Читать книгу The Secretary's Seduction - Jane Porter - Страница 10

IT COULDN’T be. He couldn’t be here. He didn’t hear her say that…did he?

Paling, Winnie turned to discover Morgan Grady behind her, a black trench coat thrown over his arm, his long dark hair almost tidy.

“Mr. Grady,” she whispered, her mouth drying. “Heading out?”

He gazed down at her, his expression curiously hard. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

Heat surged to her cheeks. “I came down for a soda.”

“I see.”

There was a moment of strained silence between them, something that had never happened before. He’d always talked; she’d always listened. He’d never been silent with her before. “Did you want something?”

“You had a phone call from a Mrs. Fielding. She said it was urgent. I left the number on your desk.”

Winnie couldn’t remember Mrs. Fielding and wondered what could possibly be urgent. “Thank you.”

His dense black lashes lowered, his mouth compressed. “Next time you might want to remember to take this,” he added, extending his arm to reveal her small pager.

Winnie moved to take the pager from him but tensed as her fingers brushed his palm and a sharp current of sensation sizzled through her.

He was angry.

In her five and a half months with him he’d never displayed any emotion and yet now he was angry.

Quickly, to hide her confusion, Winnie clipped the pager to the waistband of her skirt even as Tiffany dropped her cigarette, stubbing it out with the spike of her high heel.

“Mr. Grady,” Tiffany murmured, her voice dropping an octave as she held out her hand.

He hesitated, turned ever so slightly, and smiled a cool quizzical smile. It was a smile he must have practiced for moments like this, when he needed to put distance between himself and others without appearing aloof. The smile was a little slow, a little crooked, and made his rugged jaw wider, his cheekbones stronger. “We’ve met?”

“Once,” Tiffany answered archly. Her smile stretched as his hand closed around hers, her cheeks glowing with the faintest touch of pink. “Well, we sort of met. You had business with one of the firm’s partners and I notarized the paperwork.”

“Ah.” Morgan’s teeth had never looked so straight or white and he continued to hold her hand in his. “You work with Jeff.”

“Yes. He thinks the world of you. We all do.”

A black limousine slid next to the curb, and the driver shifted into neutral but the car remained on, engine idling. Morgan Grady released Tiffany’s hand, glanced at the limo, and then back at Tiffany. “I must run, but it was a pleasure meeting you, Miss—”

“Saunders. Tiffany Saunders. And I work with Jeff.”

“On the sixty-third floor, right.” He smiled again, and Winnie could see why women melted at his feet. There was something in his eyes, something in his energy and intensity that made you feel—however brief—that you were special. That you were the only one alive.

Winnie sucked in a painful, self-conscious breath.

He’d never looked at her once that way.

He’d never even gotten her name right.

A lump filled her throat and Winnie wished with all her heart she’d never worked for Morgan Grady.

Mr. Grady started for the waiting car, conversation forgotten, no goodbyes necessary. Move On, seemed to be his unwritten motto, no time to linger, no patience for niceties. Just move on to the next thing on the agenda.

But suddenly he stopped and turned back. It was muggy hot, the muggy hot of New York in late June when the air felt thick and yellow, yet he looked coolly elegant in his black suit and shirt.

She wondered how he did it, how he handled the heat and pressure without sweating or wilting or fading.

How did he predict the market before the market knew what it was going to do?

How did he juggle dozens of complicated, million and billion dollar deals without worrying, panicking, overeating?

She didn’t know. She couldn’t know. He was nothing like her.

Mr. Grady was staring at her now, his high tanned brow slightly furrowed. “Are you job hunting, Miss Graham?”

It was the last question she expected from him, the absolutely last thing she expected him to say, and Winnie wobbled in her sensible heels.

She reached for a handkerchief from her pocket and came up with nothing. Instead she gripped the pager in her perspiring hand. Good Lord. Did he know about her job interview, too? Or was it just a joke, a follow-up to his comedian remark moments ago?

Winnie blinked, swallowed, and blinked again, her glasses fogging slightly, her thoughts spinning in no logical direction.

What was she supposed to say? How was she supposed to answer that?

