Much More Than a Mistress. Michelle Celmer
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Monroe gasped in horror, slapping a hand over her crimson-painted mouth as coffee soaked not only his shirt, but the carpet where he was standing. “Oh my God. I can’t believe I just did that.”
She looked frantically around for something to clean up the mess and spotted a box of tissues on the desk. She lunged for it, ripping out a handful and shoving them at him. “Mr. Everette, I am so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said, wiping up the coffee dripping from his chin. Not the most graceful runway model, was she?
She gestured helplessly at his damp shirt. “Is there anything I can do?”
“I keep an extra shirt in the closet for emergencies. You could grab it for me while I clean up.”
“Of course,” she said, scrambling for the closet.
Jordan walked to the bathroom in his office, unbuttoning his shirt. Some of the coffee had hit his pants too, but as luck would have it, he’d worn his brown suit that morning.
He dropped his shirt on the bathroom floor, and peeled his coffee-soaked undershirt over his head. Maybe she wasn’t an agency operative after all. Or was this just all part of a clever disguise? A ruse to throw him off the trail?
“Mr. Everette?” she called from his office.
“In here.” He wet a washcloth in the sink and wiped the coffee from his face and chest.
“Here’s your …”
Jordan turned to see Miss Monroe in the bathroom doorway, eyes wide and fixed somewhere between his neck and his belt. She blinked and quickly looked away, a red hue creeping up from the neckline of her blouse. Why would an above-average-looking woman who practically oozed sexuality blush at the sight of a shirtless man?
Interesting.
Eyes averted, she held out the hanger with his clean shirt. “Here you go.”
He took it, brushing his fingers against hers as he did, and she jerked her hand away.
Very interesting.
“Are you going to fire me?” she asked.
Why bother? They would just send a new agency person in.
“Did you do it on purpose?” he asked.
She blinked in surprise and cut her eyes to him. “Of course not!”
He hooked the hanger on the towel rack, tugged the clean undershirt free and pulled it over his head. “Then why would I fire you?”
She pulled her lip between her teeth again, and it brought to mind nibbling on a plump red cherry. He wondered if she had the slightest clue how sexy she looked when she did that. The coy bit had to be an act.
He pulled on his shirt and buttoned it. “In answer to your question, yes.”
“My question?”
“I would love a cup of coffee. Although this time I’d rather not wear it.”
Her lips tilted into an embarrassed smile. “Of course.”
“My cup is on my desk.” He unfastened his belt and the button on his pants so he could tuck in his shirt, stifling a grin when she quickly looked away again.
“I—I’ll go get it now,” she said, tripping over her own foot in her haste to get away.
He had the feeling that, until she discovered that the evidence she was hoping to find didn’t exist and gave up, he could have an awful lot of fun at her expense.
The spike heels had been a really bad idea, Jane decided as she grabbed Mr. Everette’s World’s Best Boss cup from his desk and hurried to the break room, heart pounding from a combination of her own horrifying ineptitude and supreme lack of grace, and the sight of her new boss standing shamelessly bare-chested in her presence.
Not that he had anything to be ashamed of. His body—what she could see of it anyway—was a work of art. And she was betting that the bottom half was no less awe-inspiring. So much for her theory that he was middle-aged and fat. That’s what she got for drawing hasty conclusions.
Some vampy, sex goddess secretary she’d turned out to be. She couldn’t have made more of an ass out of herself if she’d dressed like a clown and donned a squeaky red nose. Proof that despite her physical transformation, deep down she was just as geeky and awkward as ever. Had she been completely fooling herself to believe that she could handle an undercover position?
She poured the coffee and added a teaspoon of creamer, mentally shaking away those negative thoughts. She could do this, damn it. She was good enough. She had been working up to this for months. Failure was not an option.
Squaring her shoulders, she carried the coffee back to Mr. Everette’s office. She rapped lightly on the door before stepping inside, grateful to see that he was fully clothed and sitting at his desk. He was also on the phone, meaning she didn’t have to talk to him. It was both a disappointment and a relief. If she was going to glean the information necessary for the investigation, she was going to have to talk to the man. Get to know him. Earn his trust.
He gestured her over, telling the caller, “I’m sure it was just an oversight.”
She crossed the room, the cup cradled gingerly in both palms, and set it on his desk. She started to turn, but he held up a hand, signaling her to wait. “Yes, Mother, I promise I’ll talk to him today.” He paused, looking exasperated, then said, “Well, in all fairness, you ditched us on Christmas. Can you blame Nathan if he’s feeling bitter?”
She could only assume he was talking about his brother Nathan, who was the CBO of Western Oil. Having worked closely with her own siblings for years, she knew how complicated the family dynamic could be. Especially when one broke tradition and made the decision to leave the fold to pursue their own aspirations. Not that she had a clue how the Everette family got along. Although most men in a decent relationship with their mother wouldn’t have them on an auto callback list.
“The fact that he was a baron doesn’t make it okay,” he said, holding up a finger to indicate that it would be just one more minute. “I have to go, Mother, I—” He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I will talk to him. I promise.” Another short pause then, “Okay, Mother. Goodbye.” He hung up the phone, blew out an exasperated breath and looked up at Jane. “Do you get along with your mother, Miss Monroe?”
The question threw her, and it took her a second to regroup. It wasn’t that she didn’t get along with her parents. They just refused to accept that they didn’t know what was better for her than she did. And she couldn’t help wondering why he cared about her relationship with her mother. “It’s … complicated.”
“Well, mine is a gigantic pain in the ass. She’s a master manipulator and will browbeat you to within an inch of your life to get what she wants. You have to be firm and direct or she will walk all over you.”
“I understand,” she said, although firm and direct were never two of her strong suits. Her own family had been walking all over her for years. But she had broken the cycle, hadn’t she? Well, for the most part anyway. She tended to just avoid them now. And, yes, bent the truth when it made her life easier.
“Would you mind pouring that coffee into a travel mug?” he asked. “There should be one in the cabinet over by the wet bar.”
“Of course.” She carried his cup to the bar across the room, asking casually, “Are you leaving?”
“I have a meeting at the refinery.”
That would give her time to snoop in his office. Her heart surged with nervous energy. She found the cup where he’d indicated and as she poured the coffee in, her hands were shaking.
Relax, she told herself, taking a deep breath.
She could just imagine how impressed her superiors would be if she were able to bring them valuable information on her