A Professional Marriage

“I’ll remind you what I said at my interview, Joel,”

Chesnie continued. “That I am not, repeat not, remotely interested in marriage!” She’d been spurred on by a growing niggle of annoyance—but she didn’t regret a word of it.

Until Joel’s brow went up and he exclaimed, “Marriage! Philip offered you marriage?”

“What on earth did you think he proposed?” Chesnie exclaimed.

Joel looked at her, looked at her as if he was really seeing her. “Oh, Chesnie Cosgrove,” he answered, a smile coming to his wonderful mouth, “looking at you, half a dozen offers spring to mind.”

From boardroom…to bride and groom!

A secret romance, a forbidden affair, a thrilling attraction?

Working side by side, nine to five—and beyond…

No matter how hard these couples try to keep their relationships strictly professional, romance is definitely on the agenda!

But will a date in the office diary lead to an appointment at the altar?

Find out in this exciting new miniseries from Harlequin Romance®.

The Tycoon’s Proposition (#3729)

by Rebecca Winters

A Professional Marriage

Jessica Steele

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

‘MR DAVENPORT will see you now.’

Chesnie’s insides had been on the fidget for the last half-hour and now renewed their churning. But she rose elegantly to her feet and maintained her cool exterior and followed Barbara Platt—the woman whose job she was hoping to secure for herself—into the adjoining office.

‘Chesnie Cosgrove.’ Barbara Platt introduced her to the tall, dark-blond-haired man who was rising from his chair.

‘Thank you, Barbara.’ He had a pleasant, well-modulated voice, but as his present PA went out and closed the door Chesnie noted that there was something about the thirty-six or thirty-seven-year-old man who turned his blue gaze on her that said he could be exceedingly tough if the occasion demanded it. ‘Take a seat, Miss Cosgrove,’ he invited, in one sweeping glance taking in her slim five feet nine inches of height, her immaculate business suit, her red-blonde hair, green eyes and what one of her sisters had called her ‘pale, flawless complexion to die for’. ‘You found us without any trouble?’ Joel Davenport opened pleasantly.

The vast offices of Yeatman Trading would be hard to miss. ‘Yes,’ she replied evenly, and that was all the time he had available for pleasantries, it seemed, for in the next split second her job interview with him was underway.

‘So—tell me about yourself,’ he opened.

‘My qualifications are—’

‘Were I unaware of your three years’ experience as a senior secretary, your excellent typing speeds, and—according to your previous employer—your outstanding organising and communication skills, you wouldn’t be sitting here,’ he cut her off.

Did she really want this job? He was tough! She’d had a couple of interviews with Human Resources before she’d got this far; clearly there was nothing about her business background that hadn’t been passed on to this man. She wondered about going back to Cambridge to work—but hadn’t she made up her mind to make a complete break? She decided to give Joel Davenport another chance.

‘I’m twenty-five,’ she informed him, and managed to stay outwardly cool when she realised that if he’d seen her application—and he seemed the kind of man who left nothing to chance—then he already knew that. ‘I’ve been working in Cambridge.’ He already knew that too. Stay cool, Chesnie, stay cool. The fact was, though, that she didn’t know what she could add to what he already knew; her second interview had been thorough in the extreme. She stared at him, this man she was hoping to work for, green eyes staring frankly into blue, and, feeling defeated, asked the only question possible. ‘What would you like to know?’

He studied her, not a smile in sight. She’d had more appreciative glances. ‘You’re well qualified. Your reference from your last employer is little short of glowing. Lionel Browning obviously thought the world of you.’

‘And I him,’ she answered. Lionel Browning had been an absolute darling to work for. A touch muddle-headed, true, which was why he had left so much to her—and which would all stand her in very good stead were she lucky enough to land this job.

‘Why then leave?’

