Accepting the Boss's Proposal

“Good idea?” he asked, his eyes indicating the glass London Eye capsule they were in. “Do you think your boys are enjoying it?”

Jemima couldn’t believe he was experiencing a moment of doubt about it, but his blue eyes seemed to be waiting for an answer. “It’s brilliant. They’re loving it. Thank you.”

Then he smiled, and she wondered whether it was doing her heart any permanent damage to keep beating so erratically. For thirty years she hadn’t experienced the slightest difficulty, but since meeting Miles it had been behaving very peculiarly.

“Are you?”

She nodded, feeling unaccountably shy.

“Come see,” he said, holding out his hand.

Slowly, her heart pounding, Jemima put her hand inside his. She’d seen a movie once where they’d talked about looking down and not knowing where one hand left off and the other began. It felt a little like that, except that she knew which hand belonged to whom. His hand was dark against her fair skin. It was more that she felt as if it belonged there.

Harlequin Romance® is thrilled to bring you another sparkling new book from talented author

Natasha Oakley

Her poignant and emotional writing will tug on your heartstrings.

“Her words shoot straight to your heart just like cupid’s arrow. Ms. Oakley has a special talent for making you fall in love with her characters.”

—writersunlimited.com

“One of the best writers of contemporary romance writing today!”

—cataromance.com

“Emotional, romantic and unforgettable, Natasha Oakley aims straight for your heart with richly drawn characters, powerfully intense emotions and heart-stopping romance!”

—cataromance.com

Accepting the Boss’s Proposal

Natasha Oakley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Natasha Oakley told everyone at her primary school that she wanted to be an author when she grew up. Her plan was to stay at home and have her mom bring her coffee at regular intervals—a drink she didn’t like then. The coffee addiction became reality, and the love of storytelling stayed with her. A professional actress, Natasha began writing when her fifth child started to sleep through the night. Born in London, she now lives in Bedfordshire with her husband and young family. When not writing, or needed for “crowd control,” she loves to escape to antique fairs and auctions. Find out more about Natasha and her books on her Web site, www.natashaoakley.com.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

SHE’D made a mistake.

Jemima knew it the minute she saw what the woman on the reception desk was wearing. Kingsley and Bressington might sound like some staid turn-of-the-last-century law firm, but the reality was completely different—and the woman on the reception desk embodied exactly that.

She wore a rich brown T-shirt which hugged the kind of yoga-toned body that always made Jemima feel vaguely depressed. Dramatic turquoise jewellery picked out an exact shade in the receptionist’s vibrant skirt and brought out the colour of her eyes. Her look was overwhelmingly young…fashionable…and a world away from Jemima’s borrowed suit. Its aubergine colour might be perfect with her carefully straightened red hair, but it was entirely too formal for Kingsley and Bressington.

Nor was she quite sure how she could dress any differently tomorrow. Even if her own wardrobe wasn’t restricted to jeans and easy care fabrics, she was two children too late for that kind of body conscious clothing.

Jemima glanced around the acres of white walls, taking in the abstract paintings and sculptural plants in huge stainless steel pots. What the heck was she doing in a trendy place like this? If she didn’t know she’d be letting Amanda down she’d turn tail and run now. Fast. This wasn’t what she’d wanted at all.

Instead she made herself stand firm. She could hardly balk at her first placement and this was about so much more than one temporary job. This was about standing on her own feet, recovering her self-esteem, making a new beginning…All those trite phrases that everyone instinctively churned out when they were confronted by the rejected half of a ‘now divorced’ couple.

That she believed they were right was probably something to do with the British ‘stiff upper lip’ thing that was buried deep in her psyche. She twisted the gold chain at her neck. God forbid she should break down and cry. Or curl under her duvet and refuse to emerge until the world had settled back to the way it had been before. She had to be strong. For the boys. Everyone said so…

Jemima took a shaky breath and waited for the receptionist to finish her telephone call. She’d already been cast an apologetic ‘I’ll be with you in a moment’ look and watched with growing fatalism as the receptionist tapped her acrylic-tipped nails impatiently on the glass table while she explained why she couldn’t transfer the caller to the person they wanted.

