The Millionaire′s Mistletoe Mistress
The Millionaire's Mistletoe Mistress
Natalie Anderson
Praise for Natalie Anderson:
“Natalie Anderson is one of the most exciting voices in steamy romantic fiction writing today. Sassy, witty and emotional, her Modern Heats are in a class of their own …”
—CataromanceLook for an exciting new novel from Natalie Anderson, Hot Boss, Boardroom Mistress, available in Mills & Boon
Modern Heat™ in December 2009.
About the Author
Possibly the only librarian who got told off herself for talking too much, NATALIE ANDERSON decided writing books might be more fun than shelving them – and, boy, is it that! Especially writing romance – it’s the realisation of a lifetime dream, kick-started by many an afternoon spent devouring Grandma’s Mills & Boon
novels … She lives in New Zealand, with her husband and four gorgeous-but-exhausting children. Swing by her website any time – she’d love to hear from you: www.natalieanderson.com
The Millionaire’sMistletoe Mistress
Natalie Anderson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dear Reader,
I do love Christmas – from the songs I’ve heard and sung a zillion times, to the crazy race in the supermarket for the last pack of strawberries, to the corny cracker jokes and the silly presents we tease each other with. And of course the coming together of family and friends that occasionally brings its own complications!
But sometimes Christmas can be harder – when one is far from home, lonely or has lost someone all too recently. The jollity is shadowed with pain both past and present. At those moments in the season, I try to find the little things to take pleasure in – an act of kindness, sharing something small with someone even smaller or perhaps much older, or, hey, maybe reading a book with a happy ending!
My heroine Imogen is lonely and working in a store surrounded by the trappings of Christmas. Mostly she adores this, but sometimes it is a reminder of what she doesn’t have this year. So I wanted to give her the fairytale, the finding of home and happiness that many of us long for at Christmas. For me it’s a time of tradition, of family, of forgiveness, of looking forwards and back, but mostly of being and sharing together.
And so I do hope you have a wonderful Christmas and get to spend time, love and laughter with your nearest and dearest.
With very best wishes,
Natalie
For Uncle Allan: a box of tomatoes, stiff gins, mushy cauli and cheese, pavlova and raspberries, Spanish cream, plum duff, your brand of chocolate … I can still have all these things this Christmas. But without you, my heart aches.
CHAPTER ONE
‘PLEASE, please work.’ Imogen slowly pushed the card in before, just as slowly, pulling it out. Nothing happened. The little green bubble just refused to light up.
She tried again. Pushed it in slowly, then whipped it out fast. Nothing.
Fast in. Fast out. Nada.
‘Damn.’ Getting desperate, she tried fast in, slow out. ‘Give me the green light, give me the green light. I do not have time for this.’
She didn’t have time for anything. A quick glance at her watch showed precisely ten minutes remained until the meeting began. Ten minutes to wash off the mix of mud, blood and sleet and change into the new shirt and skirt she’d bought from the overpriced shop three doors along precisely eight minutes ago.
‘Please, please, please.’ Why did this have to happen now? She wanted to wail. Why … when she’d got all her reports together well ahead of schedule, when she’d found something to wear after her cringe-worthy disaster on the street, when the receptionist had been so sympathetic … why did she have to fall at the final hurdle?
She pulled her wet shirt away from her skin. It was cold and muddy and she felt hideous and sore. She’d gone for such a spin on the icy path—landing awkwardly and sliding flat on her front, ending up in a puddle of nasty water. She cursed the hidden ice that never seemed to melt on these Edinburgh footpaths. She couldn’t master walking on them at all. No matter what shoes she wore, she still slipped. And the one time she needed to get somewhere fast, and in one piece, she’d gone for the biggest spill of all.
And still the hotel room door wouldn’t open. The smiling receptionist had practically leapt to attention when Imogen had explained why she was there and who she was meeting and what had happened on the way. She’d handed over her wool coat and been assured it would be delivered to the dry cleaners, and had then been given a key card to a room.
‘Please use the room to shower and change. No charge.’
The ‘no charge’ bit was a huge relief, because the emergency outfit she’d had to buy had not been cheap. Nor was it the kind of business clothing she usually wore. Her wardrobe consisted of a neat uniform of black below-the-knee skirts and discreet jackets—nothing attention-seeking at all. Imogen didn’t want attention; she just wanted to get on with the job—and do it well. But the nearest clothing boutique had stocked far more stylish and figure-revealing items than her usual mass-produced, form-concealing choices. She’d frantically pulled aside the hangers in a quest for something conservative and simple. And she’d been in too much of a hurry to even try her selection on. Surely the black trousers and green shirt that she now held in the large carrier bag would fit? She was a standard size. Surely—hopefully, please, Lord—it would be fine?
Well, it wouldn’t be if she couldn’t get into the wretched room to wash and change!
She flicked the hank of hair that had fallen free of its tie back over her shoulder, breathed in deeply, and tried to control her rising temper with a slow count out.
‘One … two … three … fourfivesixseveneightaineten.’ She inserted the key card one last time. ‘Argh!’ she exclaimed in total frustration.
Nine minutes and counting. She was never going to make it. She was going to have to meet the new manager of Mackenzie Forrest wearing a sodden shirt and with dirt on her hands. She banged those hands hard on the door in front of her and swore. ‘Open, damn you!’
And then it did. So quickly she stumbled. Regaining her balance with a wince of pain from her knee, she looked up. Then lost all her remaining poise as he spoke—dry and unconcerned.
‘Can I help you with something?’
Stunned, she stared, stared and stared some more. He was wearing nothing—nothing—but he held a white towel to his … his … lower middle. There was acres of chest … lightly bronzed, so broad, so bare … and he was dripping wet. Imogen couldn’t help following the light dusting of hair … down. Couldn’t resist following the angles of his muscles … down. Couldn’t stop following the drops of water … down, down, down.
Down to where that broad hand was holding the fluffy towel which was catching those slow drips of water. She’d never seen a body so perfect—not even in billboard ads for underwear or aftershave. She’d certainly never seen a torso with such muscle definition. Not body-builder, too-many-steroids, bulging-veins kind of muscles, but strong and smooth and sharp. There was not an ounce of fat for those muscles to hide behind—they were all on show. And she’d never before seen a belly button that her tongue basically begged to touch. In fact, it seemed her whole body had gone brazen—and so had her brain. She was blatantly watching as his fingers tightened on the towel and his other hand came to support it. Blatantly fascinated as each of his abdominal muscles moved, revealing even greater definition.
‘Ma’am?’
Hearing his broad American drawl, she dragged her gaze back up. Looking into his face, she simply stared some more as the brightest of blue eyes captured hers. Peripherally she saw the straight nose, the even brows, the angular jaw, but it was the eyes that held hers, with their unbelievable colour and their focus and their sudden flicker of something that looked a lot like you wanna dare?
At that whisper of wickedness she closed her eyes for a second, holding back the wave of sensual feeling that wanted to spread over her, forcing herself to pause the explicit show her imagination wanted to screen and instead get on top of what she was supposed to be doing.
‘This isn’t your room.’ She didn’t mean to snap. But she was embarrassed and confused.
‘Actually, I think it is.’
Oh, did he have to have a voice to match the body? All amused and confident and capable of turning her pause button off again?
‘Actually, it isn’t.’ Pause button back on. She was in control and fighting for her rights. ‘The receptionist said I could use it to tidy up and change.’
‘Well, that was nice of her. But it’s my room.’
‘It was a him.’
‘Ah.’ He nodded, and that dare in his eyes became a very naughty looking challenge. ‘I’d have said yes to you, too. Beauty in distress.’
She wasn’t distressed, she was flustered, getting hot and rapidly approaching full-on panic mode. ‘I can’t get the key card to work.’
‘That’s because it’s my room.’
‘It’s not. It’s—’
She broke off as he took half a step closer. ‘What’s your room number?’
Her pause button slipped and she answered breathlessly, staring at that chest once more. ‘Sixty-seven.’
‘Ah.’
At that know-it-all sound, she looked up. He was nodding again, and this time accompanying it with a wide smile—perfect white teeth, all too devastating.
‘Ah, what?’ Her heart couldn’t beat any faster. She couldn’t feel any hotter. And the wild thing was that she was wishing she could forget the silly meeting with her stuffy new boss and just stand here all day. Staring at him.
‘This is my room—number sixty-nine. Yours is just along the corridor a bit.’
She slowly looked behind him and read the number on the door. She could have sworn that nine was a … Oh, hell, could she really be so stupid? ‘Sixty-nine?’
‘Sixty-nine.’
