At His Service: His 9-5 Secretary. Michelle Celmer
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house room—or, perhaps more accurately, bedroom—to her supposed lover. But his concern for her—and she didn’t flatter herself it was anything but the friendly concern he’d spoken of before—warmed her aching heart. Harry had had lots of women in his life, he didn’t try to pretend otherwise, but she doubted if he would have been so genuinely solicitous for the females who flitted in and out of his bed at regular intervals. And he certainly wouldn’t have referred to them as friends. Perhaps she ought to be grateful for small mercies? She was distinct and different to the rest, in some small way, at least.
‘I jumped to an erroneous conclusion, and I should have known better.’
He could do the gracious-apology thing really well, Gina thought, as she watched a slow smile spread over his handsome face.
‘You’re not the sort of woman to have second thoughts once you’ve made up your mind about something, or to say one thing and mean another.’
Oh boy, little did he know. ‘Quite,’ she said firmly.
‘I’ll leave you to get dressed,’ he said with silky gentleness. ‘Brunch will be ready in about twenty minutes.’
When the door closed behind him, Gina continued to lie in complete immobility for another moment or two. Then she flung back the duvet, swinging her legs out of bed and wrapping the robe back round her, before padding to the bathroom. There she scrutinised herself in the mirror and groaned softly. Dark smudges under eyes that definitely bore evidence of the weeping of the night before. And her hair! Why did her hair always decide to party during the night? At uni she’d shared with girls who’d gone to bed sleek and immaculate, and woken up sleep and immaculate. Or, at the most, slightly tousled.
Fifteen minutes later the mirror told her she’d transformed herself into someone who wouldn’t frighten little children.
She had washed her hair and rubbed it as dry as she could before bundling it into a high ponytail at the back of her head. The essentials she always took to work in her bag—moisturiser, mascara, eye-shadow and lip gloss—had done their work and made her feel human again. Just.
She’d had the foresight to wash her panties through before going to bed and drape them over the radiator in her room—she did so hope Harry hadn’t noticed the skimpy piece of black lace—and, armed with the knowledge she was clean and fresh, she took a deep breath and opened the bedroom door.
Brunch with Harry. The last meal she would ever eat with him, she thought a trifle dramatically, but without making any apology for it. She felt dramatic. In fact she felt a whole host of emotions surging in her breast, none of which were uplifting.
Once downstairs she paused in the hall. Sunlight was slanting in through the window on to the ancient floorboards, causing a timelessness that was enchanting. The whole cottage was enchanting. She could imagine what it would be like in the height of summer, with the outside of the house engulfed in roses and honeysuckle and jasmine. Violet dusks, the fragrance of burning leaves drifting in the warm air, dark-velvet skies pierced with stars, and overall a sense of whispering stillness. Did he sit on the verandah on such evenings, a glass of wine in his hand and his eyes wandering over the shadows, sombre and broodingly alone?
The image wrenched her heart and she mentally shook herself. It was far more likely the current blonde would be sitting on his lap or as near to him as she could get, no doubt anticipating the night ahead with some relish, she told herself caustically. And who could blame her?
A slight movement at the end of the hall brought her head swinging to see Harry standing watching her. ‘I thought we’d eat in the breakfast room, OK? It’s less formal than the dining room, but a bit more comfortable than perching at the breakfast bar in the kitchen.’
Gina nodded, quickly arranging her face into a smile as she walked towards him. ‘Can I do anything to help?’
‘Carry the salad through? I’ll bring the other dishes.’
The breakfast room was situated off the kitchen and was quite small but charming, with wooden shutters at the leaded windows, and an old, gnarled table and chairs in the centre of the room. The only other furniture consisted of an equally old dresser on which brightly blue-and-red-patterned crockery sat, a bowl of flowering hyacinths on the deepset window sill filling the room with their sweet perfume.
After looking in on the puppies, who were all sound asleep, Gina seated herself as Harry said, ‘Red or white wine? Or there’s sparkling mineral water or orange-and-mango juice, if you’d prefer?’
‘Fizzy water, please.’
She watched him as he poured her a glass, and then one for himself, after which he served her a portion of the flan and she helped herself to a baked potato and some salad.
The breakfast room was cosy, too cosy. Gina hadn’t reckoned on them sitting so close. There was a small nick on the hard, square jaw where he’d cut himself shaving, and her body registered it with every cell. Clearing her throat, she looked at her plate as she said, ‘This—this looks lovely, Harry.’
‘Thank you,’ he said gravely.
‘Did—did you make the flan yourself?’ For goodness’ sake, stop stammering. What’s the matter with you, girl? She wanted to close her eyes and sink through the floor.
He nodded lazily, taking a sip of his drink before he said, ‘I told you, I like cooking. There are those who’ve said they haven’t lived until they’ve tasted my chunky borsch.’
She glanced at him to see if he was joking, but he appeared perfectly serious. Taking him at face value, she said primly, ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know what that is.’
‘No?’
He grinned at her, his eyes warm, and his mouth doing the uneven thing that always turned her insides to melted marshmallow. She was used to banter with Harry, mild flirting and harmless innuendo. It was part of office life, and meant nothing. It was altogether different when sitting at his table in cosy intimacy. ‘No,’ she said flatly, her voice at odds with the army of butterflies in her stomach.
‘Well, I make mine with smoky bacon and red peppers and celery, so it has a sweet-and-sour flavour. You put cabbage, potato, bacon, tomatoes, carrots, onion and a few other things in a pan and simmer for forty minutes or so before adding beetroot, sugar and vinegar and simmering some more. Serve with fresh herbs and soured cream.’
His eyes had focused on her mouth as he had been speaking, and something in their smoky depths brought warm colour to Gina’s cheeks. She’d never have dreamt talking cookery could be so sexy.
‘It’s a nice dish on cold winter evenings, curled up in front of a log fire. You ought to try it some time.’
She swallowed. Curled up on a rug in front of a roaring fire with Harry would be food enough. ‘I don’t think my new life in London will feature many log fires.’
‘Shame. You seem a chunky-borsch-and-log-fire girl to me.
Her eyebrows lifted on a careful inhalation. Play the game, she told herself. Keep it casual and funny. ‘I’ll just have to make do with caviar and glitzy nightclubs instead,’ she said lightly. ‘As befits a city girl.’
He regarded her across the table, but she couldn’t read what was going on behind the grey eyes. ‘Nope, don’t see it,’ he said at last. ‘Sorry.’
‘You don’t think there’ll be men queueing to buy me caviar and champagne and take me to all the best places?’ she asked with mock annoyance.
‘I didn’t say that.’
Suddenly in the space of a heartbeat the atmosphere had tightened and shifted; there was no teasing in his voice or eyes now, but only an intent kind of urgency which took her aback.
He leaned forward, his face close and his eyes glinting. ‘There’ll be men, Gina. Plenty, I should think. But I don’t think they will be what you need.’
She couldn’t