She could do this. She could. Jemima made herself stand a little straighter and concentrated on exuding confidence. What was it Amanda had said about ‘transferable skills’? All those years of PTA involvement had to amount to something. Not to mention her degree, secretarial qualifications…

‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. Can I help you?’

Jemima jerked to attention, a small part of her mind still free to speculate on whether the receptionist’s long hair was the result of nature…or extensions. ‘Jemima Chadwick. I’m Jemima Chadwick. From Harper Recruitment. I’m here to temp for Miles Kingsley and I’m to ask for…’ She pulled her handbag off her shoulder and started to rummage through Visa slips and assorted pieces of screwed-up paper. Somewhere in the depths of her bag was the small notebook in which she’d written all the details Amanda had given her on Friday afternoon.

Somewhere…

‘Saskia Longthorne,’ the receptionist said with authority. ‘She deals with all temporary staff. I’ll let her know you’re here.’

Too late. Just too late Jemima pulled the piece of paper out of her bag and looked down at the words she’d scribbled.

‘She won’t keep you a moment. If you’d like to take a seat?’ There was the faintest trace of a question in her modulated voice, but Jemima had no difficulty in recognising a directive.

She balled the piece of paper up in her hand. ‘Th-thank you.’

Jemima turned and went to sit on one of the seats. They were set in a semi-circular format around an unusual shattered glass coffee table and were the kind of low-slung design that required the same impossible skills as climbing in and out of a sports car. She perched uncomfortably on the edge in a vain effort to stop her skirt from riding up.

This morning she’d been hyped up for the challenge of rebuilding her life. A new beginning—and this temporary job was merely the first step. But now she was actually here…all that beautiful confidence was evaporating. Everything about Kingsley and Bressington made her feel uncomfortable. It was all so far outside of her personal experience it hurt.

But then, that was the idea. Amanda had been adamant that she ought to test her new skills in several temporary vacancies before she looked for a permanent position. She should see what kind of working environment she preferred, push the boundaries a little…As Amanda had said, she might surprise herself with the choices she’d make.

At least, that had been the theory. Sitting in Amanda Symmond’s comfortable Oxford Street offices, it had seemed like a very good idea, but right now she’d give up practically everything to be at home and loading her boys into the back of her Volvo for the school run. Safe. Doing what she knew.

As the minutes slipped by, Jemima sank back into her seat and stopped jumping at the sound of every footstep.

‘Jemima Chadwick? Mrs Chadwick?’

She looked up at the sound of a masculine voice. ‘Yes. That’s me. I…’ She struggled to pull herself out of the deep seat while still clutching her handbag. ‘I’m sorry…I was told to wait here for Saskia Longthorne,’ she managed foolishly, looking up into a pair of intensely blue eyes. ‘She deals with temporary staff and—’

‘Saskia’s been held up, it seems. So, as I’m passing…’ He held out his hand. ‘Thank you for helping us out. We do appreciate it.’

Jemima transferred her handbag to her other shoulder and held out her own hand. ‘You’re w-welcome.’

His hand closed over hers in that double handshake thing. The one that was supposed to convey sincerity, but was usually a sign of exactly the opposite. Tall, dark, handsome…actually, very handsome…and completely aware of it.

Everything about him was clean-cut and expensive. His suit was in a dark grey with a faint blue stripe in the weave and it fitted his muscular body as though it had been made for him. Perhaps it had. Jemima didn’t know how you judged these things.

It was easy to get the measure of the man himself though. Smooth and sharp. Too smooth…and too sharp. It wasn’t by chance he’d selected a tie in a cold ice-blue, a colour that matched his incredibly piercing eyes.

‘I’m Miles Kingsley. You’ll be working with me.’

Jemima felt her stomach drop and disappear. This was absolutely not what she wanted. He was not what she wanted. All the way here on the tube she’d been praying that Miles Kingsley would be a comfortable kind of man and easy to work for.

