Cathy Williams - His Christmas Acquisition

Jamie couldn’t meet Ryan’s eyes, but she had to when she felt his fingers on her chin and she was roughly made to look at him.

‘You’re my boss! I work for you!’

‘I want more than your diligence. I want you in my bed, where I can touch you wherever I want. I’m betting that that’s what you want too—whether you think it’s right or wrong. In fact, I’m betting that if I touch you right now, right … here …’ Ryan trailed his finger along her cleavage and watched as she fought to catch her breath ‘… you’re not going to be able to tell me that you don’t want me too …’

‘I don’t want you …’

‘Liar!’ He kissed her again, and her lies were revealed in the way she clutched at him, not wanting to but utterly unable to resist.

CATHY WILLIAMSis originally from Trinidad, but has lived in England for a number of years. She currently has a house in Warwickshire, which she shares with her husband Richard, her three daughters, Charlotte, Olivia and Emma, and their pet cat, Salem. She adores writing romantic fiction, and would love one of her girls to become a writer—although at the moment she is happy enough if they do their homework and agree not to bicker with one another!

Recent titles by the same author:

HER IMPOSSIBLE BOSS

IN WANT OF A WIFE?

THE SECRETARY’S SCANDALOUS SECRET

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

His Christmas Acquisition

Cathy Williams

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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JAMIE was late. For the first time since she had started working for Ryan Sheppard she was running late due to an unfortunate series of events which had culminated in her waiting for her tube to arrive, along with six-thousand other short-tempered, frustrated, disgruntled commuters, so it seemed.

Wrapped up against the icy blast that raced along the platform—whipping her neatly combed hair into frantic disarray and reminding her that her smart grey suit and smart black pumps might work in an office, but were useless when faced with the grim reality of a soggy London winter—Jamie pointlessly looked at her watch every ten seconds.

Ryan Sheppard hated late. In fairness, he had been spoiled with her because for the past eighteen months she had been scrupulously early—which didn’t mean that he would be sweetly forgiving.

By the time the tube train roared into view, Jamie had pretty much given up on getting into the office any time before nine-thirty. Because nothing would be gained from calling him, she had resolutely refused to even glance at the mobile phone hunkered down in the bowels of her bag.

Instead, she reluctantly focused her mind on the main reason why she had ended up leaving her house an hour later than she normally would have, and sure enough, all thoughts of her sister successfully obliterated everything else from her mind. She could feel the thin, poisonous thread of tension begin to creep through her body and, by the time she finally made it to the spectacular, cutting-edge glass building that housed RS Enterprises, her head was beginning to throb.

RS Enterprises was the headquarters of the massive conglomerate owned and run by her boss, and within its stately walls resided the beating pulse of all those various tentacles that made up the various arms of his many business concerns. An army of highly trained, highly motivated and highly paid employees kept everything afloat although, at quarter to ten in the morning, there were only a few to be glimpsed. The rest would be at their desks, doing whatever it took to make sure that the great wheels of his industry were running smoothly.

At quarter to ten in the morning, she would normally have been at her desk, doing her own bit.

But instead …

Jamie counted to ten in a feeble attempt to dislodge her sister’s face from her head and took the lift up to the director’s floor.

There was no need to gauge his mood when she pushed open the door to her office. On an average day, he would either be out of the office, having emailed her to fill her in on what she could be getting on with in his absence, or else he would be at his desk, mentally a thousand miles away as he plowed through his workload.

Today he was lounging back in his chair, arms folded behind his head, feet indolently propped on his desk.

Even after eighteen months, Jamie still had trouble reconciling the power house that was Ryan Sheppard with the unbearably sexy and disconcertingly unconventional guy who was such a far cry from anyone’s idea of a business tycoon. Was it because the building blocks of his business were rooted in computer software, where brains and creativity were everything, and a uniform of suits and highly polished leather shoes were irrelevant? Or was it because Ryan Sheppard was just one of those men who was so comfortable in his own skin that he really didn’t care what he wore or, for that matter, what the rest of the world thought of him?

At any rate, sightings of him in a suit were rare, and only occurred when he happened to be meeting financiers—although it had to be said that his legendary reputation preceded him. Very early on Jamie had come to the conclusion that he could show up at a meeting in nothing but a pair of swimming trunks and he would still have the rest of the world bowing and scraping and asking for his opinion.

Jamie waited patiently while he made a production out of looking at his watch and frowning before transferring his sharp, penetrating black gaze to her now composed face.

‘You’re late.’

‘I know. I’m really sorry.’

‘You’re never late.’

‘Yes, well, blame the erratic public-transport system in London, sir.’

‘You know I hate you addressing me as sir. When I’m knighted, we can have a rethink on that one, but in the meantime the name is Ryan. And I would be more than happy to blame the erratic public-transport system, but you’re not the only one who uses it, and no one else seems to be running behind schedule.’

Jamie hovered. She had taken time to dodge into the luxurious marble cloakroom at the end of the floor so she knew that she no longer resembled the hassled, anxious figure that had emerged twenty minutes earlier from the Underground station. But inside she could feel her nerves fraying, unravelling and scattering like useless detritus being blown around on a strong wind.

‘Perhaps we could just get on with work and … and … I’ll make up for lost time. I don’t mind working through lunch.’

‘So, if it wasn’t the erratic public-transport system, then what kept you?’ For the past year and a half, Ryan had tried to get behind that calm, impenetrable facade, to find the human being behind the highly efficient secretary. But Jamie Powell, aged twenty-eight, of the neat brown bob and the cool brown eyes, remained an enigma. He swung his feet off his desk and sat forward to stare at her with lively curiosity. ‘Hard weekend? Late night? Hangover?’