‘And I’m …’ Not sixty-nine. Not thinking sixty-nine. Not thinking … Ohhhhhh. The sensual feeling rippled. Imagine—those muscles, that size, that heat … and tasting it all.
Her mental X-rated movie started rolling again.
His head angled and he almost whispered, ‘You can come in here if you want.’
Unconsciously she mirrored him, angling her head so she could keep watching the same gleam of light in his eyes. Then what he’d said sank in. ‘What? No!’
‘Oh—okay.’ He was out-and-out grinning now. ‘I thought for a second there you looked like you might want to.’
Oh, great. So her lustful moment had been totally transparent. She put her hand to her chest protectively, hoping her nipples weren’t prodding through the wet shirt like twin missiles aimed at him. They sure felt as if they were. ‘What I want is to find my hotel room.’ Frozen speech now. Dignity had to be recovered.
‘Well, like I said, it’s just along the corridor a little.’
She curled her fingers and pulled the halves of her shirt closer together. This time it was his gaze that dropped. His smile widened as he gave her torso a very thorough inspection.
She could feel herself responding even more to his warm appraisal. She couldn’t believe she was standing in a hotel corridor being turned on just by looking at a complete stranger—and by him looking at her.
‘Okay,’ she croaked. She turned—too fast for her recently scraped knee—and couldn’t quite stifle her groan of pain.
His glance went lower. ‘Hey, you’ve hurt your leg. It’s bleeding.’ He stepped after her. ‘Can I get you a plaster?’
The change from teasing flirt to concerned gentleman was too fast and too damn sweet. Infatuation threatened to slip over her, to send everything sensible from her head—what little was left.
Embarrassed even more by her ridiculous response to him, she muttered, ‘No, I’m fine.’ She added, ‘Thanks …’ way too late as she tried to walk normally, but her leg had really stiffened now.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ He followed her into the hall. ‘I’m good with first aid.’
Imogen turned back and nodded, unable to stop her eyes slipping south one last time. She was quite sure he’d be good with everything. Did he have any idea how good he looked right now? His legs were long—really long—and every bit as beautifully muscled as his chest. And the way his hair was wet, sitting as if it had been pushed back with a hand, all added up to a gleaming bronze statue way better than Michelangelo’s marble David—this one was all real man. But she didn’t answer, and made it to her door instead. The card worked instantly, the little green light flashed, and she heard the lock mechanism sliding. Thank all the gods.
She didn’t even try to resist taking one last look. He’d gone back to his room, but had paused in his open doorway—still smiling as if he knew everything she was thinking, and still not wearing anything like enough clothing.
Feeling far too hot for this freezing winter’s day, she let the door slam behind her and, tiptoeing on her sore leg, taking the weight on her good one, hobbled into the bathroom. Caught a glance in the mirror and froze.
Oh, no.
She blinked. Took another look to be sure.
Oh, yes.
She hadn’t realised the extent of the rip in her blouse. The sleeve had all but come away completely from the seam, and there was a tear from her underarm across the front. To make it worse, the way she’d been holding it just now had pulled that gap even wider. Towel Guy had had a first class view of her breast. Her scarlet-bra-cupped breast.
Scarlet and lace bra.
Her mind raced back to her sprint out of the flat early that morning—wanting to get to work and have everything just so for the arrival of her new lord and master. Usually she wore a black bra, or skin tone—plain, nothing too fancy that would show outlines under the fabric of her simple cotton shirts. But with all the extra study she’d been doing to get her last assignments in ahead of the Christmas madness she was behind on the laundry. Like weeks behind. So she’d grabbed this one from the drawer, figuring no one was going to see it anyway, and besides, wasn’t it the kind of day when she needed the extra lift the colour gave her?
She’d bought the set on a whim once in the store’s sale, simply because she loved the colour. Just looking at it gave her inner confidence a boost—and today her toenails were painted the same colour, even though they’d spend all day hidden away in her ankle boots. Scarlet underwear; blood-red toenails. Not because she was some sexy vamp, but because that deep, almost burnt red was her favourite, and wearing it gave her a pick-me-up—yes, underneath she was covered in confidence. It was still fake, but it was better than none at all.
Only now she didn’t see it as the confident colour of a winner. It was trashy streetwalker in-your-face tarty—and she was crimson with embarrassment.
No wonder the hotel receptionist had been so happy to help and so full of smiles. No wonder Towel Guy had been so bold about inviting her in. She was flashing the world half her scarlet-clad assets.
She glanced at her watch. Less than three minutes. No time to shower—only a quick wash with a flannel and an even quicker fix of her mascara and a swipe of the comb through her hair. She retied it back in a harsh ponytail and got to redressing.
The new shirt was forest-green and silk, and felt deliciously cool on her hot body. She took in a breath and told herself to calm down as she tried to work the buttons through their too small holes. Any last shred of calm dissipated as she pulled on the new trousers—they were way firmer round the hips and thighs than she would usually wear. Definitely too firm round the butt. Her temperature lifted again as she tucked in the shirt and did up the zip and button at the waist. This was the kind of sleek outfit she’d have worn at her old job—emphasising her curves and showing her long legs while still being appropriate office attire. She’d wanted to look attractive there. Wanted to be wanted—what a naïve fool of a girl she’d been. She’d learnt more than one painful lesson as a result. One of them being that work and amorous relationships shouldn’t ever mix.
So she had no desire to be seen as feminine at Mackenzie Forrest. She simply wanted to be good at her job. But this was only a first meeting, with all the office and admin team. The new boss probably wouldn’t even notice her—he’d be too busy giving a speech or something. And at least the trousers covered the ugly graze. She’d fashioned a crude plaster for it out of tissue and sticky tape. That would sponge up the blood and stop her trousers from rubbing against it and being even more uncomfortable. Her elbow was sore, too. And she was thrown by the whole twenty-minute mess.
Imogen tossed her muddy clothes into the shopping bag. One last deep breath and another quick count to ten as she tried to forget the blue eyes that had twinkled at her with that mix of humour and heat and concern.
There had definitely been heat. Oh, yes, there’d been heat.
Awkwardly, she walked out of the room and took another frantic look at her watch—already three minutes late. The door of room number sixty-nine was shut. Good thing too. Turning, she headed for the lifts and—oh, wouldn’t it just be her luck?
Towel Guy was up ahead, and looking back down the corridor at her. Only he was wearing more now—more as in a tailored suit: it had to be custom-made, the way it hung so smoothly from his tall frame, dark grey, with an ice-white shirt and a blue tie that brought out the sapphiric tint in his eyes. Oh, yes, he was malemodelicious. His hand was on the door to take the stairs, but he paused, watching her hobble towards him. Then he moved away from the door, pressing the button to summon the lift instead. All the while he watched her walk nearer.
Totally self-conscious, she moved towards him, refusing to run. He could get this lift and she’d get the next. She didn’t want to be red-faced and breathless when meeting the new boss. She was already late, so another minute wasn’t going to matter that much. Anyway she couldn’t run. Her leg was too stiff.
The lift arrived. He entered. Kept his finger on the door open button long enough for her to get there and get in. For a mad moment she met his eyes, and was nearly fried on the spot.
‘Which floor?’
‘Two, please.’ Imogen looked low to the ground, not really wanting to look into those blues again—they were hotter than hell.
The doors slid shut and she kept her focus hard on the seam in the centre of them.
‘The colour really suits you.’
She started, glanced down at the green, felt her embarrassment increase—but the politeness thing was deeply ingrained. ‘Oh …’ She took a breath to try and be able to talk. ‘Thank—’
‘The green is nice.’ He cut her off. ‘But I was thinking of the red.’
Stunned, she turned, her widened gaze colliding with his—all blue fire. Then the solemnity in his face shattered and he smiled—a full-blown, toe-curling, bone-melting blaze of a smile. It felt as if splotches of crimson heat were being stamped all over her body. So much for not being red-faced when she met her new boss. It was going to take at least half an hour for her to cool down after exiting the lift. But this guy was irresistible, and she smiled back.
Nodding, she stated the only thing in her head that she could share publicly. ‘I’m really embarrassed.’ She was also really attracted.
‘Hey,’ he joked, ‘I was wearing less.’
‘Yes.’ Her smile broadened as the lift doors slid open. The comeback bubbled out of her, filled with sassy spark, just as she stepped out. ‘That suited you, too.’
She met his eyes with a lift of her brow, beyond trying to hide the attraction now.
‘I’d like to …’ He glanced at his watch, spread his hands and shrugged. ‘But I have to—’
‘I’m late for something, too.’ Imogen smiled as she closed the conversation. Another time, another place, maybe they’d have talked more, flirted, had some fun?
Imogen hadn’t done that in … well, ever. But honestly just the idea of it, the almost-but-not-quite nature of their encounter, was enough to put a little jolt of pleasure in her day. But now real life had to be attended to—she had a meeting to survive and a career to keep on track.
She walked down the corridor, conscious that he was only half a pace behind her. She stopped as she came to a suite of meeting rooms. He stopped right beside her. For a moment they stood, both reading the sign on the first door.
‘We’re heading to the same meeting,’ he said flatly.
Was the dismay that she was feeling reflected in his face?
He blinked, and in that minuscule moment his whole demeanour changed. He withdrew, and his eyes—those windows to anything personal, to that wild heat—veiled as he became completely professional.
He opened the door. ‘After you.’ And he ushered her in.
She didn’t answer verbally—couldn’t as she hobbled as far to the back of the room as she could. Oh, no. He had an American accent. He couldn’t possibly be …
‘Sorry I’m a little late, everyone. I’ve been sightseeing.’
She turned and looked to where he’d walked in and instantly taken command. Sightseeing? Right.
‘And it took me a bit longer to get changed than I thought it would.’
A smile flashed—charming, but remote rather than hot. Of course it had taken him longer. One of his new employees had tried to burst into his room when he was taking a shower.
‘My name’s Ryan Taylor. Please call me Ryan.’
Imogen closed her eyes as he confirmed the worst. Not for the first time in her life she wished the ground would open up and swallow her whole. Opening them, she saw the impossible hadn’t happened, and she was stuck in what could only be one of the most embarrassing situations of her existence.
She wished she’d done even a smidge of homework—then she would have known, could have been prepared. But as she’d spent every moment outside of work these last three months studying for the two accountancy papers the company was sponsoring her for, she’d hardly had time to breathe—determined to get as high a grade as she could to prove to them and to herself that she was worth it.
All that she’d known about Ryan Taylor was that he was going to oversee the change in management and steer Mackenzie Forrest into a supposedly bright new future.
And now she knew how magnificent he looked all but naked.
CHAPTER TWO
IMOGEN kept her weight on one leg as the other suddenly pounded with pain. Silly how just a stupid scrape could hurt so much. She hoped the bandage she’d fashioned would hold. Hoped this would be a sit-down meeting. Hoped she wouldn’t have to say anything—because she was still puffing, adrenalin still zinging around her body courtesy of her haste, her accident and her encounter with—Oh, hell—she’d practically had her tongue hanging out as she’d ogled him all over, like some sex-starved spinster. Okay, so she was a sex-starved spinster. That didn’t mean she wanted her new boss to know all about it!
She caught him looking at her intently, a frown causing the faintest of lines on his brow. She looked away, wishing to be swallowed whole once more, and heard him address the room again.
‘Please take a seat everyone. This is an informal get-together. A chance to meet and talk through any issues or questions you may have before I start in my official capacity tomorrow. I’ll talk for a bit, and then you can ask some questions, and then we’ll have coffee—okay?’
Great.
She moved to a seat near the back. Tried to avoid Shona’s concerned look, but clearly failed, as her line manager came and took the seat next to hers. Imogen was never late. She was never flustered. And yet here she was—late and flustered and wearing a whole new outfit.
‘What happened? You left ages ago,’ the older woman said in an undertone as everyone found seats.
Imogen had indeed left in plenty of time, intending to call in at a shop on the way to get a quick sandwich. The humiliating accident on Victoria Street had ended that idea. ‘I fell.’
‘You okay? You were all red a minute ago, and now you’re all pale.’
Imogen nodded. ‘Just feel like a dork.’
‘Hence the new outfit?’ Shona was smiling.
‘Complete with grazes.’ Imogen held up her palm, just thrilled that someone found it amusing—and Shona only knew half the story.
Her mentor chuckled now. ‘The colour suits you.’
Imogen searched out Ryan as Shona echoed his words. Surely he couldn’t have heard the comment? But when his gaze intercepted hers the sardonic tinge in his eyes suggested he had.
He was too young. He was far, far too young. Was he even thirty? Even if he was, he was too young to be taking control of Edinburgh’s premier department store. Yes, Mr Mackenzie had been ancient, but this guy was too young and too good-looking.
He talked to a couple of her co-workers who were already seated, asked their names. He’d obviously done his homework because he could match the name with the job position immediately. He moved around the room, learning faces with names as he went. Frozen, she watched as he came closer—until he was right there, by Shona and her. Saw his lips twitch that little bit as he looked her over—very quickly, so quickly you almost wouldn’t have noticed. But she was hypersensitive, and very, very focused on him.
He shook hands with Shona, nodding, as they’d already met. All too soon it was her turn. His eyes didn’t waver from hers, and there was almost a smile in them.
She took in a deep breath, determined not to reveal wobbly voice syndrome. ‘I’m Imogen Hall.’
‘Imogen.’ He repeated, clearly turning through the personnel files in his head. ‘You’re the—’
‘Accounts administrator—yes, Mr Taylor.’ She couldn’t call him Ryan. Ryan was too intimate. It made her think of his naked dripping torso and his muscle definition and … Mr Taylor it had to be.
‘Accounts,’ he drawled, very softly, the veil lifting for a moment and showing her that dry humour again. ‘As in number-crunching?’
‘That’s right.’ She nodded. She was Shona’s second-in-command trainee, and had been given too good an opportunity to lose it now.
‘Well …’ His teeth flashed as he murmured, only loud enough for her to hear, ‘I guess your work should make for interesting reading.’
Her cheeks were on fire, and she went on defence. ‘Ordinarily I’m good with numbers. Just not when stressed … I wasn’t thinking straight.’
‘We’ll have to take care not to stress you out, then, won’t we?’ His eyes lasered through her. ‘Imogen.’
Mortified by the fact that she’d been having fantasies about a stranger who was in reality her new boss, she couldn’t return his oh-so-polite smile, couldn’t register the slight emphasis on her name, couldn’t match his intensity any more. She ducked her head. He didn’t seem at all uncomfortable about having met one of his new employees while almost starkers … about having flirted with her so boldly … and having her flirt right back. Oh, no. He probably thought she was hopeless at her job. An all boobs, brainless bit of fluff. Wasn’t that what George and all his family had thought?
‘I always like to sit at the back of a meeting, too.’ He stepped away and took the chair two along from Imogen.
The rat. Surely he knew she wanted to get away from him?
Of course he did. Because for one second before he began his well-prepared speech, there was an unholy grin on his face. One she’d seen before—in the hall, as he’d glanced down her body.
Pen in hand, she stared at the complimentary hotel stationery in front of her as Ryan smoothly talked through his vision for the store. Now she was even more apprehensive about the change. Things had been going well for her at Mackenzie Forrest. She wanted to be able to continue the study course that Mr Mac had agreed to. She could only hope that the staff development programme wouldn’t be dropped now that the famous Edinburgh department store had been bought out by the American company owned by the exclusive and reclusive Taylor clan.
Mr Mac had stressed how pleased he was the store was being taken on by a family, rather than a publicly held company. Imogen was cynical about that—family-run didn’t always equate with family values or high morals and a decent work ethic. In her experience family-run meant keeping things close, protecting the family at the expense of the company. Blood was thicker than water—even if it was bad blood.
Imogen Hall. Ordinarily good with numbers. Ordinarily looking gorgeous. Ryan tried to marshal his thoughts, but all his mind was interested in focusing on was that glimpse of one very scarlet bra and the luscious breast it had contained.
Not ideal. Not when he was meeting the team he was to lead for the first time and she was one of the players. He had to soothe their concerns. Mackenzie Forrest was an Edinburgh institution. Loyal customers, loyal workers. Locally owned since its inception, it had now been taken over by his family—and he knew the idea of foreign ownership hadn’t been entirely welcomed.
‘Taylors is a family-run business.’ He saw the flash of cynicism on her face and it derailed his thoughts again. Why was she so defensive? Surely not the parochial thing? That was no Scottish accent she’d spoken with.
He got back on course, but his blood pumped faster. It was a real shame she was an employee. He could kick himself now for his comment on what colour suited her in the elevator. If he’d known, he’d never have said anything.
It had taken a decade of hard work for Ryan to gain the respect of not just his family but outsiders as well. Being one of the East Coast Taylors had many advantages, but it came with disadvantages, too. Being the ‘spare heir’, he knew people had preconceptions and misconceptions about him and his ability to actually do the work. Precisely why he’d stayed out of the family business and done his own thing on the continent. But now his brother and his sisters had asked for his help—and both they and he knew he had more than the required credentials for the job. They needed his expertise and it was on his terms. But he’d just muffed it with one of his new staff.