Amanda had told her that she’d never had a complaint from any temp about working for Miles and, in her mind, she’d pictured him as a controlled, sensible, mature man. Someone not unlike her late father, in fact. Perfect for a woman dipping one very nervous toe back into the job market.

But there was nothing ‘comfortable’ about this man. He was a cocksure thirty-something who clearly felt he was God’s particular gift to the world.

Perhaps Amanda hadn’t understood quite what she was looking for in her first job? Or perhaps Amanda had simply decided to drop her firmly in the deep end and see if she swam. That was the trouble with going to an agency owned and run by the sister of your best friend. People who thought they knew you well were all too apt to make decisions they considered to be in your best interests…without reference to what you actually did want.

‘I’ll take you up to where you’ll be working and by then I’m sure Saskia will be free to take you through our procedures.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Nothing too out of the ordinary, I imagine.’

And then he smiled. A perfect balance of casual warmth and glinting sex appeal. Jemima clutched at her shoulder bag. This was going to be hideous. Miles Kingsley might possibly have hidden neurosis somewhere, but if he did it was deeply buried.

How could any one individual be so completely without…? She searched for the word. So without self-doubt? That was it. He was so darn sure of himself. And all that confidence seemed to suck away what was left of hers. Perhaps she ought to ring Amanda now? Tell her she couldn’t do this job?

Jemima frowned. But how pathetic was that? She’d have to go home and tell her mother she hadn’t been able to do it. How did you do that? How did you tell a woman who’d been a senior civil servant until she’d taken early retirement that you couldn’t manage a simple temp job? Then she’d have to tell the boys…

And she wanted them to be proud of her. Wanted them to see her taking control of her life again. It would be good for them. Everybody said so.

Miles turned and crossed to the reception desk. ‘Felicity, would you hold my calls for the next five minutes or so. And would you let Saskia know I’ve collected Jemima on my way through.’

‘Yes, of course.’

Jemima watched as the receptionist became a pool of hormones at his feet. Assuming she did have hair extensions, one more flick of her lustrous locks and they might fall out. Though, to give him his due, Miles Kingsley didn’t appear to notice. Perhaps because ninety-nine point nine per cent of women he met did the same.

‘This way,’ he said, turning back to her and pointing up the wide glass and steel staircase.

Jemima gave the receptionist a tentative smile and turned to follow him.

‘Have you been temping long?’

‘No. Not really.’ Or, in fact, not at all. Probably better not to mention that, though. Jemima clutched at her shoulder bag and swallowed nervously.

‘To the left here,’ he remarked, pointing down a corridor, ‘you’ll find a staff recreational room—which is a grand way of saying it’s a pleasant place to have a coffee break. Saskia will show you around later and introduce you to the other support staff. We’re a tightly knit team and I’m sure they’ll all be available to help you, should you need it.’

Jemima nodded.

‘This way.’ He stepped back and held the door open. ‘Do you know much about what Kingsley and Bressington do?’

‘Not a great deal,’ she replied stiffly. Amanda had concentrated on it being a ‘fantastic place to work’, and ‘I’ve got temps queuing up to go there. Give it a try and see what you think’. Clearly the smooth and efficient Miles expected she’d have been given a little more information than that.

She let her eyes wander about the total unexpectedness of the place. From the outside it looked like any other Victorian building in the street, but inside…Inside it had been gutted and everything chosen to ensure maximum impact. Small, but perfectly formed, it was all cutting edge and very modern. Intimidating, actually. But that was probably intentional. Anyone hiring Kingsley and Bressington to manage their public persona probably wanted to see something high-tech, stylish and controlled.

‘But you’ve worked in public relations before?’

Jemima shook her head, feeling as though she were letting Amanda down. She watched the slight frown mar his forehead and wondered, not for the first time, whether Miles Kingsley was the kind of man who’d be satisfied with her newly acquired secretarial skills. As if she didn’t know he wasn’t.

‘There are various aspects to what we do. Some of our clients are large corporations and we track and manage their image in the press, both here and abroad.’

She struggled to suppress the rising tide of panic. A six month post-graduate secretarial course hadn’t even begun to touch on anything he was talking about. Somehow she didn’t think he’d be particularly impressed that she held a Qualified Private and Executive Secretarial diploma—albeit with a distinction.

