Renee Roszel - The One-Week Marriage

He thought he knew her He thought he knew her Yet he hadn’t considered that she had a ripe figure under those boxy suits she’d always worn. Hadn’t guessed her laughter was so husky and stimulating, or that her smile could do things to... A tightening in his gut caused his grin to fade. He gripped the metal rail. Peabody was not a woman to him. She was more than that. Women were replaceable. Peabody was essential She had a good, sharp mind and ran his office like a top sergeant. “I will not mess up a perfect working relationship simply because her laugh.” He turned around and propped a hip against the railing. The bed snagged his gaze He eyed the thing, concerned He’d had every intention of platonically sharing that puny mattress with Peabody The idea of anything physical going on between them had no more entered his head than if he’d planned to sleep beside his briefcase. Until now. About the Author Renee Roszel has been writing romance novels since 1983 and simply loves her job. She likes to keep her stories humorous and light, with her heroes gorgeous, sexy and larger than life. She says, “Why not spend your days and nights with the very best!” Luckily for Renee, her husband is gorgeous and sexy, too! Praise Praise for Renee Roszel. “Renee Roszel creates wonderful characters who will walk off the page and into your heart.” —Romantic Times “She is delightful, eloquent and humorous all in one.” —Rendezvous Title Page The One-Week Marriage Renee Roszel www.millsandboon.co.uk Dedication To my aunts Eva and Anna May, women of humor and quiet strength CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN Copyright

He thought he knew her

Yet he hadn’t considered that she had a ripe figure under those boxy suits she’d always worn. Hadn’t guessed her laughter was so husky and stimulating, or that her smile could do things to...

A tightening in his gut caused his grin to fade. He gripped the metal rail. Peabody was not a woman to him. She was more than that. Women were replaceable. Peabody was essential She had a good, sharp mind and ran his office like a top sergeant.

“I will not mess up a perfect working relationship simply because her laugh.”

He turned around and propped a hip against the railing. The bed snagged his gaze He eyed the thing, concerned He’d had every intention of platonically sharing that puny mattress with Peabody The idea of anything physical going on between them had no more entered his head than if he’d planned to sleep beside his briefcase.

Until now.

Renee Roszel has been writing romance novels since 1983 and simply loves her job. She likes to keep her stories humorous and light, with her heroes gorgeous, sexy and larger than life. She says, “Why not spend your days and nights with the very best!” Luckily for Renee, her husband is gorgeous and sexy, too!

Praise for Renee Roszel.

“Renee Roszel creates wonderful characters who will walk off the page and into your heart.”

—Romantic Times

“She is delightful, eloquent and humorous all in one.”

—Rendezvous

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my aunts

Eva and Anna May,

women of humor and quiet strength

CHAPTER ONE

“MR. PARISH, you really must choose a wife, today.” Izzy Peabody dropped a leather-bound catalog on her boss’s desk. It landed on the polished walnut with a sharp crack. She wasn’t happy about his plan and she didn’t care if he knew it. After all, she was quitting, wasn’t she? Hadn’t she been carrying her resignation letter around in her purse for a month? All she had to do was work up her courage to hand it to him.

“What did you say, Peabody?” Gabriel Parish shouted from the private bathroom in his Manhattan office. He stuck his head out the door and Izzy sucked in an appreciative breath. It didn’t seem to matter how many times she’d seen him in exactly that pose—half shaved and shirtless, his upper torso and broad shoulders displaying delectable muscle—the sight always shook her to her core. Without fear of contradiction, Izzy knew that within the six-foot-three-inch hunk that was Gabriel Parish, any woman would find her fantasy man.

Black tousled hair fell across his forehead as his emerald gaze shifted to fix on her, full of professional curiosity and nothing more. It was agonizing for Izzy to be continually reminded that Mr. Parish didn’t think of her as anything but his faithful right arm—his “Peabody”—not a living, breathing woman who had foolishly fallen in love with her boss.

“I said, you really must take a minute to pick your wife,” she called, grateful she sounded composed.

“My what?” Those breathtaking eyes widened a fraction. She might have smiled at his dubious reaction, if it didn’t make her so miserable. Mr. Parish actually picking out a wife was a ludicrous notion. He had no desire to marry. And why should he, with a continual flow of gorgeous women simpering and wiggling through his life?

Trying to keep on track, she hefted the black catalog. “For the Yum-Yum account. Remember?”

From his quick, disgruntled frown, it was clear that he did. “Oh, right.” Disappearing into his bathroom, he shouted, “In a minute.”

She turned to go.

“Peabody, I forgot a shirt. Would you bring me a fresh one?”

She halted, wincing. That’s all she needed. To be forced into close proximity with the man’s chest. “Right away, Mr. Parish,” she said thinly, pivoting toward the quarters he used for his home away from home. When business—or social—engagements went too late for him to return to his Long Island estate, he slept in his office apartment.

Evidently last night had been one of those late nights. Entering the expensively appointed bedroom, she couldn’t help but notice that his bed was rumpled. She tried not to visualize possible reasons he stayed here last night—or arrived very early—since she knew he hadn’t been entertaining advertising clients. Besides, she reminded herself sternly, it’s none of your business what Mr. Parish does after hours!

Grabbing a fresh shirt from the dresser, she returned through his office to the bathroom. The door stood ajar, but she knocked, hoping not to have to face him until he was fully clothed. “I have the shirt.”

“Well, bring it in.”

She eyed heaven. What had she done to deserve this? “Yes, sir.”

He patted his face dry with a thick, white towel. Izzy inhaled and was struck broadside with his scent, so stirringly male. She swallowed hard, making herself breathe in shallow sniffs to keep his essence out of her head.

The bathroom was large with white marble on walls, countertops, even the floor. Golden faucets, handles and towel racks gleamed as only real gold could.

On the wall above the sink, a large mirror reflected her and her boss in unrelenting brightness. Unfortunately his image was not compromised in the slightest by light that should have exposed every flaw. The stark brilliance emphasized the firm sensuality of his mouth, the glossy blackness of his hair, those devilishly thick lashes and the gemlike quality of his green eyes. Her glance trailed down. When she discovered where her wanderings had taken her, she focused on his chin, warning herself not to stare at his chest. Her heart could only stand so much.

He flung the towel over a nearby rack, the act setting off a bothersome play of muscle in shoulder and arm. He grasped the shirt she held. She hardly noticed until he gave it a little jerk. “Peabody?” he asked. “Are you with me?”