I woke with a start, and as I swam back to consciousness I couldn't remember where I was. In the dull pre-dawn light, I could see the grey outlines of the furniture, not your typical hotel room items - an enormous sofa, coffee table, a giant desk, some arm chairs, a fireplace, even a small dining table by the window. I squinted to focus on the coffee table and saw two glasses and an empty champagne bottle. I spotted my dress thrown carelessly over the back of the sofa together with a man's pair of suit trousers. A knot of apprehension twisted my stomach and I turned slowly to my right to look at the recumbent form beside me. He had pulled the sheet across his lower body, but even in the dim light I could make out the hair across his broad chest trickling to a thin line over the contours of his abdomen and down beneath the sheet. From the outline I could see his erection and not for the first time I marvelled at his stamina. I felt a flush of arousal and images flashed in front of my eyes; the look on his face when his probing fingers found how I wet I was for him, the shape of his muscles as I removed his shirt, his hands reaching for my breasts as I rode him to a mind-blowing climax. I groaned quietly to myself and summoned the energy to get out of bed in order to make my escape. As I sat up, he reached for me.
"Where are you going?" he asked, his voice thick and husky.
"To the bathroom," I whispered. "Go back to sleep."
As I navigated my way there, I looked for the rest of my clothes but they were scattered everywhere, damning evidence of a serious mistake on my part. I gathered as much as I could find in the half light, went to the bathroom and shut the door. I looked at my reflection with a critical eye. My make-up was passable and there was a brightness to my eyes despite the looming hangover and lack of sleep. But my hair was a mess and I definitely had that post-coital look. I stared guiltily at my reflection. This was not what I'd had in mind.
I first noticed Robert when I started working for Smithson's around 18 months ago. Within the first month, I'd had to give a presentation to the board on the PR strategy for the rest of the year and I was very nervous. My boss, Ed, was great, giving me a confidence boosting pep talk before I went in.
"I hired you because you know what you're doing and you get results," he said. "You know something they don't so just go in and tell them. You'll be fine."
The presentation began well and Ed gave me an encouraging smile. As I began to relax, I started looking round the small room, briefly making eye contact with everyone, most of whom I'd met before. Everyone seemed to be receptive to what I was saying and my confidence grew. But there was one person I hadn't met. A dark-haired man was standing at the back, lounging against the wall, looking bored. The first time I caught his gaze, the energy radiating from his cold blue eyes almost stopped my heart and the words died on my tongue. I grabbed the glass of water in front of me and took a sip, regained my train of thought and continued with the presentation. I didn't look at him again but I felt his gaze on me continuously. I began to feel uncomfortably warm. When I asked for questions from the floor, he made straight for the door. I watched his athletic frame disappear with a mixture of curiosity and disappointment and then fielded the questions that the others were putting to me.
"You did brilliantly, well done," Ed said later as we were heading down stairs.
"Who was the one who left early?" I asked, hesitantly, not wanting to draw too much attention to my curiosity.
"That's Robert Wolfe, don't mind him. He can be a bit abrupt sometimes and he's not a great believer in the need for marketing. Unless you're doing something ops-related you won't run into him often." That's a shame, I thought. There was definitely something about him that was dangerously attractive.
A few months later I received an email from Robert asking me to spare him half an hour when he was next at our head office. He was heading up our carbon reduction initiative which needed communication, so he wanted to pick my brains. At first I was delighted. I have what my friends call a tree-hugging obsession with climate change and the opportunity to help our distribution business reduce its carbon footprint, plus all the communication and PR around it, sounded brilliant. But Robert had a prickly reputation, flew around the country and when he couldn't he drove a huge gas-guzzler of a car. Plus he was known for his dislike of what he called soft skills and was notoriously difficult to work with. The more I thought about it the more I worried, so I spent more time than usual preparing for the meeting.
I knocked on his door and went straight in. He was on the phone but waved at me to sit at the meeting table. He walked over to the door and shut it, then turned to look out the window and continued talking. I realised it was the first time I'd heard him speak and his voice was very deep and resonant, with a soft West Country burr to it, so incongruous with his tough reputation and the power almost crackling from him. I watched him pacing in front of the window, his energy seemingly boundless. Robert was of average height but he seemed taller. His shoulders were broad and muscular, his biceps well defined through his tailored shirt. As he ran a hand through his dark hair, I saw muscles ripple down his back. Although he wasn't thin, there didn't seem to be an ounce of spare flesh on him. His hair was dark but I noticed the beginnings of grey at his temples and wondered how old he was.
As his phone call drew to a close, he came over to where I still hovered and shook my hand. His grasp was strong and warm.
"I don't think we've been properly introduced," he said, his ice-blue eyes boring into mine. His look sent a shiver down my spine and butterflies fluttered in my belly. "I'm Robert Wolfe, Operations Director."
