To Pete—Your patience and support are a gift for which I can never say thank you enough.

      And to M.G.—for giving someone that dose of common sense when we most needed it.

      Contents

       Cover

In Love with the Boss

       Title Page

       About the Author

       Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

       CHAPTER FOUR

       CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       Extract

       Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

      THERE SHOULD BE a law against a man looking so good in a tuxedo. Staring at the man asleep in the chair, Piper felt an appreciative shiver. Monsieur Frederic Lafontaine had shed his jacket and untied his tie, yet he still looked like a million dollars, what with the way his shirt pulled taut across his linebacker-sized shoulders. She had to start using his dry cleaner. The guy must have been sprawled here for hours, and yet his clothes didn’t have a single wrinkle. Piper’s uniform wouldn’t last five minutes. In fact—she ran a hand down the front of her black skirt—it hadn’t.

      Then again, she didn’t have cheekbones that could cut glass or thick brown hair that begged to be touched, either. Maybe perfection came in bundles.

      Taking a deep breath, she touched his shoulder and tried not to think about the broad muscles beneath her fingers. Eight months of working for the man, and she still hadn’t shaken her attraction. “Monsieur? You need to wake up. It’s after seven o’clock.”

      When he didn’t respond, she shook his shoulder again, this time a little more aggressively. The motion did the trick. Slowly, his eyes opened, and he blinked unseeingly. “You fell asleep in the chair,” she told him.

      “Oh.” His voice was thick with sleep, making it deeper and rougher than usual. “What—what time is it?”

      “Seven fifteen.”

      “What?” He bolted to his feet, arms akimbo, his right hand connecting with the cup of coffee Piper set on the end table only seconds before. The cup took flight, sending coffee over everything.

      “Dammit!” he hollered as the hot liquid splashed his shirt. He immediately started pulling at the cloth, lifting it from his skin. “How many times have I told you, you must tell me when you put something within reach? You know I can’t see anything put to the side.”

      It was hard to say much of anything seeing as how he jumped up before she had a chance to open her mouth. “I’ll get you a towel.”

      “Don’t bother.” He’d already yanked the shirt free from his waistband. “Clean up the rest of the spill before it stains the carpet. I’m going to take a shower.” He turned to head upstairs.

      “Wait,” Piper called.

      Moving this time before he could speak, she scooped up the cup from where it had fallen on the carpet, half an inch from the toe of his shoe. “You were going to crush it,” she said, holding the china teacup in front of his face.

      If he appreciated her heads-up behavior, he didn’t say so. “Tell Michel when he arrives that I will be ready shortly. And make sure my briefcase is by the front door. On the left,” he added with emphasis.

      As if she would leave it somewhere else. Piper bit back the sarcastic response. She learned a long time ago that some fights weren’t meant to be won. Arguing with a man who was wearing hot coffee on his stomach was definitely one of those fights. Instead, she waited until he’d stalked his way upstairs, then treated herself to a glare in his direction. It would serve him right if she moved his bag to the right just to spite him. Because goodness knows the world might end if the briefcase was on the wrong side of the doorway.

      Not that she would actually move the thing. Put out or not, she wasn’t so petty that she’d pick on a blind man—or half-blind man as the case may be. Truth was, nitpicky as they were, monsieur’s “rules” served a purpose. When she took this job, it was made very clear his limited field of vision required everything in the house to be just