‘Others are individuals, predominantly working in the media. Many find themselves in a particularly sensitive place in their lives when they first come to us.’

‘I see.’ Another door, another corridor. It wasn’t that the building Kingsley and Bressington occupied was particularly large, it was just it was painted in similar shades of cream and it was difficult to get your bearings. There was only so much limestone and travertine a girl could take.

‘Confidentiality is an absolute prerequisite,’ Miles continued, ‘as I’m sure you realise.’

Confidentiality was something they’d covered in her diploma course. It was nice to know there was at least one part of this job she was going to find easy. ‘I wouldn’t dream of repeating anything I learn from working here. I’d consider that very unprofessional.’

‘Excellent,’ he said, holding open the door for her. ‘I know Amanda wouldn’t have sent you to us if that wasn’t the case. This is your office.’

Jemima stepped through into a room that had obviously been designed to have a wow factor. Yet more shades of cream blurred together as a restful whole and made the burr walnut desk a focal point. The computer screen on it was wafer-thin and the chair she recognised as being a modern design classic. A Charles and Ray Eames styled, if not original, chair upholstered in soft cream leather.

‘We rarely keep our clients waiting, but if there’s any delay I’ll rely on you to keep them happy until I can see them.’ He turned and pointed to some chairs clustered around yet another shattered glass coffee table. ‘Ply them with tea and coffee. Make sure they feel important.’

Jemima felt the first stirrings of a smile. Maybe Amanda had known what she was doing when she had sent her here. She knew a lot about making other people feel important. Being a satellite to other people’s bright star was what she did best. In fact, a lifetime of practice had honed it into an art form.

She glanced back towards the door and noticed the twenty or so black and white photographs grouped together on the wall. Dramatic publicity shots all autographed with love and messages of thanks.

Miles followed her gaze. ‘Some of our clients,’ he said unnecessarily. ‘You can see why discretion is imperative.’

She certainly could. Her smile widened as she recognised the chiselled features of an actor who’d scarcely been off the tabloid front pages in recent weeks. His particular ‘sensitive place’ was a pole-dancer from Northampton—allegedly.

And Kingsley and Bressington had to find a way of spinning that into a positive, did they? She couldn’t quite see how that would be possible. If Miles Kingsley could restore that actor’s persona as a ‘family man’, he was a genius.

The door opened and a young and stunning blonde in impeccably cut black trousers burst in, an A4 file tucked under her arm. ‘Miles, I’m so sorry. I was caught on the phone and couldn’t get away—’

‘Jemima had been in reception for over fifteen minutes.’ His voice sliced smoothly over the other woman’s words.

‘Felicity has just buzzed me. I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s not a problem,’ Jemima interjected quickly, unsure whether the apology was for her benefit or for Miles’s.

‘If you’d like to come with me now, I’ll take you through everything.’ The other woman adjusted the file under her arm. ‘I’m Saskia Longthorne, by the way. Come through to my office….’

She was halfway to the door before she’d finished speaking.

‘Jemima might like to hang up her jacket? Put her bag down?’ Miles suggested in a dry tone.

He’d strolled over to the walnut desk and had picked up a large black diary and was leafing through the pages. Jemima glanced over as he looked up. His eyes were astonishingly bright against the minimal colour in the room. At least that was her excuse for the sudden tightening of her throat.

‘I’ll see you again in a few minutes.’ He picked up the diary and carried it across to the wide double doors that, presumably, led to his own office.

Good grief. Jemima let out her breath in one slow steady stream. Miles Kingsley was a sharp-suited nightmare. No other way of looking at it.

Saskia seemed to understand what she’d been thinking. ‘I know,’ she said, walking over to a tall cupboard. ‘Miles is a walking force field. You can leave your jacket and handbag in here.’ She pulled out a hanger and handed it across. ‘It’ll be perfectly safe, but there’s a key to lock it if you prefer. Zoë always did that…and then kept the key somewhere in her desk.’

