Michelle Celmer - Much More Than a Mistress

It was the first and last time Jane ever tried that.

She didn’t doubt that she’d probably looked a bit like a clown, but instead of pulling her aside and trying to teach her the right way, her sister had felt the need to boost her own ego—which was as overinflated then as it was today—and ridicule Jane instead.

She finished her face, studied her reflection, and smiled. She did look really nice. But she wouldn’t get much work done if she spent the day gazing at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

She stopped in the break room to grab a cup of coffee, then headed back to her desk. When she walked through the door and realized someone was already sitting there, she stopped so abruptly she sloshed coffee onto her fingers.

Thinking she must have walked into the wrong office by mistake, she shot a quick glance to the the name on the door, but this was definitely the right place. So who was the man sitting at her desk?

He was lounging back in her chair, his designer shoe–clad feet propped on the desk surface, reading the list Tiffany had left. He wore typical office attire, sans the jacket, and the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled to his elbows. His hair was dark blond and stylishly short, and he had the sort of boyish good looks that made a girl swoon. Which was exactly what she felt like doing.

The question was, who was he and why he was in her office?

“Can I help you?” she asked.

The man looked up at her with a pair of deep-set, soul-warming hazel eyes and a grin that could stop traffic, and her heart actually flipped over in her chest. Who was this guy and where could she get one?

“I certainly hope so,” he said, dropping his feet to the carpet and rising from the chair. She was at least 5’11” in her heels and she had to look up to meet his eyes. He was tall and lean and work-out-in-the-gym-every-morning fit.

“You must be the new temp,” he said, reaching across the desk to shake her hand, which was still gripping the cup of coffee and damp from the sloshing. She quickly switched the cup to the opposite hand, wiped the damp one on her skirt and took his hand. It was big and warm and surprisingly rough for such a polished-looking guy.

His grip was firm and confident and she could swear she felt the effects all the way to her knees. She also didn’t miss the way he gave her a quick once-over, one brow slightly raised.

“I’m Jane Monroe,” she said.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jane Monroe.”

No, the pleasure was definitely hers, though she still didn’t have clue who he was.

“By the way,” he said. “Someone named Mary called.”

Her heart stalled. Her sister Mary? How could she possibly have known where Jane was working? Her family didn’t even know she was working for Edwin Associates. “She called here? ’’

“Your cell,” he said, opening the top drawer and holding up her cell phone.

“You answered my phone?” Who the hell did this guy think he was? And how could she be so stupid as to leave it unattended in her desk with the ringer on?

“Actually, it went to voice mail before I found it in the drawer. But the display said it was Mary.”

Whoever this guy was, he had a lot of nerve. “Do you make it a habit of snooping through people’s private property?”

He shrugged. “Only if I think I’ll find something interesting.”

That was not the answer she expected. “Who are you?”

“You don’t know?”

“Should I?”

The smile went from curious to amused. “I’m Jordan Everette, Miss Monroe. Your new boss.”

“M-Mr. Everette,” Miss Monroe stammered, the color draining from her flawlessly painted face. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize—”

“Not quite what you expected, I guess,” Jordan said.

She shook her head, pulling her full bottom lip between her teeth.

Well, neither was she. In fact, he was surprised that anyone had shown up at all.

“So, the temp agency sent you?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

Funny, he had called the agency Friday afternoon to see what was taking so long—usually they had a temp to his office within hours of the request—but they had no record of a request ever being submitted. Yet here she was, bright and early Monday morning, standing in his office.

For a couple of weeks now there had been a strange vibe in the office. Something was just … off. He could only assume that the focus of the investigation into the explosion at the refinery had now moved from his employees to him.

After six years of loyal service, and three as Chief Operations Officer, he would have thought Adam Blair, Western Oil’s current CEO, would trust him by now. And if they had concerns, why not just ask him? Why this elaborate charade?

Because if they mistrusted him enough to think he could do this sort of thing—put his workers’ lives in jeopardy—they probably didn’t think he would tell the truth if confronted. So instead they hired someone to do what? Seduce it out of him? He couldn’t imagine another reason they would send a woman who looked as though she moonlighted as a runway model.

Did they really think he was that shallow?

They obviously thought a lot less of him than he did of them. He would have at least hoped that his brother Nathan, the Chief Brand Officer, would come clean and tell him the truth. If he even knew, that is. Hell, for all Jordan knew Adam could be investigating him too. Maybe even Emilio Suarez, the CFO.

The weight of the betrayal sat like a stone in his gut, but his options were limited. He could confront Adam and put an end to the investigation, but that might only make him appear as if he had something to hide. He couldn’t let anything, not even his pride, interfere with his chance at the coveted CEO position Adam would be vacating soon. His only choice was to cooperate with their investigation.

Of course, that didn’t mean he was going to make it easy for his new “secretary.” Knowing who she was and why she was there, he could manipulate the situation, control the information she obtained. Let her see only what he wanted her to see. Not that they were going to find anything incriminating, because he hadn’t done anything wrong. But there were certain aspects of his life—financial ones in particular—that he preferred to keep private.

“Here,” Jordan said, backing away from her chair. “Have a seat.”

Smiling nervously, Miss Monroe rounded the desk. “Can I get you a cup of coff—” The toe of one spike-heeled “do-me” shoe caught on the desk leg and she lurched forward. She grabbed the corner of the desk in her attempt to catch her fall, but the foam cup she was holding in the opposite hand went airborne. And hit him square in the chest.

Miss Monroe gasped in horror, slapping a hand over her crimson-painted mouth as coffee soaked not only his shirt, but the carpet where he was standing. “Oh my God. I can’t believe I just did that.”

She looked frantically around for something to clean up the mess and spotted a box of tissues on the desk. She lunged for it, ripping out a handful and shoving them at him. “Mr. Everette, I am so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said, wiping up the coffee dripping from his chin. Not the most graceful runway model, was she?

She gestured helplessly at his damp shirt. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I keep an extra shirt in the closet for emergencies. You could grab it for me while I clean up.”

“Of course,” she said, scrambling for the closet.

Jordan walked to the bathroom in his office, unbuttoning his shirt. Some of the coffee had hit his pants too, but as luck would have it, he’d worn his brown suit that morning.