Bronwyn Jameson - In Bed with the Boss's Daughter

She nodded. Standing this close, the force of all that scowling energy made it difficult to concentrate on choosing words.

“Good. When Julie can spare the time, she’ll show you around.”

He pushed away from the desk and strode to the door, freeing her brain from the numbing influence of his proximity. It immediately cried foul! She couldn’t allow him to walk out that door without some objection. “I’ll just wait here, then, as I’ve been doing for the last hour.”

He turned, and his eyes skimmed over her. She wondered if he’d finally noticed her suit. She lifted her chin defensively. “I took your advice.”

“On?”

“The corporate uniform. The business suit.” The cinnamon Armani wasn’t exactly that, but it was the closest thing she would be wearing in this lifetime.

His gaze returned to her face, his expression unreadable. “If that’s a business suit, why aren’t you wearing a shirt under it?”

“Because I prefer a shell top. Or a silk camisole,” she countered easily. “They feel soooo much nicer against my skin.”

A flicker, barely that, registered in his eyes. Gotcha, Paris thought, with a satisfied little smile. But he made no comment. Just a crisp “I’ll show you to your office on my way out.”

Such sacrifice! Her smile faded as she followed him out the door.

Her office was on the same floor, although about as far away from Jack’s suite as could be arranged. But that cynical thought evaporated when she walked through the door and took in the huge desk and executive chair, the filing cabinet and bookshelves, the telephone and facsimile machine and a computer.

There had to be some mistake. Her gaze swung back to Jack’s. “This is your office,” he said, as if he understood the question in her eyes.

Your office.

His words whispered over and over in her head, setting up a sibilant fizz that bubbled along her nerve endings. With reverent fingers she stroked the highly polished surface of the mahogany desk, then plopped down in the chair when her legs started to wobble. “This is much more than I expected. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, thank your father.”

Paris bit her lip rather than biting back. She didn’t want another confrontation, another reminder of how little he thought of her.

“Julie is available if you have any questions or need help. She knows as much about what goes on around here as anyone. She’s digging out the necessary background information on Milson Landing for you. While you’re waiting, you can familiarize yourself with the computer.” He gestured at the machine sitting on the other half of her L-shaped desk.

Assuming she could find the on-off switch. Paris couldn’t contain her nervous laughter. “I’m afraid I don’t speak the same language as computers.”

He stared in silent condemnation for all of ten seconds before muttering, “Why does that not surprise me?”

Under the force of his cold glare, Paris turned her chair and pretended to inspect the computer. The look in his eyes said it all—she didn’t deserve this job, and at this moment she believed him. All she had to do was open her mouth and admit it. But as she searched for the right words, she closed her eyes and placed her palms flat on the glossy desk and felt that same tingling sense of empowerment as when she’d first walked into the room.

She didn’t want to go home to the empty apartment K.G. had supplied her with, or to the meaningless life she’d done nothing to change. It didn’t matter that K.G. had given her this job for reasons of his own, or that she’d taken it through sheer cussedness. She wanted to stay, to take this chance to prove herself worthy of respect—both K.G.’s and Jack’s.

When she opened her eyes, he had gone.

Thirty minutes later Julie arrived to take her on the grand tour of Grantham House. Her attitude wasn’t precisely unfriendly. She even smiled at Paris’s first attempt to break the ice, although she clammed up again after the second attempt went awry.

How was she to know his personal assistant presided over the Jack Manning Appreciation Club?

With those limpid eyes turned killer-wolf fierce, Julie informed her that Jack worked harder than anyone in the building, was scrupulously fair and never lost his temper. By all accounts, an all-round champion boss. Paris decided it wouldn’t be politic to disagree, but despite her best conciliatory efforts, Julie didn’t smile again.

She remained polite as she conducted the rest of the tour, explaining such essential information as photocopier protocol and how to work the coffee machine—Paris made a mental note to locate the nearest half-decent coffee shop—but when they arrived back on floor eighteen she was quick to leave Paris to her own company…without any of the promised background information on Milson Landing.

When the files hadn’t arrived by ten the next morning, Paris suspected Jack of failing to pass that instruction on. A phone call quickly put paid to her theory.

“I haven’t had a chance to get to that,” Julie informed her in the kind of offhand tone that indicated she wasn’t likely to get to it in the next week.

“I could come and collect them, if that’s any help.”

“It would help if I had the files here, but some are downstairs and I’m busy at the moment. I’ll let you know when they’re ready for collection.”

Clunk.

Paris regarded the disconnected phone with a mixture of disbelief and dismay. She hadn’t expected Julie to warm to her within twenty-four hours, but neither had she expected such blatant unhelpfulness.

Her options were narrow. Two came immediately to mind, but she quickly discarded the first—as much as this office turned her on, she needed something to do in it. There were only so many ways of twiddling one’s thumbs, after all. Which left option two: she needed to start helping herself. On a last second whim she turned right outside her door instead of left and headed for the elevator and Guido’s, the better-than-passable coffee shop she’d found next door to Grantham House.

Armed with two lattes, she made it to the corridor outside Julie’s office before second thoughts brought her to a halt. What if the other girl saw it as a bribe, a shabby attempt to buy her friendship? What if she didn’t drink coffee or took it black? The only employees Paris knew were K.G.’s cronies in senior management, hardly the types you could ring and ask about a secretary’s taste in beverages!

On the verge of dumping the coffee in a nearby potted plant and scampering back to the sanctuary of her own lair, Paris’s hands trembled, and coffee shlooshed over the rim of each mug. The sticky warmth she felt seeping down her right leg was the last straw.

“Get over yourself!” she admonished forcefully, and with a deep breath she breezed through the door into Julie’s office…and found it empty.

The anticlimax wrung a bark of laughter from deep in her chest. “Oh, this is priceless,” she muttered as she crossed the room and deposited the mugs before she spilled any more. As she reached across the desk for a tissue to wipe her hands, the vision on Julie’s computer caught her attention.

“Milson Landing,” she read out loud. She leaned closer for a better look at the screen.

“Can I help you?”

Paris jumped backward and sideways at once. One hand automatically flattened against her chest as if it might still the erratic leap of her heart. “You scared the life out of me,” she declared unnecessarily.

But Julie’s attention had been diverted to something on her desk, something that caused her eyes to widen with horror as she rushed across the room. Paris turned back just as the rich brown pool of coffee spilled over the ledge of the high reception desk and cascaded down onto the papers below. The desperate grab of Julie’s hand came a second too late.