‘Zoë’s the person I’m covering?’ Jemima asked, self-consciously slipping her jacket off and putting it on the hanger.

‘Her husband’s job was transferred to Hong Kong. Just for six weeks, but Miles was as irritated as hell. He thought he’d finally found a PA who didn’t seem to want to get pregnant, when Zoë announced she had to be off anyway.’

Saskia accepted back the hanger and popped the jacket into the cupboard. ‘Not exactly a “baby-man” is Miles. More wine bar and whisky on the rocks, if you know what I mean.’

That figured, Jemima thought.

‘Zoë’s lovely so he’s holding her job open for her. We mustn’t take long over this,’ Saskia said, pushing open the door to the corridor. ‘He’ll want you back quickly. Obviously do put down nine thirty as your start time for today on your time sheet as it’s my fault we’re a little behind.’

‘Jemima, I’m going to need you to book a table at The Walnut Tree for this lunchtime,’ Miles said, opening the door to his office, presumably by magic since he had a file under one arm and a mug of black coffee in his other hand.

Jemima tucked her handbag away in the tall cupboard and glanced down at her wrist-watch. Officially she wasn’t even supposed to be here yet, but this morning the tube had been kind and the boys cooperative. He was lucky she was here. Jemima hurried across to her desk and jotted down ‘Walnut Tree’.

‘I’ve arranged to meet Xanthe Wyn and her agent there at one,’ he said, putting the file down on her desk. ‘If that’s not possible you’ll need to contact Christopher Delland to let him know the change.’

‘Okay.’

Miles took a sip of his coffee and then raked a hand through his dark hair. ‘Actually, confirm it with him anyway. Xanthe is notoriously difficult to pin down. His number is in…’ He trailed off as her fingers had already pulled the appropriate card out of the strangely old-fashioned card system her predecessor had favoured.

‘Excellent.’ Miles flashed her that mega-watt smile that no doubt managed to melt the hardest of hearts, but didn’t do anything for her but irritate. Given the choice she would so much rather he left the charm offensive until after ten o’clock when she’d had a chance to wake up properly. Not to mention grab a coffee for herself.

Jemima flicked the switch that would boot up her computer. There was something in the gene pool of men like Miles Kingsley, she thought, which meant they had a deep inner belief that they were somehow special. That when they said ‘go’ everyone around them would naturally follow. A leader of leaders. It was in the way he moved, walked and owned the space in which he stood.

If he thought one smile would mean she didn’t notice the extra ten minutes at the start of the day, the additional twenty minutes at lunch time and the fifteen or so at the end, he was going to be disappointed when she presented her time sheet on Friday.

‘Thanks, by the way, for staying late last night.’

‘You’re welcome,’ she said stiffly, finding it annoying to be thanked for something she was busy resenting.

‘Amanda didn’t say anything about you being fluent in French, but it was extremely useful. Phillipe Armond said your accent is perfect and he was very impressed.’

Jemima smiled through gritted teeth.

‘It looks like we’re going to get their business. So thanks for that. I’m going to fly to Paris to meet him for lunch some time next week. His secretary will ring you with the arrangements.’

She nodded and picked up the enormous pile of paper that had appeared in her in-tray overnight. If only he’d disappear back into his office. She desperately wanted to grab a coffee before getting started on this lot. She really couldn’t be late again tonight.

‘Did you have a good evening?’

Jemima looked up incredulously. She’d not left Kingsley and Bressington until twenty past six. Then she’d had to stand up on the tube all the way home, apologise to her mum, who was going to be late for her bridge evening, listen to Sam read, search out Ben’s missing football sock, put another load of washing through the machine…

What did he think her evening was like? Miles Kingsley really had no idea how the other half lived. ‘Fine, thanks,’ she said, keying in the password.

‘I went to see the new production of Noel Coward’s Private Lives. It’s not my favourite play, but it was excellent. That reminds me,’ he said, finishing off the last of his coffee. ‘Send some flowers to Emma Lawler at Ashworths for me. The address is in that box. I’ve got an account with Weldon Florists. Ask for Becky.’