He had no intention of getting a reputation for being a Lothario boss. He always kept his flings outside of the office environment. It was easier that way. And he had no problem meeting women. He had more of a problem getting to know them—and with them being able to see through the Taylor mystique to the reality of him beneath. Hence flings. Not relationships. Never a relationship.
So he was just going to have to work hard and jettison this attack of the lusts. Because he had no time for it here. But he couldn’t stop his attention sliding, watching as she sat absently clicking and unclicking her pen. Her green eyes accented by the depth of colour in her shirt. Her curves subtly hinted at by the way the soft material sat over them. And all he could see then was her lying back, siren-like in her scarlet underwear, eyes gleaming through heavy lids, a smile on her lips. A smile like that smile she’d given him as they’d stepped out of the elevator—suddenly confident, suddenly sassy, and so enticing.
He looked down at the table and extracted some self-control from deep within. He was going to have to work hard. Very, very hard.
Imogen decided to exit as soon as she could. It was sickening. Even Shona, Mr Mac’s number one for the best part of thirty years, was smiling. Half an hour in the guy’s company and he’d won over the most hardened cynic. Although really, why should she be surprised? It had only taken a split second for her to want to fall at his feet. But there could be no fraternising here—no sycophantic chats with the boss. Not when she’d seen him almost naked. Because that was how she still saw him.
Her face flamed as his image slid into frame again. Frustrated, she focused on those looks. He was way too young for this kind of position. She worked up anger. Most likely nepotism all the way. He’d probably come in and ruin it for all of them. Just as George had ruined it for her back home in New Zealand at Bailey & Co. Sleeping with her boss had been stupid. Trusting a man who’d had everything too easy had been devastating.
Ryan Taylor looked up, saw she was glaring at him. One brow lifted slightly, as if to ask, What’s your beef?
You are, buddy, she mentally tossed back, with a wide American accent in mind. But he kept his focus on her, and then she got kind of distracted … Goodness, his eyes were blue. Electric. And right now they were honed in on her.
Someone was talking. It seemed he was listening, because she saw his mouth move and heard some kind of noise, but she couldn’t have deciphered any sensible conversation. She was lost in the intensity of that look—in the blue skies that were his eyes. It was as if she was in freefall, flying—almost floating—waiting, still waiting, for the parachute to open …
It wasn’t in any hurry. She blinked. Maybe she’d just clunk back to earth in a heap.
But she’d been there, done that. And been left bruised and broken. She looked away, realising her grazes were throbbing again. No. One gorgeous heir to an empire was not going to throw her off-course.
CHAPTER THREE
IMOGEN got to work early the next day, wanting to be lodged in place behind her desk before anyone else and thus able to avoid comment on her aching limp. Then she couldn’t resist doing what she hadn’t contemplated or even had time for until now. She opened up the Internet. Typed in his name. Added ‘department store’ to narrow the search. There were still a zillion hits. She read a few headers.
‘The Taylor quartet …’ That was a spread in some flash American society mag. Mainly about his elder brother, but he and his sisters had got more than a mention, too. There were photos of them all at some swanky-looking party, with people too beautiful to be real.
‘Harvard-educated … grew up in style in New York … holiday homes in Colorado, Italy and the Caribbean …’
She didn’t read any more. Didn’t need to. She knew the type well and she knew to steer clear. She’d worked hard to build her reputation at Mackenzie Forrest, and she knew how easily it could be ruined. Most of all she knew how fickle guys like Ryan were—guys born with not just a silver spoon in their mouths but with the whole damn canteen of cutlery. Those born into wealth and power grew up with decayed morals. They were always greedy for more. It was not a world Imogen could ever live in. George Bailey-Jones Jr had proved that. His family had added the exclamation mark.
Ryan Taylor’s family made the Bailey-Joneses look like nameless nobodies.
Unfortunately he arrived in the office in another made-to-mesmerise suit, his hair still damp from the shower as it had been the day before …
The way her belly squeezed at the sight of him was crazy. Plain crazy. The way her thoughts ran riot if she let them—seeing him naked, seeing her astride his hips with his chest spread before her, bending forward to press her mouth to his bronzed skin, feeling the muscles beneath …
Oh, she was one sick, sick woman. This kind of fever had to be broken. She watched as he coolly greeted everyone by name. He was too relaxed, too confident. And she knew he’d be unreliable.
‘Good morning, Mr Taylor.’ She got in first. Shona had always addressed Mr Mac formally. Imogen had thought it old-fashioned. Now it seemed like a really good idea. Distance—a good way of maintaining the employer-employee boundary. Because she could hardly say to him, Hey, I don’t usually wear a scarlet bra. It’s just that I was behind on my washing.
His eyebrows lifted fractionally. ‘Are you able to have the latest financials ready for me by lunchtime, Ms Hall?’
‘Certainly, Mr Taylor.’ She retreated farther behind her computer, hoping to hide the way she blushed as he spoke to her.
‘How’s your knee? Better?’
No retreat possible. He’d stepped right round her desk.
‘All better, thank you.’ She didn’t look up from her ferocious study of the screen. Determined not to let things get personal. Strictly professionally was how they’d interact.
‘That’s good to hear.’ His soft words went through her insides like a fork stirred through creamy mashed potato.
‘Is it just the current month you’re after, or last month’s as well?’ Think work. Think work. Not about being whipped into melting acquiescence by a deep American accent.
‘Just this month. I have the other data already.’
Thank heavens he left then—off to the shop floor with the duty manager to meet the front-line staff, before coming back and meeting with Shona for over an hour.
It was well before lunchtime when Imogen knocked on the frame of his open door. He glanced up from his desk. ‘Already?’
‘Yes.’ She didn’t look at him, focused on his desk, placing the report on it and walking straight out again.
‘Thank you.’
She felt the words like bullets in her back.
Less than an hour later, he stopped by her desk. ‘That report was excellent. Not a number out of place.’
Was he teasing her?
‘Think I can get you to do me another, with some projections for the next quarter?’
‘Of course, Mr Taylor.’ She tossed her head as he turned away, determined to reframe his opinion of her and prove her worth. ‘There’s nothing you can ask of me that I can’t do.’
He paused, and it was a miracle she didn’t combust as he assessed her with his blue fire eyes. ‘Ms Hall, you do like to set a challenge, don’t you?’
Three days later Ryan congratulated himself on surviving so far—every minute of every day had been arduous. It shouldn’t have been so bad. In fact, he should have been able to say that things were going better than he’d anticipated—the Christmas tills were ringing, the figures were stacking up, and the staff were all accommodating if not bordering on welcoming. All but one. And he wanted her to accommodate him in a way that was thoroughly inappropriate. So much for conquering the lust.
Theoretically, he should be over it. Every day this week she’d been dressed totally differently from that to-die-for green shirt and pants number at that first meeting. If anything she looked downright dowdy in the shapeless shirts and skirts she seemed so fond of. He couldn’t understand why she’d want to shroud herself in 1950s-schoolmarm-length skirts, and all he wanted to do was get her out of them. While the rest of the staff were looking festive, she looked funereal. Black, black and black was it. Drab and depressing it should have been. Except that on her the tone emphasised her pale skin, and made her eyes greener than genetically modified grass.
And then there was the fact that it wasn’t just her looks he was attracted to. In the open-plan space outside his office, she and Shona were nearest to his door. The door he couldn’t bring himself to close—not when he could hear her low-voiced humour. She didn’t mix much with the others—just sat quietly next to Shona, passing the time with occasional wry and dry comments that had him hovering ever closer, increasingly interested. Wishing she’d laugh like that with him.
And she was damn good at her job—at a junior level, for sure, but with the potential to climb a lot higher. He could see exactly why Mr Mac had agreed to put her through her degree. In early, out late. Always focused, always prepared. Thus far she’d been right—she was able to do everything he’d asked of her. Except he hadn’t asked for what he really wanted. That was in the ‘Not Allowed’ category. And she knew it. She wouldn’t meet his gaze, wouldn’t speak with him unless on a business matter, wouldn’t even call him by his first name. So he was tiptoeing around her when in another time, another place, he’d have had her horizontal as fast as possible. And he knew—deep in his bones, he knew—that she wanted him, too.
The attraction made him ache. And the impossibility made it worse.
So he spent as much time as he could on the shop floor—away from the temptation of sitting in the admin office. Even so he felt it—the magnetic, compelling instinct to get nearer to her. Much nearer.