“No,” she blurted at last, cheeks darkening. “Of course not.”

His eyebrows lifted. He stared at her hard, his lips twisting ever so slightly.

Her blush deepened. She felt like a willful child with a hand caught in the cookie jar.

“Of course not,” he echoed softly, mockery in his voice. “I’ll see you later,” he said.

“Right.”

Then he turned away and climbed into the back of the waiting limousine.

Tiffany silently disappeared into the lobby of the Tower’s building leaving Winnie alone on the sidewalk.

For a long moment Winnie didn’t move, her heart thumping hard and fast. What had just happened out here? What did Mr. Grady mean?

Finally she shook off her fear, threw away her lukewarm soda and returned upstairs.

Winnie worked until dinner and then when she’d done all she could for the day, turned off her computer and took the subway home.

She was back at the office the next morning at six-thirty. As usual she was the first of the administrative assistants to arrive and Winnie made it her job every morning to turn on the office lights, check the thermostat and get the coffee brewing.

Coffee percolating, Winnie left the employee break room and headed toward the back office suite, flicking on lights as she went.

She arrived at Mr. Grady’s office and froze.

Mr. Grady was already in, he was sitting at his desk, and his door was ajar. He never left his door ajar. He was a man that preferred privacy always.

She stood there, transfixed, listening to him type, his fingers tapping away at his computer keyboard.

Something was wrong. The door shouldn’t be open. He shouldn’t be at his computer yet. He should still be reading his papers.

What had happened? Was it something to do with the press? She’d had three calls yesterday from various media sources, or was this more personal? Did this have anything to do with…her?

The tapping on the keyboard briefly stopped and Winnie felt the strangest, most physical sensation shoot through her. She could feel him.

Her brain told her that he hadn’t left his desk but her body was reacting totally different. The fine hair on her nape rose. Her skin prickled. Her body felt incredibly sensitive all over.

She’d never been so keenly aware of him before. It was almost as if he was standing right here next to her, touching her.

Heat banded across her cheekbones. She drew a slow breath. She was being overly dramatic, she lectured herself, forcing herself to action.

Winnie headed for her desk, took off her lightweight trench coat and hung it on the hook next to the filing cabinet before moving to her desk.

As she rolled out her chair she spotted a book with a lime green cover lying in the middle of her desk.

She didn’t remember leaving a book on her desk last night. She always left her desk clean, virtually spotless.

She moved closer, lifted the book. Never Work for a Jerk.

She dropped the book as if she’d been burned. Good God. The book. It was the book. The book she’d mentioned to Tiffany. He’d gone out and bought her a copy.

Winnie sagged into her chair, sitting down in a heavy heap, her purse falling to her feet.

He was going to fire her. That’s why his door was ajar. He was waiting for her to get here so he could give her the ax.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. She’d been the one looking for a new job. She’d been the one hurt. It was her feelings that had been trampled.

And yet had he ever badmouthed her? Had he ever publicly insulted her? Had he ever insulted her even in private?

Why had she said what she’d said to Tiffany? Why had she let her emotions get the better of her? What was the saying? Open mouth, insert foot?

Well, it was more like, open mouth, insert body.

She felt really, deeply embarrassed.

The small intercom on her desk made a faint clicking sound. “Miss Graham, when you’ve a minute, I’d like to see you.”

Her heart jumped. She couldn’t make herself move, unable to find enough strength in her legs.

But she couldn’t ignore him. She was already in trouble. She might as well get this over with, go face the firing squad.

Winnie rolled away from her desk and stood up, pressing her blue pleated skirt smooth, making sure every pleat fell straight. It was her smartest skirt, the one she wore when she needed to feel extra crisp, extra professional. If ever there was a day she needed it, it was now.

The intercom clicked again. “Oh, and Miss Graham, you don’t need to bring the book with you.”

Morgan watched Winnie enter his office, her eyes wide behind her dark glasses, the black frames resting halfway down her straight nose. She sat down gingerly on the edge of the chair that faced his desk and folded her hands across the notebook and pen she’d brought with her.

