In Bed with the Boss's Daughter

“This isn’t hostility. This is right royal pi—” He stopped himself. Reminded himself about not letting her get under his skin and into his head. He lifted a hand and rubbed at the tension that ached in the back of his neck. “Look, I’m under a ton of pressure at the moment. I don’t have time—”

“For baby-sitting,” she cut in softly, and there it was again. That surprising touch of vulnerability in her eyes.

Jack forced himself to ignore it. “Damn right!” he growled.

She took one small step away, and she looked for all the world as if she’d stepped back behind that regal facade. The transformation was that quick. “Believe me, I’ve got the picture,” she purred, all cool disdain. “Why don’t you show me to the crèche and I’ll see if there’s anything there to keep me amused?”

Three

Paris had to wait until Monday before being introduced to her “crèche.” For the rest of the weekend her mood alternated between near-paralyzing attacks of insecurity—What was I thinking? I have no idea how to handle a major PR assignment!—and restorative bouts of anger brought on by replaying any snippet from Saturday’s confrontation. Terms like baby-sit and dubious media contacts still caused her eyes to cross and her blood to bubble, as did the curtness with which he dismissed her.

“I have more important places to be. I’ll see you in my office Monday morning. Eight sharp,” he’d said.

And here she was in the reception area outside his office, forty minutes after “eight sharp.” She didn’t, not for one of the fifty minutes she’d been sitting here, expect he’d forgotten her. Oh no, this was a deliberate snub…or a test. He probably hoped she would tire of waiting and leave, or behave like the spoiled princess he thought her and throw a tantrum.

She would do neither. She would calmly pick up the annual report from the coffee table, and she would use however long he made her wait to bone up on the company’s latest achievements. And every time the report trembled in her hands because of the giant butterflies doing loop-the-loops in her stomach, every time she felt this overwhelming need to bolt for the door, she would close her eyes and imagine the satisfaction on Jack Manning’s face when he found her gone.

No way would she grant him such easy gratification.

Her eyes were closed the second before a Helena Bonham Carter lookalike bounced in, regarded her with open curiosity and asked if she could help.

“I’m waiting for Jack.” Paris smiled back.

“Does he know you’re here?”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure he does.”

The huge brown eyes regarded Paris for a moment longer, as if trying to place her, before she disappeared into Jack’s office. Paris smoothed the skirt of her brand-new Armani suit and gave up trying to focus on the report. Ten minutes later the brunette reappeared. Without the inquisitive smile and wide-eyed friendliness, she didn’t resemble Helena Bonham Carter at all.

A wave of comprehension washed over Paris. All wrapped up in Jack’s reaction, she hadn’t considered how other staff members would feel about the boss’s daughter sauntering into such a plum position.

Oh, they’re just going to love you, Paris. Especially when they realize how poorly qualified you are.

Her stomach hollowed as further implications sank in. Was there someone more experienced who’d been promised the job or who deserved such a promotion?

Paris glanced across at the brunette now seated behind the reception desk, studiously avoiding eye contact. She smoothed her skirt again, checked her smile hadn’t frozen in the suddenly chill atmosphere and approached the desk.

“Good morning.” She glanced at the name plaque. “Julie, is it? I gather Jack has told you who I am?”

“Yes. Welcome to Grantham’s, Miss Grantham.” Except she didn’t look very welcoming. She barely glanced up from the appointment book in front of her.

“If you call me that, I’m not likely to answer.”

Julie’s surprised gaze skittered up, and Paris took the opportunity to smile and extend her hand across the desk.

“I’m Paris.”

The handshake was unavoidable but, at best, Julie’s smile could only be termed polite.

“I gather you know why I’m here?”

Julie’s expression frosted over. “Jack told me you have the PR job on Milson Landing. Congratulations.”

Somehow Paris didn’t feel as if she’d just been congratulated. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but have I taken this job from someone else?”

Before she’d finished the last words, an almost-familiar awareness warmed the back of her neck and crept down her spine. She knew, even before Julie’s focus shifted to somewhere beyond her left shoulder, who had joined them.

“Having a belated conscience attack, princess?”