Chesnie opened her mouth to trot out the same reason she had given Human Resources: advancement in her career. To a certain extent that was true. But, had matters not come to a head when Lionel’s son, Hector, had decided to come into the business she didn’t know if she would ever have been able to leave muddle-headed Lionel to run things on his own. But suddenly she found she did not want to lie to this direct-looking man. ‘I’d been thinking for some time that I wouldn’t mind something more challenging to get my teeth into,’ she began truthfully.

‘But…?’

She looked back at Joel Davenport. He was cool, cooler than she. And he was sharp—my word, he was sharp. He knew, for all she was sure she hadn’t slipped up anywhere, that there was more to it than that.

‘But I probably wouldn’t have been able to leave Lionel had it not been for his son coming into the business.’ She halted, too late regretting she had let this tough-looking man see she had a softer side when it came to her ex-employer. ‘Hector Browning’s own firm went bust. So he decided he’d come and give his father a hand.’

‘You didn’t get on?’

‘It was part of my job to get on with everyone,’ Chesnie answered, not taking kindly to having her professionalism questioned.

‘So what went wrong?’

She had an idea this interview was going very badly, and decided she’d got nothing to lose by telling that which, hurt and humiliated, she had not told another living soul. ‘Everything!’ she answered evenly, adjusting her position on her chair, catching the flick of his glance to her long slender and shapely legs now neatly crossed at the ankles. ‘On the same day I heard from my landlord that he’d decided to sell the property—and, no desperate rush, but would I care to look for a flat elsewhere?—I had a row with Hector Browning.’

‘You usually row with the people you work with?’

‘Lionel and I never had a cross word!’ Chesnie retorted—and inwardly groaned. She’d be having a row with Joel Davenport any minute! And she wasn’t working with him, or for him—or ever!

He was unperturbed. ‘Hector Browning rubbed you up the wrong way?’

‘That I could, and did, cope with. What I was not prepared to stay and put up with was that—was that…’ Joel Davenport waited, saying not one word, which left her forced to continue. ‘From the various snide remarks Hector Browning had made I knew he resented my closeness to his father, my affection for him and his affection for me. He—Hector…’ Again she hesitated, but the fact that she knew herself innocent made her tilt her chin a fraction. ‘When he that day accused me of having an affair with his father,’ she made herself go on, ‘I knew that one of us would have to go. Blood being thicker than water, I also knew it would be me.’

‘You handed in your resignation.’

‘I left last week—the end of the month.’

‘And were you?’ Joel Davenport asked.

‘Was I what?’

‘Having an affair with his father?’

Her eyes widened in surprise and annoyance that anyone could ask such a thing. Somehow, though, she was able to maintain the outer cool she showed to the world. ‘No, I was not!’ she stated clearly, and, not wishing to say any more on the subject, she left it there.

To his credit, Joel Davenport allowed her to do so. He nodded, at any rate—she took it that he believed her. ‘Human Resources will have explained the package that goes with the position.’ He took the interview into another area. ‘Obviously the salary, pension and holiday entitlement are acceptable to you or you wouldn’t have proceeded with your application.’

‘It’s a very generous package,’ Chesnie stated calmly. Generous! It was a sensational salary!

‘The successful candidate will earn every part of it,’ he replied, which she felt hinted that she was not the successful candidate. Though when he continued she began to wonder… ‘The job as my PA demands one hundred per cent commitment,’ he advised her, and surprised her by adding, ‘Your qualifications aside, you’re a beautiful woman, Miss Cosgrove—’ he did not seem personally impressed ‘—and no doubt have many admirers.’

About to deny she had any, Chesnie, who just wasn’t interested in relationships, suddenly felt feminine enough to want to go along with his view that she had a constant stream of admirers at her door. ‘They wouldn’t interfere with my work,’ she replied.

‘I may need you to work away with me on occasion,’ he went on. She knew from the job description that there were times when Joel Davenport required his PA to accompany him on overnight stays when he visited their Glasgow offices, and had no problem whatsoever with that. ‘Supposing such an occasion arose at short notice—say, half an hour before a theatre date with your favourite man?’