He struggled to be civil. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Mr. Grady.”

He leaned back in his swivel chair. “How are you?”

Her lashes fluttered behind the lenses of her glasses. Her lashes were long and they brushed the glass. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Her voice sounded firm, decisive, every inch the competent secretary he’d been relying upon these past six months.

She swallowed hard. “About the book—”

“I don’t want to discuss the book.”

A pulse had begun to beat rapidly at the base of her throat. “You don’t?”

“No. I knew you wanted it, so I bought a copy for you. Happy Secretaries Day.”

“That was back in April, Mr. Grady.”

“Better late than never.” He sat forward, touched a button on his keyboard and checked the European market before it closed. His gaze skimmed the various stock prices before sitting back again.

“I have to be able to trust my staff,” he said after a moment, grateful his voice could sound so calm when he didn’t feel the least bit calm, and hadn’t since overhearing her flippant remark yesterday in front of the office building.

His perfect secretary was a fraud.

Until now he’d thought of her as a future Miss Robinson, Miss Robinson being his first executive assistant and hands down, the best. Miss Robinson was tidy, precise, efficient, intelligent, controlled. She was always one step ahead of him and practically anticipated his every need before he even knew the need himself.

Miss Robinson had been with him for seven years, and retired eighteen months ago, just before he bought out Bradley Finance in a friendly acquisition. Trying to fill Miss Robinson’s shoes had been impossible and he’d gone through assistant after assistant until he inherited Winnie Graham through the Bradley acquisition.

He hadn’t thought he’d like Miss Graham, hadn’t expected anyone who hid behind large dark glasses and a mass of pinned-up braids to be as effective as his esteemed Miss Robinson but Winnie Graham wasn’t just good. She was great. She was the future Miss Robinson, the superlative secretary who knew what he wanted before he even wanted it.

“I need to trust you,” he said. “You have complete access to me. You know details about my personal life, my family, my finances. If you’re going to talk to Tiffany from the sixty-third floor, what’s to say you won’t talk to a friendly reporter?”

Her head lifted and her unblinking gaze met his. He watched as she adjusted her glasses. “Because I won’t,” she answered crisply.

“But you did yesterday—”

“And it was a mistake!” She rose from her chair. She’d never interrupted him before, never contradicted him and her passionate response surprised both of them. “I’m sorry, Mr. Grady, I feel terrible about what happened yesterday. It was careless of me, but I honestly didn’t mean anything by it—”

“Are you looking for a new job?”

Her lips parted and color seared her cheeks but no sound came from her mouth.

She didn’t answer because she couldn’t answer, he thought, rocking forward in his chair, reaching for his phone, needing something, anything to do to keep his temper in check.

How had this happened? Where had he misjudged her?

“Never mind,” he uttered shortly, unable to remember the last time he felt so cheated, or deceived. “I know you want Friday off. Take it off.”

Winnie sank back into her seat. “Please forgive me,” she whispered, cheeks stained red, fingers kneading in her lap. “I admire you so much. I think the world of you.”

“It didn’t sound like that yesterday.”

“I know, but it’s not why you think.” Her fingers tightened together. “Tiffany was gushing. Everyone gushes and…” She took a deep breath. “I don’t want to sound like one of them. I wanted to be…cool.”

“Cool?”

“Cool,” she repeated shakily. “I’ve never been cool in my life and women are always asking about you, beautiful glamorous women, and I get insecure. I can’t believe I’m even telling you this but it’s true. I’m a geek. I just wanted Tiffany to think I was like her.”

“Like her?”

“You know, sophisticated.”

He hadn’t heard anything so pitiful in years. His incredibly intelligent and capable assistant wanted to impress a ditzy airhead like Tiffany? Why?

He stared at Winnie hard, trying to see past the glasses and firm press of her lips and what he saw was a young oval face with a high, pale forehead and small rounded chin.

“You have my approval,” he said after a moment. “Why do you need hers?”

She didn’t move a muscle. Her fixed expression didn’t change. Her stillness coupled with the heightened color in her cheeks reminded him of a painting, an oil portrait from the turn of the century.