She turned slowly, annoyed by the little leap in her pulse and the warmth spreading through her torso. How long would it take till her body caught on that she didn’t like Jack Manning anymore?

“It’s not too late to step aside,” he challenged.

She lifted her chin and met his hard, dark eyes. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

He tapped the papers he held in one hand against the palm of the other, drawing her attention to those big hands, their deep tan a stark contrast to the pale blue of his shirt cuffs. The warmth seeped deeper, looking to take purchase.

“This is an important job. It deserves to be treated accordingly, not handed out as a feel-good gift.”

His curt words whipped her attention back to his disapproving face, and those warm dark places instantly turned cold and hollow. “Who did you have in mind for the position?” she asked.

“A professional consultancy.”

“Then why didn’t you employ one?”

His expression tightened. “I made the mistake of running it by K.G.”

“I see,” she replied slowly, although she didn’t see at all, not without asking more questions. Had Jack discussed the job with K.G. before or after his phone call asking her to come home? Why had her father wanted her in this particular position? Had he read beyond her casual questions about Jack? Her heart thudded heavily against her ribs as she considered and rejected the implications.

No. No way.

She shook her head emphatically and looked up in time to see Jack’s mouth set in an even tighter line, and she wondered what he’d read into her head-shaking. Most likely her refusal to give up the feel-good job K.G. had given her.

He slapped the papers against his palm one last time as he crossed to Julie’s desk. “I’ve signed these. They can go out with the budgets Lew’s working on.” Then he turned to face Paris with Saturday’s scowl firmly etched in his brow. “I gather you two have met?”

She nodded. Standing this close, the force of all that scowling energy made it difficult to concentrate on choosing words.

“Good. When Julie can spare the time, she’ll show you around.”

He pushed away from the desk and strode to the door, freeing her brain from the numbing influence of his proximity. It immediately cried foul! She couldn’t allow him to walk out that door without some objection. “I’ll just wait here, then, as I’ve been doing for the last hour.”

He turned, and his eyes skimmed over her. She wondered if he’d finally noticed her suit. She lifted her chin defensively. “I took your advice.”

“On?”

“The corporate uniform. The business suit.” The cinnamon Armani wasn’t exactly that, but it was the closest thing she would be wearing in this lifetime.

His gaze returned to her face, his expression unreadable. “If that’s a business suit, why aren’t you wearing a shirt under it?”

“Because I prefer a shell top. Or a silk camisole,” she countered easily. “They feel soooo much nicer against my skin.”

A flicker, barely that, registered in his eyes. Gotcha, Paris thought, with a satisfied little smile. But he made no comment. Just a crisp “I’ll show you to your office on my way out.”

Such sacrifice! Her smile faded as she followed him out the door.

Her office was on the same floor, although about as far away from Jack’s suite as could be arranged. But that cynical thought evaporated when she walked through the door and took in the huge desk and executive chair, the filing cabinet and bookshelves, the telephone and facsimile machine and a computer.

There had to be some mistake. Her gaze swung back to Jack’s. “This is your office,” he said, as if he understood the question in her eyes.

Your office.

His words whispered over and over in her head, setting up a sibilant fizz that bubbled along her nerve endings. With reverent fingers she stroked the highly polished surface of the mahogany desk, then plopped down in the chair when her legs started to wobble. “This is much more than I expected. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, thank your father.”

Paris bit her lip rather than biting back. She didn’t want another confrontation, another reminder of how little he thought of her.

“Julie is available if you have any questions or need help. She knows as much about what goes on around here as anyone. She’s digging out the necessary background information on Milson Landing for you. While you’re waiting, you can familiarize yourself with the computer.” He gestured at the machine sitting on the other half of her L-shaped desk.

Assuming she could find the on-off switch. Paris couldn’t contain her nervous laughter. “I’m afraid I don’t speak the same language as computers.”

He stared in silent condemnation for all of ten seconds before muttering, “Why does that not surprise me?”