‘I’d hope my favourite man would enjoy the theatre just as much without me,’ she replied promptly, and thought she caught a momentary twitch of her serious interviewer’s mouth—quite a nice-shaped mouth, she suddenly realised—but it was come and gone in an instant.

‘There’s no one man in particular in your life?’

‘No,’ she replied. Who had the time? Or the inclination, for that matter?

‘No marriage plans?’ he asked sternly, her one-syllable answer insufficient, apparently. But she resented his question. She hadn’t asked him if he was married or about to be! She studied him for a moment. Good-looking, a director of the expanded and still expanding multi-national Yeatman Trading—he had it all, which no doubt included some lovely wife somewhere.

Suddenly she became aware that as she was studying him, so keen blue eyes were studying her. ‘I’m not remotely interested in marriage,’ she stated bluntly, belatedly realising his question, in light of his statement that the job as his PA demanded one hundred per cent commitment, was perhaps a valid one.

‘You sound as if you’ve something against marriage,’ he commented.

With her parents and her sisters as fine examples, who wouldn’t have? Chesnie kept her thoughts to herself. ‘I believe the latest statistics show that forty per cent of marriages end in divorce. Personally, I’m more career-oriented than marriage-minded.’

He nodded, but when she was expecting some comment on her reply, he instead enquired, ‘You’re still living in Cambridge?’

‘For the moment. Though at present I’m staying with my sister, here in London, for a few days.’

‘You’re obviously prepared to move here. Have you found anywhere to live yet?’

‘I thought I’d better sort out a job first,’ she answered, and was surprised when, without a response, he got to his feet.

‘Perhaps you should set about finding your accommodation without delay,’ he suggested pleasantly.

Chesnie looked at him. Clearly the interview was over. She stood up as he came round his desk. She was wearing two and a half inch heels and still had to look up at him. ‘I’m not sure…’ she faltered, not at all sure she should believe what she thought he was saying.

He held out his right hand, and automatically her right hand met his warm, firm clasp. ‘I should like you to start on Monday, Chesnie,’ he confirmed, and for the first time he smiled.

Chesnie managed to keep her face straight while she was in the Yeatman Trading building, but once she had left the building so too did she leave her cool, sophisticated image, her lovely face splitting into an equally lovely grin. She’d got it! She’d jolly well got it! Only then did she acknowledge how very much she had wanted this job as PA to Joel Davenport.

It sounded hard work—she thrived on hard work. To be constantly busy had been her lifeline. She hadn’t been sure what sort of work she wanted to do when she had left school, but with her studies finished and no need to spend time at her desk in her room she had spent more time with her parents. Their constant sniping at each other had driven her to take various courses at evening classes, all to do with business management.

It seemed to her she had been brought up in a house full of strife. The youngest of four sisters, with a two-year gap separating each of them, she had been twelve when her eldest sister, Nerissa, had married—for the first time. Nerissa was now on her second marriage, but that didn’t appear to be any happier than her first. Chesnie’s second sister, Robina, had married next—she was always leaving her husband and returning for weeks on end to the home she had confided she had only married young to get away from.

When her sister Tonia married, Chesnie had thought surely it must be third time lucky for one of her sisters. But, no. Tonia had produced two babies in quick succession and seemed to have quickly developed the same love-hate relationship with her husband that her parents shared.

With one or other of her sisters forever returning in tears to the family home, to rail against the man she had married, Chesnie had soon known that she wanted no part in marriage. She had attended college most evenings, doing most of her studying at the weekends. She had not lacked for potential boyfriends, however, and occasionally had gone out on a date with either someone she had known previously or had met at college. On occasions, too, she had experimented with a little kissing, but as soon as things had looked like getting serious she’d put up barriers.

She’d become aware she had started to get a reputation for being aloof. It had not bothered her—nor had it seemed to stop men asking her for a date.

Chesnie had been working in an office for two years when her studies came to an end. She’d taken more courses, and done more study, and two years later had been ready to take a better-paid job. She’d changed firms and begun work as a secretary and she’d been good at it.

What she had not been so good at was handling the traumatic friction that seemed to be a constant feature in her family home. She’d told herself she was being over-sensitive and that everyone had their ups and downs. The only trouble was that in her fraught home, the animosity was permanent.

Having been brought up to be self-sufficient, she had thought often of leaving and had soon felt she could just about afford a bedsit somewhere. Only the knowledge that her mother would be furious should she leave her commodious and graceful home for some lowly bedsit had stopped her.

Matters had come to a head one weekend, however, when all three weeping sisters, and crying babies, had descended. From where Chesnie had viewed it, each sister had been trying to outdo the other with reports of what a rotten husband her spouse was.

When Chesnie had felt her sympathy for the trio turning into a feeling of weariness with all three of them, she’d gone out into the garden and found her father inspecting his roses.

‘You came to escape the bedlam too?’ he asked wryly.

‘Dad, I’m thinking of moving out.’ The words she hadn’t rehearsed came blurting from her.

‘I think I’ll come with you,’ he replied. But, glancing at her to see if she was smiling at his quip, he saw that she wasn’t. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ he asked.

The words were out; she couldn’t retract them. ‘I’ve been thinking of it for some while. I’m sure I could manage a small bedsit, and…’

‘You’d better make that a small flat, and in a good area, if you want me to have any peace.’

Two days later her mother sought her out. ‘Your father tells me your home isn’t good enough for you any more.’

Chesnie knew that she loved her mother—just as she knew the futility of arguing with her. ‘I’d like to be—more—independent,’ she replied quietly.

Ten days after that, and much to her astonishment, her mother told her she had found somewhere for her. Chesnie was so overjoyed that her mother, having slept on it, had decided to aid her rather than make life difficult, that she closed her eyes to the fact that the rent of the flat was far more than she could afford.

Furnishing the flat was no problem. What with bits and pieces from her parents and her grandparents, and with her restless sister Nerissa always changing her home around and getting rid of some item of furniture or other, Chesnie soon made her small flat very comfortable.

She had been resident for two months, though, when she had to face up to the reality that she just couldn’t afford to be that independent. Her mother would be horrified if she went downmarket and found herself a bedsit. And from Chesnie’s point of view she would be horrified herself if she had to give up the peace and quiet she had found to return to her old home.

When Browning Enterprises advertised for a senior secretary she applied for the job, and got it. It paid more, and she earned it when she started taking on more and more responsibility. The only fly in the ointment was Lionel Browning’s son. But Hector Browing had his own business, and apart from visits to his father, usually when Hector’s finances needed a cash injection, Chesnie saw little of him. She was aware that he resented her, but could think of no reason for his dislike other than the fact that he knew that she knew he was as near broke as made no difference.

She was happy living in a place of her own, but since she lived in the same town as her parents she popped in to see them every two or three weeks—and always came away glad she had made the decision to leave.

Then, a year later, her paternal grandmother died, and after months of living in a kind of vacuum her grandfather sold his home in Herefordshire and, with her parents having ample room, moved in with them.

Chesnie adored her grandfather. She seemed to have a special affinity with him, and had feared from the beginning that life with her bickering parents would not suit her peace-loving Gramps. She took to ‘popping in’ to her old home more frequently.

She knew he looked forward to her visits, and knew when he suggested he teach her to drive that he was looking for excuses to get out of the house.

She and her grandfather spent many pleasant Saturday afternoons together, and when she passed her driving test she took to taking him for a drive somewhere. Three months ago she had driven him across country to Herefordshire, and to the village where he had lived prior to moving in with her parents.