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Natalie Anderson
Praise for Natalie Anderson:
“Natalie Anderson is one of the most exciting voices in steamy romantic fiction writing today. Sassy, witty and emotional, her Modern Heats are in a class of their own …”
—CataromanceLook for an exciting new novel from Natalie Anderson, Hot Boss, Boardroom Mistress, available in Mills & Boon
Modern Heat™ in December 2009.
About the Author
Possibly the only librarian who got told off herself for talking too much, NATALIE ANDERSON decided writing books might be more fun than shelving them – and, boy, is it that! Especially writing romance – it’s the realisation of a lifetime dream, kick-started by many an afternoon spent devouring Grandma’s Mills & Boon
novels … She lives in New Zealand, with her husband and four gorgeous-but-exhausting children. Swing by her website any time – she’d love to hear from you: www.natalieanderson.com
The Millionaire’sMistletoe Mistress
Natalie Anderson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dear Reader,
I do love Christmas – from the songs I’ve heard and sung a zillion times, to the crazy race in the supermarket for the last pack of strawberries, to the corny cracker jokes and the silly presents we tease each other with. And of course the coming together of family and friends that occasionally brings its own complications!
But sometimes Christmas can be harder – when one is far from home, lonely or has lost someone all too recently. The jollity is shadowed with pain both past and present. At those moments in the season, I try to find the little things to take pleasure in – an act of kindness, sharing something small with someone even smaller or perhaps much older, or, hey, maybe reading a book with a happy ending!
My heroine Imogen is lonely and working in a store surrounded by the trappings of Christmas. Mostly she adores this, but sometimes it is a reminder of what she doesn’t have this year. So I wanted to give her the fairytale, the finding of home and happiness that many of us long for at Christmas. For me it’s a time of tradition, of family, of forgiveness, of looking forwards and back, but mostly of being and sharing together.
And so I do hope you have a wonderful Christmas and get to spend time, love and laughter with your nearest and dearest.
With very best wishes,
Natalie
For Uncle Allan: a box of tomatoes, stiff gins, mushy cauli and cheese, pavlova and raspberries, Spanish cream, plum duff, your brand of chocolate … I can still have all these things this Christmas. But without you, my heart aches.
CHAPTER ONE
‘PLEASE, please work.’ Imogen slowly pushed the card in before, just as slowly, pulling it out. Nothing happened. The little green bubble just refused to light up.
She tried again. Pushed it in slowly, then whipped it out fast. Nothing.
Fast in. Fast out. Nada.
‘Damn.’ Getting desperate, she tried fast in, slow out. ‘Give me the green light, give me the green light. I do not have time for this.’
She didn’t have time for anything. A quick glance at her watch showed precisely ten minutes remained until the meeting began. Ten minutes to wash off the mix of mud, blood and sleet and change into the new shirt and skirt she’d bought from the overpriced shop three doors along precisely eight minutes ago.
‘Please, please, please.’ Why did this have to happen now? She wanted to wail. Why … when she’d got all her reports together well ahead of schedule, when she’d found something to wear after her cringe-worthy disaster on the street, when the receptionist had been so sympathetic … why did she have to fall at the final hurdle?
She pulled her wet shirt away from her skin. It was cold and muddy and she felt hideous and sore. She’d gone for such a spin on the icy path—landing awkwardly and sliding flat on her front, ending up in a puddle of nasty water. She cursed the hidden ice that never seemed to melt on these Edinburgh footpaths. She couldn’t master walking on them at all. No matter what shoes she wore, she still slipped. And the one time she needed to get somewhere fast, and in one piece, she’d gone for the biggest spill of all.
And still the hotel room door wouldn’t open. The smiling receptionist had practically leapt to attention when Imogen had explained why she was there and who she was meeting and what had happened on the way. She’d handed over her wool coat and been assured it would be delivered to the dry cleaners, and had then been given a key card to a room.
‘Please use the room to shower and change. No charge.’
The ‘no charge’ bit was a huge relief, because the emergency outfit she’d had to buy had not been cheap. Nor was it the kind of business clothing she usually wore. Her wardrobe consisted of a neat uniform of black below-the-knee skirts and discreet jackets—nothing attention-seeking at all. Imogen didn’t want attention; she just wanted to get on with the job—and do it well. But the nearest clothing boutique had stocked far more stylish and figure-revealing items than her usual mass-produced, form-concealing choices. She’d frantically pulled aside the hangers in a quest for something conservative and simple. And she’d been in too much of a hurry to even try her selection on. Surely the black trousers and green shirt that she now held in the large carrier bag would fit? She was a standard size. Surely—hopefully, please, Lord—it would be fine?
Well, it wouldn’t be if she couldn’t get into the wretched room to wash and change!
She flicked the hank of hair that had fallen free of its tie back over her shoulder, breathed in deeply, and tried to control her rising temper with a slow count out.
‘One … two … three … fourfivesixseveneightaineten.’ She inserted the key card one last time. ‘Argh!’ she exclaimed in total frustration.
Nine minutes and counting. She was never going to make it. She was going to have to meet the new manager of Mackenzie Forrest wearing a sodden shirt and with dirt on her hands. She banged those hands hard on the door in front of her and swore. ‘Open, damn you!’
And then it did. So quickly she stumbled. Regaining her balance with a wince of pain from her knee, she looked up. Then lost all her remaining poise as he spoke—dry and unconcerned.
‘Can I help you with something?’
Stunned, she stared, stared and stared some more. He was wearing nothing—nothing—but he held a white towel to his … his … lower middle. There was acres of chest … lightly bronzed, so broad, so bare … and he was dripping wet. Imogen couldn’t help following the light dusting of hair … down. Couldn’t resist following the angles of his muscles … down. Couldn’t stop following the drops of water … down, down, down.
Down to where that broad hand was holding the fluffy towel which was catching those slow drips of water. She’d never seen a body so perfect—not even in billboard ads for underwear or aftershave. She’d certainly never seen a torso with such muscle definition. Not body-builder, too-many-steroids, bulging-veins kind of muscles, but strong and smooth and sharp. There was not an ounce of fat for those muscles to hide behind—they were all on show. And she’d never before seen a belly button that her tongue basically begged to touch. In fact, it seemed her whole body had gone brazen—and so had her brain. She was blatantly watching as his fingers tightened on the towel and his other hand came to support it. Blatantly fascinated as each of his abdominal muscles moved, revealing even greater definition.
‘Ma’am?’
Hearing his broad American drawl, she dragged her gaze back up. Looking into his face, she simply stared some more as the brightest of blue eyes captured hers. Peripherally she saw the straight nose, the even brows, the angular jaw, but it was the eyes that held hers, with their unbelievable colour and their focus and their sudden flicker of something that looked a lot like you wanna dare?
At that whisper of wickedness she closed her eyes for a second, holding back the wave of sensual feeling that wanted to spread over her, forcing herself to pause the explicit show her imagination wanted to screen and instead get on top of what she was supposed to be doing.
‘This isn’t your room.’ She didn’t mean to snap. But she was embarrassed and confused.
‘Actually, I think it is.’
Oh, did he have to have a voice to match the body? All amused and confident and capable of turning her pause button off again?
‘Actually, it isn’t.’ Pause button back on. She was in control and fighting for her rights. ‘The receptionist said I could use it to tidy up and change.’
‘Well, that was nice of her. But it’s my room.’
‘It was a him.’
‘Ah.’ He nodded, and that dare in his eyes became a very naughty looking challenge. ‘I’d have said yes to you, too. Beauty in distress.’
She wasn’t distressed, she was flustered, getting hot and rapidly approaching full-on panic mode. ‘I can’t get the key card to work.’
‘That’s because it’s my room.’
‘It’s not. It’s—’
She broke off as he took half a step closer. ‘What’s your room number?’
Her pause button slipped and she answered breathlessly, staring at that chest once more. ‘Sixty-seven.’
‘Ah.’
At that know-it-all sound, she looked up. He was nodding again, and this time accompanying it with a wide smile—perfect white teeth, all too devastating.
‘Ah, what?’ Her heart couldn’t beat any faster. She couldn’t feel any hotter. And the wild thing was that she was wishing she could forget the silly meeting with her stuffy new boss and just stand here all day. Staring at him.
‘This is my room—number sixty-nine. Yours is just along the corridor a bit.’
She slowly looked behind him and read the number on the door. She could have sworn that nine was a … Oh, hell, could she really be so stupid? ‘Sixty-nine?’
‘Sixty-nine.’
‘And I’m …’ Not sixty-nine. Not thinking sixty-nine. Not thinking … Ohhhhhh. The sensual feeling rippled. Imagine—those muscles, that size, that heat … and tasting it all.
