At His Service: His 9-5 Secretary. Michelle Celmer
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HARRY stood for some time on the landing, shaken to the core. Which was crazy, he told himself vehemently once his racing heart had begun to steady. It had hardly been a kiss, for crying out loud. And Gina had been quite unmoved, sailing into her room and shutting the door as though she hadn’t just turned his world upside down.
No. No, it hadn’t been.
Yes, it had.
He groaned softly, raking the hair out of his eyes with an unsteady hand and padding to his own room at the far end of the shadowed landing. Once inside he began to pace the floor, his brows drawn together in a ferocious scowl.
What the hell had happened out there? And downstairs; why had he asked her to stay around when he’d promised himself that was the last thing he’d do? What would he have done if she’d agreed to his ridiculous proposal? And it was ridiculous, however you looked at it. She was besotted by some bozo who had messed her around for months, if not years, and she was leaving him because she didn’t want a no-strings-attached relationship.
So what did he do? Harry asked himself grimly. He offered her the same sort of deal. No wonder she’d looked at him as if he was mad.
He walked over to the window, looking down at the sleeping garden where the first blackbird was singing its heart out, and then raised his eyes to the pink-streaked sky. The dawn of a new day. In the aftermath of his breakup with Anna, his mother had told him she viewed each dawn as the start of the rest of her life. The past, with all its regrets and mistakes, was gone and unalterable, the present and the future were virgin territory to make of what you would. He’d appreciated she’d been trying to help, but he’d been so full of anger and bitterness he’d dismissed her ideology as coming from one who had never really had anything to contend with. He had been arrogant then. He was still arrogant, perhaps. Gina would say there was no ‘perhaps’ about it.
Smiling darkly, he turned from the window and looked over the room. When he had bought the house he’d had it redecorated throughout before he had moved in, and his room and en suite were a mixture of dark and light coffee-and-cream. No frills, no fuss, but luxurious, from the huge, soft billowy bed to the massive plasma TV and integrated hi-fi system. Everything just the way he liked it. His life was the way he liked it.
Harry dragged his hand over his face. Or it had been, up until twelve months ago, when he had walked into his father’s office and a blue-eyed, red-haired girl had given him the sweetest smile he’d ever seen. Twelve months. Twelve months of disturbing thoughts and dreams, of dating women he didn’t want to date but who would provide a distraction and give his body some relief.
He shook his head, beginning to pace again. Put like that, it sounded mercenary, even seedy. He’d used those other women, he couldn’t deny it. But they’d been happy enough with his conditions, he reasoned in the next breath.
But with Gina there could be no conditions. He caught his breath, stopping dead and groaning softly. He’d known all along she was a till-death-do-us-part woman. What he hadn’t allowed for was that he would find it so hard to let her slip out of his life, or that she was desperately in love with another man. His arrogance again. He grimaced sourly. He’d taken her completely for granted, he supposed.
No suppose about it. The retort was so loud in his head, it was as though someone else had spoken it.
He hadn’t even considered she was involved with someone. She had always chattered with him so openly he’d felt he knew all about her, from cradle to present day. And all the time there had been another man in the background. Someone she’d laughed and talked and slept with. His stomach muscles clenched.
Was he jealous?
You bet your sweet life he was. And, however he tried to dress it up as anger at this guy who had taken her heart and then carelessly broken it, it was more the picture of them in bed together he couldn’t take.
So if—if—she’d let him provide a shoulder to cry on, what would that mean? Suppose—just suppose—it led to more. It wouldn’t be right to assume she could cope with yet further goodbyes. Would it?
No, he knew damn well it wouldn’t. His stomach muscles unclenched, but only to turn over in a sick somersault. He’d be taking a darn sight more than he was ready to give. He had been young and idealistic when he’d got involved with Anna; that was his only excuse for the gigantic mess that had ensued. He only had to shut his eyes to recall the trapped helplessness he’d felt then, the overwhelming panic and despair.
But Gina wasn’t Anna. In the twelve months he’d known her, she’d been sweet and funny, serious and determined, honest—painfully so at times, at least where he was concerned—and forthright. But never, never manipulative. And ‘cruel’ wasn’t in her vocabulary. She was also as sexy as hell without even knowing it. He’d seen work on the factory floor slow right down when she’d walked through, and some of those guys had had their tongues hanging out.
Using the sort of expletive that would have shocked even the most worldly veteran, Harry thumped his fist into the palm of his hand. He had to get a handle on how he was feeling. Confusion wasn’t an option here. Perhaps that was the answer—feeling like this was turning him into someone he didn’t recognise, so the obvious, the practical thing to do was to let her walk away and then get on with his life. Out of sight, out of mind. It had worked with all the others since Anna.
Something inside twisted, and he answered the feeling with an irritable growl deep in his throat. Enough. He needed some fresh air to clear his head. You couldn’t beat straightforward logic, and it hadn’t let him down in the past. Outside, with no distractions, he could think.
He took a deep breath and tried to relax, glancing at his watch. Another couple of hours before he needed to wake her and get going. He had to get himself sorted and back on track in that time.
He pulled on some clothes without bothering to shower first, leaving the room swiftly and making his way downstairs on silent feet. Once in the garden, he paused. His original intention had been to go for a walk, but sitting out here would do as well.
Breathing in the sharp, scented air, he walked to a wooden bench set at an angle to the dry-stone wall that surrounded the grounds. From there he had a perfect view of the house, which slumbered in the early-morning light. Somewhere close by a wood pigeon was cooing, a little rustle at the base of the wall telling him the tiny harvest mice he’d noticed a few times running up and down the old stone were about. No doubt there were myriad nests deep in the crevices, where generations of the enchantingly pretty creatures had been born. This whole place—the house, the garden, the surrounding countryside—spoke of permanence, he realised suddenly. Subconsciously, had that been one of the reasons which had attracted him to the property when he’d first seen it?
He frowned, not liking the idea. It didn’t fit into how he saw himself. Like everything else that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, it was acutely disturbing, in fact.
Gradually his revolving thoughts began to slow down as the peace of his surroundings took over. The sky lightened still more, garden birds beginning the job of hunting for breakfast, and the flock of sparrows that had residence in the privet hedge separating the swimming pool and tennis court from the rest of the garden squabbled raucously as they went about their business.
It was cold; he could see his breath fanning in a white cloud in front of him when he breathed out. But still he sat on in the burgeoning morning, his mind clearer than it had been for a long, long time.
He loved her. He’d loved her for months, but had been too damn stubborn to admit it to himself because it was the last thing he’d wanted or needed in his life. And now the laugh was on him, because even if he had declared himself she would have told him—gently and kindly, because that was Gina’s way—she was in love with someone else. Height of irony.
It was over an hour later that he rose to his feet, and with measured footsteps went into the house.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHEN