At Her Boss's Bidding

“You do realize I don’t love you?”

“Yes,” she surprised him by admitting, though her voice was trembling and her eyes had gone all smoky.

“I will never fall in love with you,” he added, even as his hands slipped inside her jacket.

“I don’t expect you to,” she replied somewhat breathlessly.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he told her, before his conscience shut down entirely.

“But I want you to,” she choked out.

“Want me to do what?” he murmured as he slipped the jacket off her shoulders and let it fall to the carpet.

“Wh-whatever,” she stammered.

Any hope of salvation fled. He was lost and so, he realized when he looked down into her dilating eyes, was she….

At Her Boss’s Bidding

Miranda Lee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

PROLOGUE

SHE was perfect, Justin thought from the first moment Ms Rachel Witherspoon walked in to be interviewed.

Perfectly plain and prim-looking, dressed in a very unsexy black suit, mousy brown hair severely scraped back and anchored in a twist. No make-up and no perfume, he realised with relief, the absolute opposite of the blonde bombshell who’d been wiggling her way around his office for the last month, pretending to be his personal assistant.

No, that was probably unfair. The girl had been efficient enough. The company who’d sent her over straight away after his previous PA quit on short notice didn’t have dummies on their books.

But she’d made it clear within a few days that her services could easily extend beyond being just his PA. She’d used every opportunity—and every weapon in her considerable physical arsenal—to get this message across. He’d been bombarded with provocative clothes, provocative smiles and provocative comments till he couldn’t bear another second. When she’d come in last Monday, showing more cleavage than a call-girl, Justin had cracked.

He didn’t sack her as such. He didn’t have to. She was just a temp. He simply told her that this would be her last week, saying that he’d hired a permanent PA and she was starting the following Monday.

A lie, of course. But a necessary one for his sanity.

Not that he was sexually tempted by her. Oh, no. It was just that every time she came on to him, he was reminded of Mandy and what she must have got up to with that boss of hers. What she was still getting up to every single day, jet-setting around the world and being his personal assistant in every which way there was.

Justin’s jaw clenched down hard at the thought. It had been eighteen months since his wife had confessed what had been going on, then added the shattering news that she was leaving him to become her boss’s mistress.

Eighteen months! Yet the pain was still there. The pain of her betrayal and deception, plus the sharpest memory of the hurtful things she’d said to him that final day. Cruel things. Soul-destroying things!

Most men who’d been so savagely dumped might have soothed their battered egos by going out and bedding every female in sight. But Justin hadn’t been to bed with a single woman since Mandy walked out. He simply hadn’t wanted to. Just the thought of being physically intimate with another female made him shudder.

Of course, none of his male friends and colleagues knew that. You didn’t confess such things to other men. They would never understand, or sympathise. His mother had an inkling, though. She knew how hurt he’d been by Mandy’s deception and desertion. She kept telling him that someday he’d meet a really nice woman who’d make him forget about Mandy.

Mothers were eternal optimists. And incorrigible matchmakers.

So when his mum—to whom he’d been complaining about his office situation—rang last weekend to say that she had the perfect PA for him he’d been understandably wary. Only after he’d struggled without a secretary for a week, and been repeatedly reassured that this Rachel was nothing like his temptation of a temp, did Justin agree to interview Ms Witherspoon.

And here she was. In the flesh.

What there was of it.

She was so thin! And terribly tired-looking, with huge black rings under her eyes. Nice eyes, though. Nice shape. And an interesting colour. But so sad.

She was supposed to be only thirty-one, according to the birthdate on her résumé. But she looked closer to forty.

Understandable, he supposed, after what she’d gone through these last few years. Sympathy for her washed through Justin and he decided then and there to offer her the job. He already knew she had the qualifications, even if she might be a bit rusty. But someone as smart as she obviously was would have no trouble brushing up on her secretarial skills.

Still, he supposed he had to go through the motions of a proper interview, otherwise she might think it a bit fishy. Nobody liked charity. Or pity.

‘So, Rachel,’ he said matter-of-factly once she’d settled herself in the chair. ‘My mother has told me a lot about you. And your résumé here is very impressive,’ he added, tapping the two-page work history which had been faxed to him the day before. ‘I see you were finalist in the Secretary of the Year competition a few years back. And your boss at that time was very high up in the Australian Broadcasting Corporation. Perhaps you could tell me a little about your work experience there…’

CHAPTER ONE

‘THIS is just like old times, isn’t it?’ Rachel said to Isabel as she jumped into bed and pulled the pretty patchwork quilt up to her chin.

‘True,’ Isabel returned, and climbed into the matching single bed, her memory racing back to those old times.

Rachel and Isabel had attended the same boarding-school, and become best friends from day one. After Rachel’s parents were killed in a freak train accident when Rachel was only fourteen, the girls had grown even closer. When Rachel’s upbringing had been taken over by her mother’s best friend, a nice lady named Lettie, Isabel had been thrilled to discover that Lettie lived in the same suburb of Sydney as her parents did. During the school holidays Rachel had often slept over at Isabel’s. Sometimes, she’d stayed for days. Lettie hadn’t minded. The girls had become inseparable, and liked nothing better than to lie awake in bed at night and talk for hours.

Rachel smiled over at Isabel. ‘I feel like fifteen again.’

Well, you don’t look like fifteen, Isabel thought with an inner sigh. Rachel looked every one of her thirty-one years, and then some. Which was a real pity. She’d once been drop-dead gorgeous, with glossy auburn hair, flashing eyes and a fab figure which Isabel had always envied.

But four years of nursing her terminally ill foster-mother had taken its toll. Rachel was a mere shadow of her former self.

Isabel had hoped that Lettie’s finally passing away—the poor love had been suffering from Alzheimer’s—and Rachel getting back into the workforce would put some oomph back into the girl.

But that hadn’t happened yet.

Still, it had only been a few weeks.

She had put on a couple of pounds, which was a start. And when she smiled as she had just then you could catch a glimpse of the vibrant beauty she’d once been.

Hopefully, tomorrow, at the wedding, she’d smile a lot. Otherwise, when she saw the photographs of herself at a later date she’d be in for a shock. Isabel knew that she herself was looking her very best. Love suited her. As did pregnancy.

She was glowing.

Isabel was glad now that she’d taken some measures to make sure her chief bridesmaid didn’t suffer too much by comparison.

‘Promise me you’ll let my hairdresser have his wicked way with you tomorrow,’ Isabel insisted. ‘Red hair will look much better with your turquoise dress than brown. And its bare neckline needs curls bouncing around on your shoulders. None of that wearing your hair pulled back like you do for work. Or up in any way. Rafe hates hair worn up on a woman, anyway. I’ve also hired a make-up artist to do our faces and I don’t want to hear any objections.’

‘I won’t object. It’s your day. I’ll do whatever you want. But just a temporary rinse in my hair, please. I don’t want to show up at the office on Monday morning with red hair.’

‘Why not?’

‘You know why not. One of the reasons Justin hired me as his PA was because I was nothing like my predecessor. She’d been flashy and flirtatious, remember? Alice told us all about her.’

Isabel rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t think a bit of red dye in your hair constitutes flashy and flirtatious.’

‘Maybe not, but I don’t want to take any chances. I like my job, Isabel. I don’t want to do anything to risk losing it.’

‘You know, when I first heard about Justin McCarthy I thought he was being sensible, not wanting a glamour-puss secretary who obviously had the hots for him. Office affairs rarely end well, especially for the woman. Now I’m beginning to agree more with Rafe’s opinion of him. He says any divorced guy who fires a beautiful PA for flirting with him has to either be paranoid about women, or gay.’

‘He did not fire my predecessor,’ Rachel said, rather defensively, Isabel thought. ‘She was just a temp. And Justin is not at all paranoid about women. He’s very nice to me.’

‘You said he was difficult and demanding.’

Rachel sighed. ‘That was only on the day I somehow stupidly deleted a file and it took him six hours to recover it. Normally, he’s very even-tempered.’

‘Not all bitter and twisted?’

‘I don’t see any evidence of it.’

‘OK, that leaves gay. So, what do you think? Is your boss gay? Could that be the reason his wife left him?’

‘I honestly don’t know, and quite frankly, Isabel, I don’t care. My boss’s private life is his own business.’

‘But you said he was good-looking. And only in his mid-thirties. Are you saying you’re not attracted to him, just a little?’

‘Not at all. No,’ Rachel repeated firmly when Isabel gave her a long, narrowed-eyed look.

‘I don’t believe you. You told me a little while back that you were so lonely you’d sleep with anything in trousers. Now here you are, working very closely with a handsome hunk of possibly heterosexual flesh and you’re telling me you don’t have the occasional sexual fantasy about him? You might be a bit depressed, Rach, but you’re not dead. This is me you’re talking to, remember? Your best friend. Your confidante in matters up close and personal over the years. I haven’t forgotten that you lost your virginity at the tender age of sixteen, and you were never without a boyfriend after that till Eric dumped you. You might not like men much any more, given what that bastard did, but—’

‘Oh, I still like some men,’ Rachel broke in. ‘I like Rafe,’ she added with a cheeky little grin.

‘Yes, well, all females like Rafe,’ Isabel returned drily, ‘even my mother. But since darling Rafe is already the father of my babe-to-be, and about to become my husband tomorrow, then you can’t have him, not even on loan. You’ll have to find some other hunk to see to your sexual needs.’

‘Who said I had sexual needs?’

‘Don’t you?’ Isabel was startled. She must have after four years of celibacy!

‘I don’t seem to. I rarely think about sex any more, let alone need it.’

Yes, that was patently obvious, now that Isabel came to think about it. If Rachel felt like sex occasionally, she’d do herself up a bit, and to hell with her paranoid boss. There were plenty of other secretarial jobs in the world, and plenty of other men to go with them. The business district of Sydney was full of very attractive men of all ages. Of course, with her looks on the wane, Rachel might not be able to catch herself a seriously gorgeous hunk like Rafe, but there was no reason for her to be lonely, or celibate.

‘Actually, I’m not sure I ever did need it, as such,’ Rachel went on thoughtfully. ‘Sex was just another facet of my being in love. Losing my virginity at sixteen wasn’t a sexual urge so much as an emotional one. I’d fallen in love for the first time and I wanted to give myself to Josh.’

‘But you enjoyed it. You told me so.’

‘Yes, I certainly did. But it wasn’t just sex I was after. It was that lovely feeling of being loved.’

Isabel smiled. ‘You know, it’s possible to have very good sex without love, Rach.’

‘Maybe for you, but not for me. When I said I’d sleep with anyone after Lettie died, that was just my grief and loneliness talking. I can’t just sleep with anyone. I have to be in love and, quite frankly, since my experience with Eric I don’t think I’m capable of falling in love any more. I just don’t have the heart for it. Or the courage. Eric hurt me more than I could ever explain. I honestly thought he loved me as much as I loved him. But, looking back, I don’t think he loved me at all.’

‘He didn’t, the selfish rat. But that doesn’t mean that one day you won’t meet a man who will love you the way you deserve to be loved.’

‘You’re only saying that because you were lucky enough to find Rafe. Not so long ago, you didn’t have such a high opinion of the male sex.’

‘True.’ Isabel couldn’t deny that she’d been a classic cynic for ages where men were concerned. She’d spent most of her adult female life falling in love with Mr Wrong. She knew where Rachel was coming from and, honestly, she couldn’t blame her for feeling the way she did. Eric had treated her shamefully, dumping her after he found out Rachel was quitting her job to look after Lettie. That, coming on top of Lettie’s own husband heartlessly abandoning his increasingly vague wife, must have been the final straw. It was no wonder Rachel’s faith in the male sex had been seriously dented.

‘I’m quite happy as I am, Isabel,’ Rachel went on, ‘without a man in my personal life. I’m really enjoying my job. It’s very interesting working for an investment consultant. I’m learning a lot about the stock market, and money matters, which hasn’t exactly been my forte till now, as you know. I’m thinking of going to university at night next year and doing a business degree, part-time. I have plans for my life, Isabel, so don’t you worry about me. I’ll be fine.’

Isabel sighed. That’s what she always said. Rachel was one brave girl. But a rather unlucky one. When Lettie died they’d both thought she’d at least have some financial equity in Lettie’s house, despite it being mortgaged. Rachel was the sole beneficiary in Lettie’s will, made after Lettie’s husband had deserted her. Rachel had been going to sell the house and put a deposit on an inner-city apartment with the money left over after the loan had been repaid. So she’d been shattered to find out the house was still in Lettie’s husband’s name.

When Rachel went to the solicitor who was looking after Lettie’s estate and explained that she’d personally paid the mortgage for the past four and a half years with money she’d earned doing clothes alterations at home, the solicitor had countered that Lettie’s ex had paid the mortgage for fifteen years before that and had no intention of giving her a cent.

She was also informed that Lettie’s ex was thinking of contesting Lettie’s last will as well, since it was made after she was diagnosed with a mentally debilitating illness. Rachel was advised she could go to court to fight for a share of the house and contents if she wished, but her case was shaky. Even if she won, the amount of money she’d be awarded would undoubtedly be exceeded by her court costs.

So Rachel had walked away with nothing but a few personal possessions, her clothes and a second-hand sewing machine.

She’d temporarily been living with Isabel in her town house at Turramurra, and had agreed to house-sit whilst Isabel and Rafe were away on their honeymoon. Isabel had offered her the use of her place on a permanent basis for a nominal rent, since she was moving into Rafe’s inner-city terraced house on their return, but Rachel had refused, saying she would look for a small place of her own closer to the city.

Silly, really, Isabel thought. She should let her friends help her in her hour of need. But that was Rachel for you. Independent and proud. Too proud.

But the nicest person in the world.

Isabel hoped that one day a man might come along worthy of her. A man of character and sensitivity. A man with a lot of love to give.

Because of course that was what Rachel needed. To be loved. Truly. Madly. Deeply.

Just as Rafe loves me, Isabel thought dreamily.

God, she was so lucky.

Poor Rachel. She did feel terribly sorry for her.

CHAPTER TWO

RACHEL hurried down the city street the following Monday morning, anxious not to be late for work. She’d caught a slightly later train than usual, courtesy of the longer time it had taken her to get ready for work that morning. Now she was trying to make up for lost time, her sensibly shod feet working hard.

Turning a corner into a city street which faced east, Rachel was suddenly confronted by the rays of the rising sun slanting straight into her eyes. But she didn’t slacken her pace.

The day was going to be warm again, she quickly realised. Too warm, really, for a black suit with a long-sleeved jacket. Spring had been late coming to Sydney this year, but it was now here with a vengeance. October had had record temperatures so far and today looked like no exception. Not a cloud marred the clear blue sky, making the weather forecast for a southerly change today highly unlikely.

There was no doubt about it. She’d have to buy some new work clothes soon. What she’d been wearing would not take her right through the spring till summer. She should never have been stupid enough to buy all long-sleeved suits to begin with. She’d buy something other than black next time too, though nothing bright or frivolous. Something which would go with black accessories. Light grey, perhaps. Or camel. That colour was very in.

Unfortunately, such shopping would have to wait till Isabel got home from her honeymoon in three weeks’ time. Rachel didn’t have a clue where the shops were that Isabel had taken her to last time, and which catered brilliantly for the serious career girl. Admittedly, a large percentage of the clothes in those shops was black, but they also had other colours.

Till then, however, she was stuck with black. And long sleeves.

Thank heaven for air-conditioning, she thought as she pushed the sleeves up her arms and puffed her way up the increasingly steep incline.