Her mental X-rated movie started rolling again.
His head angled and he almost whispered, ‘You can come in here if you want.’
Unconsciously she mirrored him, angling her head so she could keep watching the same gleam of light in his eyes. Then what he’d said sank in. ‘What? No!’
‘Oh—okay.’ He was out-and-out grinning now. ‘I thought for a second there you looked like you might want to.’
Oh, great. So her lustful moment had been totally transparent. She put her hand to her chest protectively, hoping her nipples weren’t prodding through the wet shirt like twin missiles aimed at him. They sure felt as if they were. ‘What I want is to find my hotel room.’ Frozen speech now. Dignity had to be recovered.
‘Well, like I said, it’s just along the corridor a little.’
She curled her fingers and pulled the halves of her shirt closer together. This time it was his gaze that dropped. His smile widened as he gave her torso a very thorough inspection.
She could feel herself responding even more to his warm appraisal. She couldn’t believe she was standing in a hotel corridor being turned on just by looking at a complete stranger—and by him looking at her.
‘Okay,’ she croaked. She turned—too fast for her recently scraped knee—and couldn’t quite stifle her groan of pain.
His glance went lower. ‘Hey, you’ve hurt your leg. It’s bleeding.’ He stepped after her. ‘Can I get you a plaster?’
The change from teasing flirt to concerned gentleman was too fast and too damn sweet. Infatuation threatened to slip over her, to send everything sensible from her head—what little was left.
Embarrassed even more by her ridiculous response to him, she muttered, ‘No, I’m fine.’ She added, ‘Thanks …’ way too late as she tried to walk normally, but her leg had really stiffened now.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ He followed her into the hall. ‘I’m good with first aid.’
Imogen turned back and nodded, unable to stop her eyes slipping south one last time. She was quite sure he’d be good with everything. Did he have any idea how good he looked right now? His legs were long—really long—and every bit as beautifully muscled as his chest. And the way his hair was wet, sitting as if it had been pushed back with a hand, all added up to a gleaming bronze statue way better than Michelangelo’s marble David—this one was all real man. But she didn’t answer, and made it to her door instead. The card worked instantly, the little green light flashed, and she heard the lock mechanism sliding. Thank all the gods.
She didn’t even try to resist taking one last look. He’d gone back to his room, but had paused in his open doorway—still smiling as if he knew everything she was thinking, and still not wearing anything like enough clothing.
Feeling far too hot for this freezing winter’s day, she let the door slam behind her and, tiptoeing on her sore leg, taking the weight on her good one, hobbled into the bathroom. Caught a glance in the mirror and froze.
Oh, no.
She blinked. Took another look to be sure.
Oh, yes.
She hadn’t realised the extent of the rip in her blouse. The sleeve had all but come away completely from the seam, and there was a tear from her underarm across the front. To make it worse, the way she’d been holding it just now had pulled that gap even wider. Towel Guy had had a first class view of her breast. Her scarlet-bra-cupped breast.
Scarlet and lace bra.
Her mind raced back to her sprint out of the flat early that morning—wanting to get to work and have everything just so for the arrival of her new lord and master. Usually she wore a black bra, or skin tone—plain, nothing too fancy that would show outlines under the fabric of her simple cotton shirts. But with all the extra study she’d been doing to get her last assignments in ahead of the Christmas madness she was behind on the laundry. Like weeks behind. So she’d grabbed this one from the drawer, figuring no one was going to see it anyway, and besides, wasn’t it the kind of day when she needed the extra lift the colour gave her?
She’d bought the set on a whim once in the store’s sale, simply because she loved the colour. Just looking at it gave her inner confidence a boost—and today her toenails were painted the same colour, even though they’d spend all day hidden away in her ankle boots. Scarlet underwear; blood-red toenails. Not because she was some sexy vamp, but because that deep, almost burnt red was her favourite, and wearing it gave her a pick-me-up—yes, underneath she was covered in confidence. It was still fake, but it was better than none at all.
Only now she didn’t see it as the confident colour of a winner. It was trashy streetwalker in-your-face tarty—and she was crimson with embarrassment.
No wonder the hotel receptionist had been so happy to help and so full of smiles. No wonder Towel Guy had been so bold about inviting her in. She was flashing the world half her scarlet-clad assets.
She glanced at her watch. Less than three minutes. No time to shower—only a quick wash with a flannel and an even quicker fix of her mascara and a swipe of the comb through her hair. She retied it back in a harsh ponytail and got to redressing.
The new shirt was forest-green and silk, and felt deliciously cool on her hot body. She took in a breath and told herself to calm down as she tried to work the buttons through their too small holes. Any last shred of calm dissipated as she pulled on the new trousers—they were way firmer round the hips and thighs than she would usually wear. Definitely too firm round the butt. Her temperature lifted again as she tucked in the shirt and did up the zip and button at the waist. This was the kind of sleek outfit she’d have worn at her old job—emphasising her curves and showing her long legs while still being appropriate office attire. She’d wanted to look attractive there. Wanted to be wanted—what a naïve fool of a girl she’d been. She’d learnt more than one painful lesson as a result. One of them being that work and amorous relationships shouldn’t ever mix.
So she had no desire to be seen as feminine at Mackenzie Forrest. She simply wanted to be good at her job. But this was only a first meeting, with all the office and admin team. The new boss probably wouldn’t even notice her—he’d be too busy giving a speech or something. And at least the trousers covered the ugly graze. She’d fashioned a crude plaster for it out of tissue and sticky tape. That would sponge up the blood and stop her trousers from rubbing against it and being even more uncomfortable. Her elbow was sore, too. And she was thrown by the whole twenty-minute mess.
Imogen tossed her muddy clothes into the shopping bag. One last deep breath and another quick count to ten as she tried to forget the blue eyes that had twinkled at her with that mix of humour and heat and concern.
There had definitely been heat. Oh, yes, there’d been heat.
Awkwardly, she walked out of the room and took another frantic look at her watch—already three minutes late. The door of room number sixty-nine was shut. Good thing too. Turning, she headed for the lifts and—oh, wouldn’t it just be her luck?
Towel Guy was up ahead, and looking back down the corridor at her. Only he was wearing more now—more as in a tailored suit: it had to be custom-made, the way it hung so smoothly from his tall frame, dark grey, with an ice-white shirt and a blue tie that brought out the sapphiric tint in his eyes. Oh, yes, he was malemodelicious. His hand was on the door to take the stairs, but he paused, watching her hobble towards him. Then he moved away from the door, pressing the button to summon the lift instead. All the while he watched her walk nearer.
Totally self-conscious, she moved towards him, refusing to run. He could get this lift and she’d get the next. She didn’t want to be red-faced and breathless when meeting the new boss. She was already late, so another minute wasn’t going to matter that much. Anyway she couldn’t run. Her leg was too stiff.
The lift arrived. He entered. Kept his finger on the door open button long enough for her to get there and get in. For a mad moment she met his eyes, and was nearly fried on the spot.
‘Which floor?’
‘Two, please.’ Imogen looked low to the ground, not really wanting to look into those blues again—they were hotter than hell.
The doors slid shut and she kept her focus hard on the seam in the centre of them.
‘The colour really suits you.’
She started, glanced down at the green, felt her embarrassment increase—but the politeness thing was deeply ingrained. ‘Oh …’ She took a breath to try and be able to talk. ‘Thank—’
‘The green is nice.’ He cut her off. ‘But I was thinking of the red.’
Stunned, she turned, her widened gaze colliding with his—all blue fire. Then the solemnity in his face shattered and he smiled—a full-blown, toe-curling, bone-melting blaze of a smile. It felt as if splotches of crimson heat were being stamped all over her body. So much for not being red-faced when she met her new boss. It was going to take at least half an hour for her to cool down after exiting the lift. But this guy was irresistible, and she smiled back.
Nodding, she stated the only thing in her head that she could share publicly. ‘I’m really embarrassed.’ She was also really attracted.
‘Hey,’ he joked, ‘I was wearing less.’
‘Yes.’ Her smile broadened as the lift doors slid open. The comeback bubbled out of her, filled with sassy spark, just as she stepped out. ‘That suited you, too.’
She met his eyes with a lift of her brow, beyond trying to hide the attraction now.
‘I’d like to …’ He glanced at his watch, spread his hands and shrugged. ‘But I have to—’
‘I’m late for something, too.’ Imogen smiled as she closed the conversation. Another time, another place, maybe they’d have talked more, flirted, had some fun?