Under the force of his cold glare, Paris turned her chair and pretended to inspect the computer. The look in his eyes said it all—she didn’t deserve this job, and at this moment she believed him. All she had to do was open her mouth and admit it. But as she searched for the right words, she closed her eyes and placed her palms flat on the glossy desk and felt that same tingling sense of empowerment as when she’d first walked into the room.

She didn’t want to go home to the empty apartment K.G. had supplied her with, or to the meaningless life she’d done nothing to change. It didn’t matter that K.G. had given her this job for reasons of his own, or that she’d taken it through sheer cussedness. She wanted to stay, to take this chance to prove herself worthy of respect—both K.G.’s and Jack’s.

When she opened her eyes, he had gone.

Thirty minutes later Julie arrived to take her on the grand tour of Grantham House. Her attitude wasn’t precisely unfriendly. She even smiled at Paris’s first attempt to break the ice, although she clammed up again after the second attempt went awry.

How was she to know his personal assistant presided over the Jack Manning Appreciation Club?

With those limpid eyes turned killer-wolf fierce, Julie informed her that Jack worked harder than anyone in the building, was scrupulously fair and never lost his temper. By all accounts, an all-round champion boss. Paris decided it wouldn’t be politic to disagree, but despite her best conciliatory efforts, Julie didn’t smile again.

She remained polite as she conducted the rest of the tour, explaining such essential information as photocopier protocol and how to work the coffee machine—Paris made a mental note to locate the nearest half-decent coffee shop—but when they arrived back on floor eighteen she was quick to leave Paris to her own company…without any of the promised background information on Milson Landing.

When the files hadn’t arrived by ten the next morning, Paris suspected Jack of failing to pass that instruction on. A phone call quickly put paid to her theory.

“I haven’t had a chance to get to that,” Julie informed her in the kind of offhand tone that indicated she wasn’t likely to get to it in the next week.

“I could come and collect them, if that’s any help.”

“It would help if I had the files here, but some are downstairs and I’m busy at the moment. I’ll let you know when they’re ready for collection.”

Clunk.

Paris regarded the disconnected phone with a mixture of disbelief and dismay. She hadn’t expected Julie to warm to her within twenty-four hours, but neither had she expected such blatant unhelpfulness.

Her options were narrow. Two came immediately to mind, but she quickly discarded the first—as much as this office turned her on, she needed something to do in it. There were only so many ways of twiddling one’s thumbs, after all. Which left option two: she needed to start helping herself. On a last second whim she turned right outside her door instead of left and headed for the elevator and Guido’s, the better-than-passable coffee shop she’d found next door to Grantham House.

Armed with two lattes, she made it to the corridor outside Julie’s office before second thoughts brought her to a halt. What if the other girl saw it as a bribe, a shabby attempt to buy her friendship? What if she didn’t drink coffee or took it black? The only employees Paris knew were K.G.’s cronies in senior management, hardly the types you could ring and ask about a secretary’s taste in beverages!

On the verge of dumping the coffee in a nearby potted plant and scampering back to the sanctuary of her own lair, Paris’s hands trembled, and coffee shlooshed over the rim of each mug. The sticky warmth she felt seeping down her right leg was the last straw.

“Get over yourself!” she admonished forcefully, and with a deep breath she breezed through the door into Julie’s office…and found it empty.

The anticlimax wrung a bark of laughter from deep in her chest. “Oh, this is priceless,” she muttered as she crossed the room and deposited the mugs before she spilled any more. As she reached across the desk for a tissue to wipe her hands, the vision on Julie’s computer caught her attention.

“Milson Landing,” she read out loud. She leaned closer for a better look at the screen.

“Can I help you?”

Paris jumped backward and sideways at once. One hand automatically flattened against her chest as if it might still the erratic leap of her heart. “You scared the life out of me,” she declared unnecessarily.

But Julie’s attention had been diverted to something on her desk, something that caused her eyes to widen with horror as she rushed across the room. Paris turned back just as the rich brown pool of coffee spilled over the ledge of the high reception desk and cascaded down onto the papers below. The desperate grab of Julie’s hand came a second too late.

“Oh, my God…I’m so sorry!”

Julie’s expression brimmed with censure. “Why is there coffee on my desk?”

