Читать книгу The Ashtons: Paige, Grant & Trace - Roxanne St. Claire, Barbara McCauley - Страница 9

Spencer Ashton studied the inviting sway of the woman’s hips as she sashayed across his spacious office and out the door, ending the interview but starting the mating dance.

His choice was made. This one was young, eager and ambitious enough to request a fancy title—“administrative assistant.” With an amused snort, he spun his chair around to the fog-tipped view of San Francisco eighteen floors below.

A little ambition in a secretary was good, he thought wryly. Then they understand just what they have to give in order to get. Too much ambition, on the other hand, and they cease to be satisfied with promises and pay raises, and the demands get stronger…and turn into ultimatums.

At the thought, the image of his wife appeared in his head. Lilah Jensen had been the perfect secretary—smart and sexy. A breath of fresh air after all those years married to the mouse, Caroline Lattimer. And now, seventeen years and three children later, Lilah was still smart enough to keep her mouth shut and look the other way when she had to. She had the status she craved as Lilah Ashton, and he had the freedom he required. Shrewd woman, Lilah. Always was.

This new secretary would be good. She’d flipped her hair and wet her lips enough times to let him know she’d do whatever he asked. He inhaled a satisfied breath, puffing up his chest with a deep breath and liking the way his still-toned muscles stretched the fabric of his custom-made shirt. She couldn’t be more than twenty-five, about half his age. With a grin, he patted his hard-muscled stomach. Spencer Ashton still had it all. Good looks, a hard body and more money than God.

His quick laugh at that thought was interrupted by a tap on his door.

“What is it?” he called out, gruffly enough to communicate his distaste at any intrusion that he didn’t plan. Whoever it was should be stopped by his secretary and buzzed in through her.

The door inched open and the woman he’d just interviewed gave him a wary look. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Ashton. Just one more thing.”

Damn, she hadn’t even started yet. He swallowed the reprimand and flashed an easy smile. “You’re no bother…” Donna? Debbie? He couldn’t remember.

“I was just in the reception area and, uh, I noticed your secretary, well, she sort of packed up her bag and left.”

The little bitch. She’d figured out that the string of women he’d been interviewing were her potential replacements, before he had a chance to give her enough severance pay to guarantee silence. He cursed his thoughtless mistake.

His gaze swept over the brunette in front of him, making no effort to hide his admiration. “Then I hope you can start tomorrow.”

She did the hair toss again, and her eyes sparkled. She might as well have rubbed her crotch. The message was the same.

“I can start right now, Mr. Ashton,” she replied in a low voice.

He felt himself respond. “Good.”

“As a matter of fact,” she took a few more steps into the room and held out a thin white envelope. “While I was out there, a messenger delivered this for you. It says personal and confidential, so I didn’t open it.”

He nodded and absently took the envelope, his attention still on the generous rise of her breasts she’d thoughtfully revealed by removing her jacket. “Thank you.”

“I’ll just get settled at the desk,” she added with a smile. “And thank you.”

She turned to leave, offering him that nice backside view again. “Just a second…” Dorie? Damn, what was her name?

“Yes, sir?”

“You may have to work a little late tonight.” He gave her an appropriately innocent look. “Just to learn some of the Ashton-Lattimer policies and procedures.”

“No problem, Mr. Ashton.”

He dropped the letter on the vast, empty surface of his desk and picked up his phone to call Lilah to let her know he’d be staying in his city apartment tonight and not driving home as he’d planned.

As he dialed the private line to his estate winery in Napa, his gaze fell on the envelope. On the front, his name was typed, with no return address.

While the phone rang in his ear, he sliced the envelope with his finger and swore as the paper cut a quarter-inch slash in his skin. He’d have to train…whatever the hell her name was…to open everything for him.

“Ashton Estate.”

He recognized the voice of his housekeeper, Irena, and didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Give me Lilah.”

“Of course, Mr. Ashton. One moment, please.”

As he waited for his wife, he sucked the drop of blood from his finger and pulled out a folded sheet of paper from the envelope. When he opened it, a yellowed newspaper clipping fluttered onto the desk. What the hell was this?

Like the envelope, the note was typed. One paragraph. No date. No signature.

An unholy tendril of apprehension snaked through him as he read the first sentence, the cut finger still in his mouth.

“Bigamy is against the law.”

He swallowed and tasted the bitterness of his own blood as he read:

Enclosed is the obituary of one Sally Barnett Ashton. Unfortunately, this newspaper seems to be in error. In the third paragraph it states that Mrs. Sally Barnett Ashton was divorced from her husband, Spencer Ashton, at the time of her death. In fact, Mrs. Sally Barnett Ashton was never divorced. Careful research reveals no divorce documents to be found in Crawley, Nebraska, or San Francisco, California. According to the laws of both states, that means her husband couldn’t remarry as long as Mrs. Sally Barnett Ashton remained alive. If he did, such a union would be illegal, and any results of that union would be null and void. Wouldn’t the second Mrs. Ashton be interested to learn that her marriage—and the subsequent divorce settlement—was not legal?

The taste in his mouth turned metallic, as white-hot anger shot through his veins.

He picked up the clipping and stared at the obituary of the woman he’d been forced to marry thirty years ago. His gaze dropped to the handwritten note in the newspaper margin.

“It’d be a damn shame for anyone to find out about this.”

His fists balled as tightly as the knot in his gut. No one would blackmail Spencer Ashton. No one would dare. He’d kill them with his bare hands first.

“Hello, darling.” Lilah trilled in his ear. “Sorry to keep you holding. Don’t tell me you’re not coming home.”

Disgust and something frighteningly close to fear strained his chest. “Of course I am.” He glanced at his closed office door and thought of the new secretary. There’d be plenty of time for that. He needed to think tonight. “I’m leaving here around six.”

“Wonderful, darling. Then you haven’t forgotten it’s Paige’s birthday. The party is Saturday, but your baby is ten today.”

“Of course I haven’t forgotten.”

He hung up without another word and grabbed the letter again, watching in horror as a single drop of his blood spread a scarlet stain on the paper. Swearing, he tore the sheet in half again and again until he had dozens of pieces in his hand. Then he stuffed them all into the trash.