Six days later she had arrived home from her office to find her grandfather sitting outside her flat in his car. ‘I’m not such a good cook as my mother, but you’re welcome to come to dinner,’ she invited lightly, watching him, knowing from the fact of him being there as much from the excited light in his eyes that something a touch monumental was going on.

Over macaroni cheese and salad he told her he had noticed a ‘To Let’ sign in the garden of a small cottage on their visit to his home village last Saturday. He hadn’t phoned the agent because, knowing the owner, he had phoned him instead. The result being the tenancy was his straight away on a temporary let while he waited for something in the village to come up for sale.

What could she say? ‘It’s what you want, Gramps?’ she asked quietly.

‘I should never have left,’ he answered simply, and she could only think, since he had never parted with his furniture but had put it in store, that perhaps without knowing it he had always meant to return.

‘What do my parents think?’

A wicked light she hadn’t seen in a long while entered his eyes. ‘Your father’s all right about it—er—your mother’s taken it personally.’

Chesnie knew all about her mother taking it ‘personally’—she would go on and on about it, and Chesnie suspected he would want to move out sooner rather than later. ‘When are you leaving?’ she asked.

‘I was wondering if you’re free to drive me there tomorrow?’ he asked, looking positively cheeky.

He had got everything arranged so quickly! She had to grin. ‘I’d love to,’ she answered, and was thinking in terms of availability of trains for the return trip when her grandfather seemed to read her mind.

‘You wouldn’t care to look after my car for me, would you? I’ll seldom need it, and it will only be until I can find a property in the village with a garage. There isn’t one at the cottage.’

That had been three months ago. Chesnie missed her grandfather but had driven to see him several times. When, six weeks ago, Hector Browning had accused her of having an affair with his father she had known she couldn’t possibly work at Browning Enterprises any longer.

Knowing she was going to part company with Lionel Browning, and having just received a letter asking her to vacate her flat, it had been decision time. She needed somewhere new to live and work; she could do both anywhere.

When Chesnie had seen the advert for the PA’s job at Yeatman Trading, and subsequently passed the first and second interviews, she’d crossed her fingers and hoped…

She still had a wide grin on her face when she drove up to the smart appartment block where her sister lived. She had a new job now, PA to none other than Mr Joel Davenport himself.

Nerissa was in, took one look at her beaming face, and squealed, ‘You got it!’

Later she calmed down enough to say that she had known she would get it. ‘The rest of us had to get married to afford to leave home. But not you, clever girl, you inherited the family brain.’ From Chesnie’s viewpoint it hadn’t been that easy. She had worked hard, but Nerissa was going blithely on, ‘Now to sort you out with a flat. Stephen was having a word with someone last night who may have something—’ She broke off waspishly. ‘He does have his uses.’

From that moment on everything seemed to move at lightning pace. Chesnie was not a partying person, but Nerissa made her promise to return for a party she and Stephen were holding on Saturday evening, and Chesnie returned to Cambridge and packed up her belongings ready for her move.

The party was a success; Nerissa wouldn’t have had it any other way. But, although Chesnie found the function enjoyable, she had other things on her mind—she had only two weeks to work alongside Joel Davenport’s present PA and get up to speed. It wasn’t very long—would she cope?

Chesnie arrived back at her sister’s apartment after her first Monday in her new job with her head spinning—and a sinking feeling that two months, let alone two weeks, wouldn’t be long enough for her to remember all that there was to absorb.

She was ready for bed and didn’t think she had energy enough to eat a meal. Her sister had other plans. ‘How was your first day?’ she asked straight away.

‘I’m on my knees!’ Chesnie confessed.

‘That good, huh? And how was the new boss?’

‘I haven’t seen him. He’s in Scotland until Wednesday.’

‘Right, now, don’t take your jacket off. The flat Stephen told me about has come up. Come on, we’ll go and take a look.’

Somewhere to live was a priority. From somewhere Chesnie conjured up some enthusiasm and, with her sister driving, went to view a small flat on the outskirts of the city.