His Secretary Mistress. Chantelle Shaw
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Jenna was tired and emotionally drained. Her shoulder, which had ached dully all morning, was now throbbing, but she ploughed on with her work, struggling to get to grips with an unfamiliar program on her computer. Twenty futile minutes later she conceded that she would have to ask for help, and spent another ten practising the right amount of cool uninterest in her tone.
Alex wasn’t working, as she’d assumed when she entered his office, but staring out over the magnificent view of London, and she wondered if he too had a penchant for daydreaming. Although from his stern expression it was not a pleasant dream. At her hesitant request for assistance he insisted on coming out to view her screen and she was achingly aware of his lean, hard body and the enticing scent of his aftershave as he leaned across her.
His instructions were concise, and when he had finished he eased back and rested a hand on her shoulder.
‘Ow!’ She could not prevent her cry of pain and he raised his eyebrows quizzically.
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Nothing. It’s just my shoulder. I think it must be bruised from this morning…’ She tailed to a halt under his intent stare and flushed. Did he still think she was lying? Her shoulder was in agony and she certainly wasn’t making it up.
‘You were injured this morning? Yet you didn’t think to mention it? As I remember, I asked you specifically if you’d been hurt.’
‘You didn’t even believe I’d been involved in an attack. As I remember you were being sarcastic, and I didn’t want to make a fuss—not after arriving an hour late.’
‘I would happily have believed you, had you shown any sign of distress,’ he bit out, fury with himself making his tone sharp. He prided himself on his sense of justice and fair play, and all day it had niggled him that he had written her off as unreliable when she had proved patently that she was not.
This close he could see the faint shadows beneath her eyes, her skin so translucent he could trace the fine blue veins beneath the surface. She was exquisitely beautiful, as delicate as a porcelain figurine, and he had to tear his gaze from her face before he gave in to the temptation to kiss her, as he had so nearly done in the park.
‘If your shoulder is still hurting five hours after the…’ he hesitated fractionally ‘…incident, then it must need medical attention. Undo your blouse so that I can take a look.’
Jenna blinked at him indignantly. ‘I’m not stripping off in the middle of the office!’
‘I’m merely suggesting that you unfasten the top couple of buttons.’ He gave her a withering look. ‘I have seen a woman’s naked shoulder before, and I promise I won’t be overcome with lust.’
Was that a deliberate taunt? she wondered. A reminder that he was aware of just how much she wanted him? His face was impassive, giving no clues to his thoughts, but he was a master of disguising his emotions and his features were set in the aloof expression he usually reserved for cross-questioning.
He was so arrogant, Jenna thought furiously, her temper suddenly white-hot. ‘Hold on a minute,’ she snapped. ‘This morning you didn’t believe a word about the “incident”—your word, not mine, and now suddenly you’re Dr Kildare! My shoulder’s bruised; I can move it quite well, so it’s not broken, and I’ll see to it when I get home.’
‘Fine. Get your jacket, we’ll go to Casualty.’
‘No!’ Her arms were folded across her chest; he wouldn’t have been surprised if she had stamped her foot in fury, and despite everything his lips twitched.
‘It’s your choice,’ he said equably. ‘Either I look at it or a doctor does. Take your pick.’
Her answer was to stalk into his office, her back rigid with outrage as she ripped apart the top buttons of her blouse and shrugged the material over her injured shoulder.
Already feeling bad, the sight of the huge purple bruise that covered her shoulder filled him with remorse. ‘What happened, exactly? Did someone hit you?’
Jenna shook her head. ‘He didn’t attack me at all. As I was walking along a cyclist suddenly rode onto the pavement and snatched the handbag from the woman in front of me. I ran to help and he pushed me against a concrete bollard. But I managed to save the bag,’ she added brightly.
‘You bloody idiot; he might have had a weapon. What would you have done if he’d pulled out a knife? What are you, anyway? All of five feet nothing and you think you’re a one-woman army!’
‘I didn’t think. I saw the attack and I lost my temper, okay?’ In her frustration Jenna swung round to face him, remembering belatedly her open blouse and the expanse of lilac lace bra on display.
Since her parents and her brother had emigrated to New Zealand, to be near her sister, birthday and Christmas presents had been defined by their ease of packing—and she owned drawers full of pretty lingerie. This lilac bra was of such sheer lace it was almost transparent, and to her horror she felt her nipples harden, the dark peaks plainly visible through the material.
With a yelp she swung back and scrabbled with the buttons. ‘Why should you care anyway?’ she threw at him, and he stilled, his gaze intent as he turned her back to face him.
‘You’ve fastened the buttons wrong,’ he murmured, his fingers feather-light against the swell of her breasts as he corrected them. ‘I think that hot temper of yours might lead you into real trouble some day, Jenna Deane. You seem to be a cauldron of wild emotions just waiting to boil over.’
His voice was suddenly as deep and soft as crushed velvet, and she felt a burning sensation behind her eyelids. He towered over her, so big, yet suddenly so gentle, and she fought the urge to throw herself against his chest and burst into tears.
‘Hello, I’m back at last.’ Margaret Rivers popped her head round the door of the office, patently unaware of the crackling tension between its occupants, and beamed as she spied Jenna. ‘Mrs Deane—Jenna—I knew you wouldn’t let us down. How’s your first day been?’
She disappeared for a second, long enough for Alex’s eyebrows to shoot upwards, his puzzlement obvious.
‘Mrs Deane?’ he queried, but Margaret was back, waving Jenna’s handbag.
‘Your mobile has rung several times, dear. Perhaps it’s important.’
Jenna stared at the older woman blankly and then scrabbled in her bag for her phone. She recognised the number of the caller and her expression softened. Her younger brother Chris was travelling from New Zealand and had been backpacking through Europe, he must have arrived in England sooner than planned. Suddenly everything faded into insignificance; she hadn’t seen her brother for two years and had missed him and the rest of her family desperately since they had emigrated.
‘Chris, darling, I can’t wait to see you.’ There was no disguising the pleasure in her voice, the soft glow of love in her eyes, and Alex stared at her for a moment before turning to Margaret, impeccable manners demanding that he give Jenna privacy to take her call. But inside he was seething.
Jenna finished her conversation with Chris, explaining that she had left the key to her house with her neighbours and urging him to make himself at home. She would be back as soon as possible, she promised, glowing with excitement as she replaced her phone. But when she looked up she discovered that Margaret was no longer in the office and she was alone with a grim-faced Alex Morrell.
‘Out of interest,’ he drawled, his voice deceptively soft, ‘when were you going to mention Chris?’
Jenna gave a puzzled frown. Why was it necessary for her to mention her brother at all?
‘That is your husband’s name I assume? Chris?’
He was studying her with his piercing blue eyes and the moment she met his gaze she felt herself blush. How was she going to manage working for him when she couldn’t even look at him? she thought despairingly.