Imogen hadn’t done that in … well, ever. But honestly just the idea of it, the almost-but-not-quite nature of their encounter, was enough to put a little jolt of pleasure in her day. But now real life had to be attended to—she had a meeting to survive and a career to keep on track.
She walked down the corridor, conscious that he was only half a pace behind her. She stopped as she came to a suite of meeting rooms. He stopped right beside her. For a moment they stood, both reading the sign on the first door.
‘We’re heading to the same meeting,’ he said flatly.
Was the dismay that she was feeling reflected in his face?
He blinked, and in that minuscule moment his whole demeanour changed. He withdrew, and his eyes—those windows to anything personal, to that wild heat—veiled as he became completely professional.
He opened the door. ‘After you.’ And he ushered her in.
She didn’t answer verbally—couldn’t as she hobbled as far to the back of the room as she could. Oh, no. He had an American accent. He couldn’t possibly be …
‘Sorry I’m a little late, everyone. I’ve been sightseeing.’
She turned and looked to where he’d walked in and instantly taken command. Sightseeing? Right.
‘And it took me a bit longer to get changed than I thought it would.’
A smile flashed—charming, but remote rather than hot. Of course it had taken him longer. One of his new employees had tried to burst into his room when he was taking a shower.
‘My name’s Ryan Taylor. Please call me Ryan.’
Imogen closed her eyes as he confirmed the worst. Not for the first time in her life she wished the ground would open up and swallow her whole. Opening them, she saw the impossible hadn’t happened, and she was stuck in what could only be one of the most embarrassing situations of her existence.
She wished she’d done even a smidge of homework—then she would have known, could have been prepared. But as she’d spent every moment outside of work these last three months studying for the two accountancy papers the company was sponsoring her for, she’d hardly had time to breathe—determined to get as high a grade as she could to prove to them and to herself that she was worth it.
All that she’d known about Ryan Taylor was that he was going to oversee the change in management and steer Mackenzie Forrest into a supposedly bright new future.
And now she knew how magnificent he looked all but naked.
CHAPTER TWO
IMOGEN kept her weight on one leg as the other suddenly pounded with pain. Silly how just a stupid scrape could hurt so much. She hoped the bandage she’d fashioned would hold. Hoped this would be a sit-down meeting. Hoped she wouldn’t have to say anything—because she was still puffing, adrenalin still zinging around her body courtesy of her haste, her accident and her encounter with—Oh, hell—she’d practically had her tongue hanging out as she’d ogled him all over, like some sex-starved spinster. Okay, so she was a sex-starved spinster. That didn’t mean she wanted her new boss to know all about it!
She caught him looking at her intently, a frown causing the faintest of lines on his brow. She looked away, wishing to be swallowed whole once more, and heard him address the room again.
‘Please take a seat everyone. This is an informal get-together. A chance to meet and talk through any issues or questions you may have before I start in my official capacity tomorrow. I’ll talk for a bit, and then you can ask some questions, and then we’ll have coffee—okay?’
Great.
She moved to a seat near the back. Tried to avoid Shona’s concerned look, but clearly failed, as her line manager came and took the seat next to hers. Imogen was never late. She was never flustered. And yet here she was—late and flustered and wearing a whole new outfit.
‘What happened? You left ages ago,’ the older woman said in an undertone as everyone found seats.
Imogen had indeed left in plenty of time, intending to call in at a shop on the way to get a quick sandwich. The humiliating accident on Victoria Street had ended that idea. ‘I fell.’
‘You okay? You were all red a minute ago, and now you’re all pale.’
Imogen nodded. ‘Just feel like a dork.’
‘Hence the new outfit?’ Shona was smiling.
‘Complete with grazes.’ Imogen held up her palm, just thrilled that someone found it amusing—and Shona only knew half the story.
Her mentor chuckled now. ‘The colour suits you.’
Imogen searched out Ryan as Shona echoed his words. Surely he couldn’t have heard the comment? But when his gaze intercepted hers the sardonic tinge in his eyes suggested he had.
He was too young. He was far, far too young. Was he even thirty? Even if he was, he was too young to be taking control of Edinburgh’s premier department store. Yes, Mr Mackenzie had been ancient, but this guy was too young and too good-looking.
He talked to a couple of her co-workers who were already seated, asked their names. He’d obviously done his homework because he could match the name with the job position immediately. He moved around the room, learning faces with names as he went. Frozen, she watched as he came closer—until he was right there, by Shona and her. Saw his lips twitch that little bit as he looked her over—very quickly, so quickly you almost wouldn’t have noticed. But she was hypersensitive, and very, very focused on him.
He shook hands with Shona, nodding, as they’d already met. All too soon it was her turn. His eyes didn’t waver from hers, and there was almost a smile in them.
She took in a deep breath, determined not to reveal wobbly voice syndrome. ‘I’m Imogen Hall.’
‘Imogen.’ He repeated, clearly turning through the personnel files in his head. ‘You’re the—’
‘Accounts administrator—yes, Mr Taylor.’ She couldn’t call him Ryan. Ryan was too intimate. It made her think of his naked dripping torso and his muscle definition and … Mr Taylor it had to be.
‘Accounts,’ he drawled, very softly, the veil lifting for a moment and showing her that dry humour again. ‘As in number-crunching?’
‘That’s right.’ She nodded. She was Shona’s second-in-command trainee, and had been given too good an opportunity to lose it now.
‘Well …’ His teeth flashed as he murmured, only loud enough for her to hear, ‘I guess your work should make for interesting reading.’
Her cheeks were on fire, and she went on defence. ‘Ordinarily I’m good with numbers. Just not when stressed … I wasn’t thinking straight.’
‘We’ll have to take care not to stress you out, then, won’t we?’ His eyes lasered through her. ‘Imogen.’
Mortified by the fact that she’d been having fantasies about a stranger who was in reality her new boss, she couldn’t return his oh-so-polite smile, couldn’t register the slight emphasis on her name, couldn’t match his intensity any more. She ducked her head. He didn’t seem at all uncomfortable about having met one of his new employees while almost starkers … about having flirted with her so boldly … and having her flirt right back. Oh, no. He probably thought she was hopeless at her job. An all boobs, brainless bit of fluff. Wasn’t that what George and all his family had thought?
‘I always like to sit at the back of a meeting, too.’ He stepped away and took the chair two along from Imogen.
The rat. Surely he knew she wanted to get away from him?
Of course he did. Because for one second before he began his well-prepared speech, there was an unholy grin on his face. One she’d seen before—in the hall, as he’d glanced down her body.
Pen in hand, she stared at the complimentary hotel stationery in front of her as Ryan smoothly talked through his vision for the store. Now she was even more apprehensive about the change. Things had been going well for her at Mackenzie Forrest. She wanted to be able to continue the study course that Mr Mac had agreed to. She could only hope that the staff development programme wouldn’t be dropped now that the famous Edinburgh department store had been bought out by the American company owned by the exclusive and reclusive Taylor clan.
Mr Mac had stressed how pleased he was the store was being taken on by a family, rather than a publicly held company. Imogen was cynical about that—family-run didn’t always equate with family values or high morals and a decent work ethic. In her experience family-run meant keeping things close, protecting the family at the expense of the company. Blood was thicker than water—even if it was bad blood.
Imogen Hall. Ordinarily good with numbers. Ordinarily looking gorgeous. Ryan tried to marshal his thoughts, but all his mind was interested in focusing on was that glimpse of one very scarlet bra and the luscious breast it had contained.
Not ideal. Not when he was meeting the team he was to lead for the first time and she was one of the players. He had to soothe their concerns. Mackenzie Forrest was an Edinburgh institution. Loyal customers, loyal workers. Locally owned since its inception, it had now been taken over by his family—and he knew the idea of foreign ownership hadn’t been entirely welcomed.
‘Taylors is a family-run business.’ He saw the flash of cynicism on her face and it derailed his thoughts again. Why was she so defensive? Surely not the parochial thing? That was no Scottish accent she’d spoken with.
He got back on course, but his blood pumped faster. It was a real shame she was an employee. He could kick himself now for his comment on what colour suited her in the elevator. If he’d known, he’d never have said anything.
It had taken a decade of hard work for Ryan to gain the respect of not just his family but outsiders as well. Being one of the East Coast Taylors had many advantages, but it came with disadvantages, too. Being the ‘spare heir’, he knew people had preconceptions and misconceptions about him and his ability to actually do the work. Precisely why he’d stayed out of the family business and done his own thing on the continent. But now his brother and his sisters had asked for his help—and both they and he knew he had more than the required credentials for the job. They needed his expertise and it was on his terms. But he’d just muffed it with one of his new staff.
