The Marriage Risk. Emma Darcy
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He was never going to view her as anything other than an efficient secretary. Eight months she’d been with him—eight months of a helpless sexual awareness she couldn’t control or even dampen. Lust at first sight, she now thought with sick irony, and it hadn’t worn off.
No other man had ever drawn such a strong physical response from her. In fact, she had never really understood why other women got themselves in such a mess over men, losing all perspective and self-respect, too, when they were badly let down. Being sensible had been Lucy’s long-held belief on how one should conduct one’s life. Indeed, her mother had drilled it into her from early childhood and Lucy had come to see it saved her from a lot of grief.
But being sensible couldn’t seem to override what James Hancock made her feel. Over the years she had admired the physiques of other men, but it wasn’t just physique with James. Somehow he emanated a sexual energy that was quintessentially male, and as much as she’d tried to block it out, it always got to her, stirring up a hornet’s nest of hormones.
Despairingly she propped her elbows on the desk and rested her head in her hands. The truth was, she didn’t feel she really belonged to herself any more, and she didn’t like the person she was becoming. What right did she have to think bitchy thoughts about women she didn’t know, just because James favoured them over her? It was pure sour grapes and if she didn’t stop it, she’d end up sour all through.
She should move on. Give in her notice and go.
It was the sensible thing to do.
Today was Friday. First thing Monday morning her resignation would be on his desk.
No doubt James would have his latest gorgeous model on his arm tonight at the charity ball for the Starwish Foundation, and no doubt it would ram home to her how hopeless it was to spend any more time craving what would never be available to her.
Come Monday she would definitely have screwed herself up to hand in her notice and put James Hancock behind her. For good!
So…she was bringing a man. Interesting to see what kind of man Lucy favoured, James told himself as he settled at his desk and switched on the computer. She never chatted about her private life and he couldn’t deny he was curious. Most women opened up to him but not Lucy.
She was one very buttoned up lady who never lost her head over anything. Which made her the perfect assistant in his line of work, with half his clients all too ready to throw a fit of temperament if any little upset occurred. Put Lucy in the eye of a storm and she could ground everyone in no time flat by coming up with the most sensible response to the situation.
An accountant he decided. That was the kind of man Lucy would approve of—a nice, safe accountant, solid and dependable, someone who’d never broken a law in his life and never would, a nine-to-five man, regular in his habits, serious-minded, considerate of her needs, probably wore spectacles with fine gold rims and very conservative clothes. That was Lucy’s taste—neat and conservative.
James nodded to himself as he brought up the e-mail inbox on the monitor screen. He was sure he was right but Lucy had been with him eight months and all that time there’d been an elusive quality about her that nagged at him. More so, the longer they’d been together. It was worth giving her the tickets to get those tantalising flashes of something else brooding behind Lucy Worthington’s buttoned up exterior sorted out in his mind.
He’d even started thinking about her when he was with other women, missing her sharp wit, wondering what she might be like in bed. And that had to be stopped. He was not going to mess with the best secretary he’d ever had. Besides which, Lucy would probably be horrified at some of the thoughts he’d been harbouring lately. Seeing her with a man of her choice—almost certainly an accountant—would definitely affirm her not-to-be-played-with status.
The telephone rang. He picked up the receiver.
‘Buffy Tanner for you on line one,’ Lucy stated crisply.
‘Thank you.’ He smiled as he pressed the button to take the the call. Nothing hidden about Buffy. She let it all hang out. And that was fine by him. Very relaxing.
‘Hi, Buffy,’ he said warmly, bringing her lush curves to mind.
‘James darling, I’m sorry to be calling you in business hours, but I might not be able to catch you later. What time did you tell me I have to be ready by for tonight?’
He winced. Punctuality was not Buffy’s strong point. ‘Seven-thirty. And we must leave on the dot. I did warn you.’
She sighed. ‘I have a long shooting schedule today. A new swimwear range at Bondi Beach. I’ll be a mess. Will it matter if we’re a bit late?’
‘Yes, it will matter. It’s my people doing the show tonight. I have to be on hand. If you want to cry off…’
‘No, of course I don’t.’
He could hear her pouting. A very sexy pout it was, too, but right now he felt impatient with it.
‘Seven-thirty, Buffy. Be ready or I’ll go without you,’ he said irritably and cut the connection, thinking Lucy wouldn’t keep her man waiting. She was a very precise time-keeper, always ensuring that appointments were kept.
With a niggling sense of discontent, James applied himself to answering the e-mails that required an immediate response. He worked through them, adding the printouts to the files, making notes of things for Lucy to check. She never slipped up on details, which was another thing he liked about her. He could count on Lucy getting things right. No excuses. Meticulous attention to detail.
He called her into his office, his instructions already clipped onto the files for her attention. He smiled over his own judgement of her as she walked in, wearing her all-purpose navy suit, smart, classic, timeless, typical of what a sensible career woman would buy. It would take her anywhere and never go out of fashion.
The skirt ended modestly, just above her knees. No micro-minis for Lucy. Yet what could be seen of her legs—nicely shaped calves and fine ankles—suggested the full length of them could form quite a distracting sight. Just as well they weren’t on show, James told himself, mentally approving her choice of apparel which neatly skimmed her cute little figure.
Being below average height, Lucy could never be called statuesque, but she was certainly built in pleasing proportion, and the way she twitched her pert bottom at times was definitely distracting. And tempting. James stifled these wayward thoughts and fixed his gaze on her face.
It was a finely boned face, not strikingly pretty, though if all the make-up tricks of a beautician were applied to it, James fancied it could look quite stunning. It, also, was perfectly proportioned, though the spectacles she wore gave it a prim look, which was accentuated by the way her hair was pulled back and pinned into a chignon from which no tendrils ever escaped.
The thought of unpinning what was obviously a wealth of soft brown hair presented a tantalising prospect. Would Lucy come undone in other ways? And if he took her spectacles off, what would he see in her eyes?
As it was, all he saw was a bright intelligence looking at him expectantly, nothing but business on her mind.
Piqued by her apparent indifference to what many other women considered his attractions, James found himself blurting out, ‘Is he an accountant?’ and could have instantly kicked himself for letting her get under his skin to this extent.
Her smooth creamy forehead creased as her eyebrows lifted above the colourless rims of her spectacles. ‘To whom are you referring?’
Instead of dismissing the slip—the only prudent thing to do at this point—James lost his head completely to a potent mixture of compelling curiosity and a rebellious rush of seriously displaced hormones.
‘Your partner for the ball tonight,’ he shot at her.
She looked incredulous. ‘You want to know if he’s an accountant?’
‘Is he?’
‘Do