Paris didn’t think “Because I spilled it” was the answer Julie sought. “I brought you coffee,” she supplied as a weak substitute.

The other girl stared back. “Why?”

Paris shrugged and laughed nervously. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Oh, why didn’t I listen to those second thoughts? Before, she merely suspected my ineptness. Now I’ve gone and proven it.

“I don’t drink coffee at work,” Julie stated coldly.

“Well, I don’t blame you. The stuff in that coffee machine tastes like potting mix.”

“You’ve tasted it?”

“Potting mix? No way,” Paris grimaced. “I just assume it tastes like that instant caterer’s brew.”

“I meant the coffee.” Julie’s long-suffering look indicated she wasn’t amused by Paris’s attempt at lightening the moment. “I imagined you’d get your coffee sent up from Guido’s.” She glanced tellingly at the one mug still standing, its ornate gold logo glinting under the fluorescent light. Then, with a last coldly antagonistic glare, she pulled out her chair and sat down.

Paris’s chin rose in a reflex action. She knew she’d been summarily dismissed, but she refused to slink off like a naughty child. “I didn’t have the coffee sent up, I collected it myself.” When the other woman didn’t respond, irritation needled Paris into continuing. “I can understand why you didn’t welcome me with open arms. You don’t have to like me being here but, please, could you give me a fair chance to do my job?”

“The job you got through fair means?” Her tone was mild enough, but Julie’s brown eyes sparked with resentment, and Paris wondered if she had a personal agenda.

“I didn’t ask for this particular job, my father did. Please don’t hold that against me.”

A quick flush stained Julie’s cheeks, but she didn’t answer. Instead she started to sort through the coffee-splattered papers, fanning them out on the desk in an unspoken indictment of Paris’s incompetence.

“Did you want this job?”

Julie’s hands stilled, but her startled gaze flew to meet Paris’s. “Good heavens, no. Whatever gave you that idea? I love my job.” She looked down at the papers in her hand, sighed resignedly. “Jack is already working too many jobs. He needed someone to take work off his shoulders, not to add to his workload.”

The same old argument, Paris thought, with an irritated shake of her head. But then something about the heat in Julie’s defense of her boss caused her thoughts to back up a step. And before she could censor those thoughts, she blurted, “Do you have something going with Jack?”

Shock, swift and immediate, widened Julie’s eyes. “Good heavens, no.” She blew out a disbelieving gust of breath. “I mean, he is the most wonderful boss, but there’s no way we could, that I could…” She shook her head, apparently speechless.

“Because he’s your boss?”

“Because he’s not the least bit interested in me.” She glanced at Paris, and a small glint of unexpected humor danced in her eyes. “And if he was, Warren would break every bone in his body.”

“Warren?”

“My boyfriend. He’s a little possessive.” The look in her eyes indicated that she didn’t mind Warren’s possessiveness one bit.

Paris smiled back because she couldn’t help herself. Her heart felt lighter—because Julie had shared something personal, not because that something had any special ramifications, she told herself.

But as quickly as they’d connected, Julie seemed to pull back. Her smile faded. “I suppose you want those Landing files. I told you I’d call when I had them together.”

“And I wanted to help.”

Julie looked at the papers spread before her. “I wish you hadn’t.”

For the first time Paris took a good look at the pages. “They’re ruined, aren’t they?”

“Pretty much.” Julie shrugged. “They’re all on computer. I can reprint them.”

“Can I help?” Paris offered impulsively.

Julie considered the offer for a long moment. “I guess you could. That would give me time to get you those files.” She peeled one letter from the desk and held it up for Paris to see. “This reference number…here…corresponds to the file name in my computer. They’re in different directories, but you can find them by doing a search.” She looked up and must have caught the bewildered look on Paris’s face. “You do know how to find a file, don’t you?”

“I could learn.”

Julie turned away. “It will be quicker if I do it myself.”

This time Paris did feel like slinking away. Only the thought of spending another day doing nothing stopped her. “There is one other thing.” Julie’s expression was so put-upon that Paris lifted her chin automatically. “I want to arrange a meeting with the real estate agents who are marketing the Landing. Do you have their names?”

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