He had no intention of getting a reputation for being a Lothario boss. He always kept his flings outside of the office environment. It was easier that way. And he had no problem meeting women. He had more of a problem getting to know them—and with them being able to see through the Taylor mystique to the reality of him beneath. Hence flings. Not relationships. Never a relationship.
So he was just going to have to work hard and jettison this attack of the lusts. Because he had no time for it here. But he couldn’t stop his attention sliding, watching as she sat absently clicking and unclicking her pen. Her green eyes accented by the depth of colour in her shirt. Her curves subtly hinted at by the way the soft material sat over them. And all he could see then was her lying back, siren-like in her scarlet underwear, eyes gleaming through heavy lids, a smile on her lips. A smile like that smile she’d given him as they’d stepped out of the elevator—suddenly confident, suddenly sassy, and so enticing.
He looked down at the table and extracted some self-control from deep within. He was going to have to work hard. Very, very hard.
Imogen decided to exit as soon as she could. It was sickening. Even Shona, Mr Mac’s number one for the best part of thirty years, was smiling. Half an hour in the guy’s company and he’d won over the most hardened cynic. Although really, why should she be surprised? It had only taken a split second for her to want to fall at his feet. But there could be no fraternising here—no sycophantic chats with the boss. Not when she’d seen him almost naked. Because that was how she still saw him.
Her face flamed as his image slid into frame again. Frustrated, she focused on those looks. He was way too young for this kind of position. She worked up anger. Most likely nepotism all the way. He’d probably come in and ruin it for all of them. Just as George had ruined it for her back home in New Zealand at Bailey & Co. Sleeping with her boss had been stupid. Trusting a man who’d had everything too easy had been devastating.
Ryan Taylor looked up, saw she was glaring at him. One brow lifted slightly, as if to ask, What’s your beef?
You are, buddy, she mentally tossed back, with a wide American accent in mind. But he kept his focus on her, and then she got kind of distracted … Goodness, his eyes were blue. Electric. And right now they were honed in on her.
Someone was talking. It seemed he was listening, because she saw his mouth move and heard some kind of noise, but she couldn’t have deciphered any sensible conversation. She was lost in the intensity of that look—in the blue skies that were his eyes. It was as if she was in freefall, flying—almost floating—waiting, still waiting, for the parachute to open …
It wasn’t in any hurry. She blinked. Maybe she’d just clunk back to earth in a heap.
But she’d been there, done that. And been left bruised and broken. She looked away, realising her grazes were throbbing again. No. One gorgeous heir to an empire was not going to throw her off-course.
CHAPTER THREE
IMOGEN got to work early the next day, wanting to be lodged in place behind her desk before anyone else and thus able to avoid comment on her aching limp. Then she couldn’t resist doing what she hadn’t contemplated or even had time for until now. She opened up the Internet. Typed in his name. Added ‘department store’ to narrow the search. There were still a zillion hits. She read a few headers.
‘The Taylor quartet …’ That was a spread in some flash American society mag. Mainly about his elder brother, but he and his sisters had got more than a mention, too. There were photos of them all at some swanky-looking party, with people too beautiful to be real.
‘Harvard-educated … grew up in style in New York … holiday homes in Colorado, Italy and the Caribbean …’
She didn’t read any more. Didn’t need to. She knew the type well and she knew to steer clear. She’d worked hard to build her reputation at Mackenzie Forrest, and she knew how easily it could be ruined. Most of all she knew how fickle guys like Ryan were—guys born with not just a silver spoon in their mouths but with the whole damn canteen of cutlery. Those born into wealth and power grew up with decayed morals. They were always greedy for more. It was not a world Imogen could ever live in. George Bailey-Jones Jr had proved that. His family had added the exclamation mark.
Ryan Taylor’s family made the Bailey-Joneses look like nameless nobodies.
Unfortunately he arrived in the office in another made-to-mesmerise suit, his hair still damp from the shower as it had been the day before …
The way her belly squeezed at the sight of him was crazy. Plain crazy. The way her thoughts ran riot if she let them—seeing him naked, seeing her astride his hips with his chest spread before her, bending forward to press her mouth to his bronzed skin, feeling the muscles beneath …
Oh, she was one sick, sick woman. This kind of fever had to be broken. She watched as he coolly greeted everyone by name. He was too relaxed, too confident. And she knew he’d be unreliable.
‘Good morning, Mr Taylor.’ She got in first. Shona had always addressed Mr Mac formally. Imogen had thought it old-fashioned. Now it seemed like a really good idea. Distance—a good way of maintaining the employer-employee boundary. Because she could hardly say to him, Hey, I don’t usually wear a scarlet bra. It’s just that I was behind on my washing.
His eyebrows lifted fractionally. ‘Are you able to have the latest financials ready for me by lunchtime, Ms Hall?’
‘Certainly, Mr Taylor.’ She retreated farther behind her computer, hoping to hide the way she blushed as he spoke to her.
‘How’s your knee? Better?’
No retreat possible. He’d stepped right round her desk.
‘All better, thank you.’ She didn’t look up from her ferocious study of the screen. Determined not to let things get personal. Strictly professionally was how they’d interact.
‘That’s good to hear.’ His soft words went through her insides like a fork stirred through creamy mashed potato.
‘Is it just the current month you’re after, or last month’s as well?’ Think work. Think work. Not about being whipped into melting acquiescence by a deep American accent.
‘Just this month. I have the other data already.’
Thank heavens he left then—off to the shop floor with the duty manager to meet the front-line staff, before coming back and meeting with Shona for over an hour.
It was well before lunchtime when Imogen knocked on the frame of his open door. He glanced up from his desk. ‘Already?’
‘Yes.’ She didn’t look at him, focused on his desk, placing the report on it and walking straight out again.
‘Thank you.’
She felt the words like bullets in her back.
Less than an hour later, he stopped by her desk. ‘That report was excellent. Not a number out of place.’
Was he teasing her?
‘Think I can get you to do me another, with some projections for the next quarter?’
‘Of course, Mr Taylor.’ She tossed her head as he turned away, determined to reframe his opinion of her and prove her worth. ‘There’s nothing you can ask of me that I can’t do.’
He paused, and it was a miracle she didn’t combust as he assessed her with his blue fire eyes. ‘Ms Hall, you do like to set a challenge, don’t you?’
Three days later Ryan congratulated himself on surviving so far—every minute of every day had been arduous. It shouldn’t have been so bad. In fact, he should have been able to say that things were going better than he’d anticipated—the Christmas tills were ringing, the figures were stacking up, and the staff were all accommodating if not bordering on welcoming. All but one. And he wanted her to accommodate him in a way that was thoroughly inappropriate. So much for conquering the lust.
Theoretically, he should be over it. Every day this week she’d been dressed totally differently from that to-die-for green shirt and pants number at that first meeting. If anything she looked downright dowdy in the shapeless shirts and skirts she seemed so fond of. He couldn’t understand why she’d want to shroud herself in 1950s-schoolmarm-length skirts, and all he wanted to do was get her out of them. While the rest of the staff were looking festive, she looked funereal. Black, black and black was it. Drab and depressing it should have been. Except that on her the tone emphasised her pale skin, and made her eyes greener than genetically modified grass.
And then there was the fact that it wasn’t just her looks he was attracted to. In the open-plan space outside his office, she and Shona were nearest to his door. The door he couldn’t bring himself to close—not when he could hear her low-voiced humour. She didn’t mix much with the others—just sat quietly next to Shona, passing the time with occasional wry and dry comments that had him hovering ever closer, increasingly interested. Wishing she’d laugh like that with him.
And she was damn good at her job—at a junior level, for sure, but with the potential to climb a lot higher. He could see exactly why Mr Mac had agreed to put her through her degree. In early, out late. Always focused, always prepared. Thus far she’d been right—she was able to do everything he’d asked of her. Except he hadn’t asked for what he really wanted. That was in the ‘Not Allowed’ category. And she knew it. She wouldn’t meet his gaze, wouldn’t speak with him unless on a business matter, wouldn’t even call him by his first name. So he was tiptoeing around her when in another time, another place, he’d have had her horizontal as fast as possible. And he knew—deep in his bones, he knew—that she wanted him, too.
The attraction made him ache. And the impossibility made it worse.
So he spent as much time as he could on the shop floor—away from the temptation of sitting in the admin office. Even so he felt it—the magnetic, compelling instinct to get nearer to her. Much nearer.
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Natalie Anderson
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: The Millionaire′s Mistletoe Mistress, электронная книга автора Natalie Anderson на английском языке, в жанре современная зарубежная литература