation.

Kit closed the door leading to his office and leaned her forehead against the cool surface in an agony of embarrassment. Why? Why? Why? It wasn’t fair. It never failed that he brought out the worst in her. Or that her bad luck always turned into worse luck around him. Just once she’d like to show him she was good—really good—at her job, instead of the total screw-up he thought her to be.

But dear God, he was beautiful. The thought crystallized in her mind, eclipsing all else. He was also an irresistibly delicious temptation. Like the perfect sundae with mounds of whipped cream drizzled in hot fudge, a couple scoops of nuts, and a big, fat cherry on top. Yum. She could picture him just like that, scooped out on a bed of silk, covered in . . . well . . . nothing.
After all, you couldn’t top perfection. You just consumed it bite by delicious bite.

She stiffened, her irreverent thoughts confusing her. Envisioning her boss in those terms guaranteed a fast trip to the unemployment office. Still . . . She caught her lower lip between her teeth. She doubted she’d ever be able to
look at St. Clair the same way again. Heck, she doubted she’d ever be able to look him in the eye without turning six shades of red. Or drooling.

Someone had been generous on the day he’d been created, blessing him with the face of a fallen angel and the physique of a medieval warrior. He was nearly Todd’s height, but built on a far more imposing scale.

How was it possible that this Iceman—always careful to display such rigid perfection in his elegant three-piece suits and tasteful ties—could have such a sensuous body, with taut golden skin and a beguiling play of firm muscles just begging to be touched and caressed. His shoulders were huge, as were the ropes of muscles along his arms and spanning his chest. And what a chest. Crisp, light brown hair furred the expanse, bumping downward over an athletic six pack to some highly impressive equipment. As loath as she was to admit it, she’d never seen anything quite like it. Or anything quite like him.

She sagged against the door, a hint of a smile curling her mouth. And wouldn’t he be shocked to the core of his frigid little heart if he could read her mind right now?

Of course, he had to open the door just then. And naturally, Kit fumed, he caught her grinning like an idiot right before she tumbled against his broad, once again impeccably groomed chest.