“That’s a good question, sir.”

“Think about it,” he said, frustrated, angry and not at all sure what to do. Should he fire her? Could he trust her? What was supposed to happen next? “Are you going to a job interview on Friday?”

She hesitated for the briefest moment. “Yes.”

He was out of patience. Sitting forward, Morgan punched another button on his market monitor. The market was open. Trading had begun. “If you take the job, I’ll expect two weeks’ notice.”

Winnie looked away, stared past his shoulder to the wall of windows behind him. There was no emotion in her face. She looked like the serene, capable assistant he’d always known. “How did you find out about my job interview?”

His stomach felt hard, tight. He hated conflict. Hated feeling mistrustful. Charlotte had done a number on him, and while it’d been fifteen years since she betrayed him, some things were impossible to forget.

But Morgan didn’t let any of his emotion show. He’d learned years ago to keep his personal life private. “Mr. Osborne’s office called on Monday doing a reference check. I spoke with Mr. Osborne personally.”

Winnie’s head lifted, and her gaze met his, eyes large and worried behind the heavy glasses. “What did you say?”

He felt his lips twist into a ghost of a smile. “That you were the best damn secretary I’d ever had.”

“Morgan, we’re worried about you. Reed’s worried about you.” Rose Grady’s precise diction was even more vigorous than usual. “Every time we turn on the television, you’re there. We can’t pick up a magazine without a story about you.”

Morgan finished pulling his T-shirt over his head, having stripped off his suit and changed into jeans and a T-shirt now that he was home.

“You’re sick of my press?” he teased, shifting the phone from one ear to the other as he headed for the kitchen.

“That’s not what I mean,” Rose retorted indignantly and Morgan could picture the elegant arch of her eyebrows rising higher. “We know how hard you’ve worked at putting the past behind you, but now these reporters are digging into everything. And I do mean, everything.”

Morgan popped open the mineral water and took a long cool drink. “It’s going to be all right,” he said, wanting to believe his own optimism as he leaned against a stainless-steel counter, his kitchen huge and modern, big enough to accommodate a fleet of chefs. “The reporters will hound someone else soon. People get bored and move on.”

“That’s not all, Morgan. There’s something else, and I’m not sure how to tell you, or even if I should tell you, but I don’t want you to hear this from anyone else.”

“Then tell me.”

Silence stretched across the line. “I saw Charlotte.”

Morgan froze. “What?”

“Charlotte came to the house.”

It felt as if he’d been slammed on the chest with a shovel. He couldn’t catch his breath. “Alone?”

“Yes.”

He set the water down so forcefully the bottle rattled on the counter. “What did she want?”

“To hear about you. To know what you’ve been doing all these years.”

Charlotte. Charlotte. “What did you tell her?”

Rose sighed impatiently. “I said, read the papers. Turn on the evening news. Morgan’s life is everywhere.”

He nearly smiled. Trust Rose to give an answer like that.

“She says, she made a mistake,” Rose continued more faintly, as if delivering this information caused her great pain. “She indicated she wanted to make amends.”

“It’s been fifteen years.”

“You once wanted this.”

“Fifteen years ago.”

“Five years ago,” Rose rebutted.

Morgan shook his head slowly, angrily, not understanding why this had to happen now when he had so much pressure on him, when he had so many people depending on him. “How did she look?”

“Even more beautiful. She’s certainly matured well. She’s a classic beauty. What do you expect?”

His chest tightened. He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to hear this, didn’t want to know this. “I don’t want to talk to her.”

“Fine.”

“And I don’t want to see her.”

“Then don’t.”

But even as he said the words, he was laughing at himself. Who was he kidding? Even fifteen years after she disappeared from his life he still wasn’t over her.

“Rose…Mom..” Morgan pressed a clenched fist to his forehead, battling fears that very few knew about. “What do I do? How do I get out of this?”

“First of all, forget Charlotte, she’s inconsequential,” Rose said crisply, comfortable taking charge again. “And second, get rid of the press!”

“How?”

“Morgan, you’re smart. Throw them a bone. Give the media a story…and I don’t mean Charlotte!”