His Executive Sweetheart. Christine Rimmer
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reached for the phone more than once. But she never picked it up. She knew that if he answered, the sound of his voice would send her into a mindless state of pure panic. She’d hang up without identifying herself—and he would know who it was, anyway. After all, there was such a thing as caller ID.
Which she should have considered earlier, before she’d made that first call.
Jane was so right, she thought, as the night wore on and sleep never came. Here I am, at the bare trestle table, clutching my sad, half-empty bowl of gruel, afraid to stand up and ask for more….
Not sleeping and worrying all night long did nothing for her appearance the next day. She troweled on the concealer to cover the dark pouches beneath her eyes and she put on her nicest suit, which was pale blue, of a particularly fine-gauge gabardine and usually looked very nice on her.
Today, well, nothing she could have worn would have made her look anything better than tired and washed out. Her hair, which was a color somewhere between blond and auburn, seemed flat and lusterless as a brown-paper bag. Her skin looked pasty.
Really, she couldn’t help thinking that maybe today just wasn’t the day. Maybe she should get to bed early tonight, get a good night’s sleep for a change. And then, tomorrow, when she felt fresh and didn’t look like the walking dead, she could—
“No!” She glared at her own pasty, pale face in the bathroom mirror. “No more excuses. So you look like hell. You’re telling him. Today.”
She was at her desk when he entered the office suite.
“Good morning, Celia.”
Her heart felt as it if had surged straight up into her throat. She swallowed it down and attempted a smile—one that never quite happened.
He was already past her, approaching the door to his private office. “Give me twenty minutes and we’ll go over the calendar.”
By then, her heart had dropped heavily into her chest again and begun beating so hard and loud she was certain any second she’d go into cardiac arrest. She stood.
“Aaron.”
He paused with his hand on the door and turned back to her. He looked puzzled.
Really, now she thought about it, he’d been looking puzzled way too much lately. Probably because she’d been acting so strangely, he couldn’t help but notice, even oblivious as he was to her as anything but a function most of the time.
He was waiting—waiting for her to tell him whatever it was she had stopped him to say.
“I…uh…” Her voice sounded awful. Tight. Squeaky.
“Yes?”
She coughed into her hand, to loosen her throat. And then, somehow, she was saying the words she’d been vowing she’d say. “I need to talk with you. Alone. It’s a personal matter. I wonder if you would mind stopping by my rooms this evening?” Suggest a time, the part of her mind still capable of rational thought instructed frantically. “Uh. About seven?”
He didn’t answer for a count of five, at least. He just stood there, looking at her through those blue eyes that really didn’t give away much of anything. Finally, he said, rather gently, “Celia. What’s this about?”
“I’d rather…wait. To speak with you alone.”
He gestured at the outer office, which was decorated in cool grays and midnight blues and was empty except for the two of them. “No one here but you and me. It’s as good a time as any to talk. Come on into my office now and we can—”
She put up a hand. “No. Really. I’m sorry, to be so vague about this. But I’d much rather we just kept it to business here in the office. I would honestly appreciate it if you’d just come to my rooms this evening. We’ll discuss it there.”
He looked at her for a long time. It was absolutely awful. What could he be thinking? Undoubtedly that she was inconveniencing him. Just possibly that he was going to have call down to human resources and get them to find him another PA.
Finally, he said in what seemed a half-hearted attempt at humor, “Well. Am I busy?”
She managed a pained smile. “Uh. No. Not at seven. Not as of now, anyway.”
“All right then,” he said. “Your rooms. At seven.” He turned from her and went through the door to his office, closing it quietly behind him.
Chapter Five
O nce in his office, Aaron Bravo stood at the door for a moment, his hand on the doorknob, thinking, What the hell is up with Celia?
Then he smelled coffee.
She had it ready for him, as always, waiting on the credenza. He went over, poured himself a cup and drank it right there, staring out the glare-treated glass beyond his desk, not really seeing the city sprawled across the desert landscape below.
He still had Celia on his mind. She didn’t look well. Hadn’t for a week or two now.
So could she be ill? And if so, was it serious? Was she planning to tell him she needed some time off—or worse, that she’d have to give up her job?
Damn. She was young, too young to be dangerously ill. And he’d sure as hell hate to lose her. She was the next thing to a genius at what she did. Always there when he needed her—and yet never in the way.
Pregnant.
The word popped into his head. He frowned. No. Not Celia. Celia didn’t have time to get pregnant, not with the kind of demands he made on her. He kept her working hard—too hard, really. He knew that. He also paid her damn well. And he tried to remember to cut her a little slack now and then. Like this last weekend, when he’d let her off the hook for the trip back east, leaving instructions for her to take three days off.
He poured another cup of coffee.
Re the pregnancy angle—on the other hand, why not? How much opportunity did it take, anyway? One encounter could do it. If she hadn’t been careful.
Not careful? Celia?
Hard to believe. She was such a model of efficiency. He couldn’t see her not being careful, couldn’t imagine her slipping up on something so basic as birth control.
But then, he could hardly imagine Celia having sex, let alone dealing with what method of contraception to use. He just didn’t think sex when he thought of Celia.
Well, and why the hell should he? She was his secretary. And her sex life was her business.
However, accidents did happen. And if she now had a baby on the way…
Well, if she did, okay. It should be manageable.
He’d be willing to deal with a kid in the picture. They could work around it, if she wanted to stay with him. It might be tough. There’d be some serious inconveniences for both of them. But his mother had done it; raising three sons and running the Highgrade all on her own after his father, the notorious Blake Bravo, had supposedly died.
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