A sideways glance at her reflection in a shop window brought a groan to her lips. Her hair was still red, despite several washings yesterday and a couple more this morning. Maybe not quite as bright a red as it had been for the wedding on Saturday, but bright enough. She wished now she’d gone out yesterday and bought a brown hair dye. But at the time she’d been hoping the colour would still wash out.

If Isabel hadn’t already been winging her way overseas on her honeymoon, Rachel would have torn strips off her mischief-making best friend. That hairdresser of hers must have used a semi-permanent colour on her hair, Rachel was sure of it.

Admittedly, she’d ended up looking pretty good for the wedding. From a distance. Amazing what a glamorous dress, a big hairdo and a make-up expert could achieve. But that was then and this was now, and bright red hair did not sit well with Rachel’s normally unmade-up face, or her decidedly un-glamorous work wardrobe.

She was thankful that the repeated washings yesterday had toned down the colour somewhat. Hopefully, the way she was wearing it today—scraped back even more severely than usual—would also minimise the effect. She would hate for Justin to think that she was suddenly trying to attract his attention in any way.

As she’d told Isabel the other night, she liked her job. And she didn’t want to lose it. Or even remotely risk the good relationship she’d already established with her boss, which was very professional and based on mutual respect. Justin had told her only last week what a relief it was to come into work and not be overpowered by some cloying perfume, or confronted with a cleavage deep enough to lose the Harbour Bridge in.

Rachel was out of breath by the time she reached the tall city office block which housed the huge insurance company where she worked.

When she’d first heard about the job as Justin’s PA Rachel had been under the impression that Justin was an AWI executive. That wasn’t the case, however. He was an independent hot-shot financial analyst under contract to AWI to give them his exclusive financial advice for two years, after which Justin planned on starting up his own consultancy company. Preferably in an office away from the inner-city area, he’d explained to her one day over a mutual coffee break, ideally overlooking one of the northern beaches.

Meanwhile, AWI had given him use of a suite of rooms on the fifteenth floor of their building, which was high up enough to have a good view of the city and the harbour.

But the view wasn’t the only good thing about this suite of rooms. The space was incredible. Rachel had sole occupancy of the entire reception area, which was huge, and boasted its own powder room and tea-cum-store room, along with a massive semicircular work station where three secretaries could have happily worked side by side without being cramped.

Justin’s office beyond was just as spacious, as well as having two large adjoining rooms, one furnished for meetings, the other for relaxing and entertaining. Rachel had never seen a better-stocked bar, not to mention such a lavish bathroom, tiled from top to bottom in black marble, with the most exquisite gold fittings.

Justin had confided to her during her first interview that this suite of rooms had previously been occupied by an AWI superannuation-fund manager who’d redecorated as if he owned the company, and been subsequently sacked. No expense had been spared, from the plush sable carpet to the sleekly modern beech office furniture, the Italian cream leather sofas and the impressionistic art originals on the walls.

Clearly, Justin being allotted this five-star suite of rooms showed how much his skills were valued by his temporary employers.

Rachel valued him as her boss, too. She admired his strong work ethics and his lack of personal arrogance. Most men with his looks and intelligence possessed egos to match. Justin didn’t. Not that he was perfect, by any means. He did have his difficult and demanding moments. And some days his mood left a lot to be desired.

Still, Rachel already knew she’d like nothing better than to go with him when he left to set up his own company. He’d already implied she could, if she wanted to. He seemed as pleased with her as she was with him.

A shaft of sunshine lit up Rachel’s red hair again as she pushed her way into the building’s foyer through the revolving glass doors. The top of her head fairly glowed in the glass and she groaned again. She would definitely be going out at lunch time and buying that brown dye. Meanwhile, she would explain to Justin the reason behind her change of hair colour, and that it was as good as gone. Then he couldn’t jump to any wrong conclusions.

No one gave Rachel a second glance during the lift ride up to the fifteenth floor, which was because none of the smartly dressed men and women in the lift even knew her. Few people who worked in the building knew her. Justin worked alone, with only the occasional fund manager actually dropping in for advice, face to face. Mostly they contacted Justin by phone or email, and vice versa.