Jane Porter - The Secretary's Seduction

“That’s a gross exaggeration!”

Winnie took a step back as he stepped forward. “Maybe, but it’s still true. When have I needed you for anything?”

Her arch question was met by complete silence. Morgan’s dark blue eyes met hers, held, and she saw a flicker there, in the dark blue depths—a hot blue fire she’d never seen before.

Winnie felt a tiny thrill, followed by a surge of adrenaline. He was looking at her, really looking at her, and he liked what he saw. It wasn’t an external thing, it was something else, something deeper, more basic, and there was heat in his eyes, heat in the way he leaned a little closer and then a little closer.

Very slowly, very deliberately, Morgan placed his right hand on the wall next to her shoulders, and then his left hand, trapping her there between him and the wall.

“I think you have needs, Winnie.”

Jane Porter grew up on a diet of Harlequin Presents ®romance novels, reading late at night under the covers so her mother wouldn’t see! She wrote her first book at age eight and spent many of her high school and college years living abroad, immersing herself in other cultures and continuing to read voraciously. Now, Jane has settled down in rugged Seattle, Washington, with her gorgeous husband and two sons.

Jane loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her at P.O. Box 524, Bellevue, WA 98009, U.S.A. Or visit her Web site at www.janeporter.com.

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For my great friend, Barb. It is a fairy tale, isn’t it?

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

IT WAS sweltering. No one, but no one, married in Manhattan in the middle of July. No one but Winnie Graham that is.

The organist paused and the packed congregation in St. Paul’s Cathedral seemed to rise in unison and all four hundred and fifty heads turned to stare at Winnie where she stood at the back of the church in her twenty-thousand-dollar silk bridal gown.

White silk gown.

Just like her white garter, white silk hose, white flowers, white carpet, white, white, white for a virgin bride.

For a twenty-five-year-old virgin bride who knew so little about life and men, that she was about to walk down the aisle without ever being kissed.

Well, she had been kissed once, badly kissed, back in seventh grade when Rufus Jones practically stuck his tongue down her throat at a junior high birthday party. She’d been so disgusted by the kiss that she’d nearly thrown up afterward, so that kiss didn’t count.

And now she was about to marry the love of her life except he didn’t love her and he’d never kissed her and she’d actually signed a contract agreeing to this horrible public society wedding which meant nothing to him.

What in God’s name was she thinking? What in God’s name was she doing?

How could she be a wife before she’d ever had a date?

Winnie closed her eyes, drew a deep breath and tried to calm herself but she was losing it, knew she was losing it. She was shaking so hard now she could barely keep her teeth from chattering. Funny how your teeth could chatter when you’re burning up. Perspiration covered her skin. Her heart raced. She couldn’t get enough air.

What a fool she was. What a perfect idiot.

Yes, she loved Morgan Grady. Yes, she was madly in love with Morgan Grady, but how could she sell herself like this? How could she sign away her life?

A contract.

She’d signed a contract to become his wife.

How could she love herself so little and him so much?

The organist struck the keys with fervor. Bars of music filled the cathedral, four hundred and fifty people seemed to inhale all at once, waiting for her to take the first step forward.

Winnie’s head swam. The people became a blur of white noise and heat. It was so hot in here. There were too many people and not enough air. She felt as though she were suffocating. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. And they were all waiting for her to move. To take that first step. Morgan was waiting for her to take that first step.

So she did. She took a step, she turned around, she ran.

Winnie dropped her bouquet of white lilies, roses and orchids in the cool foyer, dashed through the cathedral’s paneled doors, down the wide marble steps and jumped into a passing taxicab.

“WHERE to?” the cabdriver asked, sweating profusely and craning his head to get a look at her in the back seat, the stiff petticoats in her wedding gown making the white silk billow like huge sails on an eighteenth-century schooner.

The cabbie needed a shower. The inside of the car stank of old sweat. Winnie cranked her window down, dangerously close to throwing up.

“Anywhere,” she choked, needing air, but the hot muggy air outside only made her more nauseous.

The driver shot her another glance. “I got to go somewhere, lady.”

Where to go, where to go after leaving her family, Morgan and four hundred and fifty people behind in the church?

She had to go someplace that no one would find her. Someplace where no one would be. “The Tower, on Wall Street,” she said, sinking against the seat, naming her office building.

It was Saturday, the office would be deserted, and not even Morgan would think to look for her there.

Closing her eyes, Winnie sagged against the sticky vinyl seat and tried to forget that she’d just run away from her own wedding, that she, Winnie Graham had left Morgan Grady, New York’s Sexiest Bachelor, standing at the altar.

But eyes closed, she saw it all, saw how it happened.

She even knew the day—the hour—the moment—that everything in her life had changed.

June sixteenth. His office. Her insecurity.

“Willa, I need copies of these immediately,” Morgan Grady said, thrusting a sheath of papers across the desk without looking up, “and the top two sets faxed to the client noted on the cover page.”

Winnie’s heart fell. Five and a half months she’d been working for him. Five and a half months and he still didn’t know her name.

“It’s Winnie,” she corrected faintly, growing warm as color crept into her cheeks.

“What’s that?”

She balled one hand and pressed her thumb across her knuckles. She’d never liked her name, never understood how her parents could look into her face as a newborn and think, Winnie, yes, you with the little puffy eyes and tiny mouth, you’re our Winnie. But if Winnie was bad, Willa was far worse.

She’d corrected him before, several times actually, but he’d always been on his way in or out, or in the middle of something important, so she forgave the slips, and made up excuses for him.