The Playboy's Protegee

“And of course, Megan, I want you as part of the team.”

The chair hit Harry in the back as he sat up. Megan had just been added to the negotiation team? He had missed something. He was leading the team, and his nemesis had just thorned her way into his side.

To conceal his irritation, Harry focused on an oil painting on the wall above Megan’s head. Suddenly everyone began clapping. Great. Obviously not his day. Now what had he missed?

Something major from the way everyone was smiling at him. Harry smiled automatically, hiding his lack of a clue.

“Congratulations,” someone said.

“What a great pairing,” the executive to his right said. “You and Megan MacGregor. She’s talent extraordinare. Think of what you two can accomplish.”

“Thank you,” Harry said. He glanced up at his grandfather. Grandpa Joe looked smug and instantly Harry knew what he’d missed. Grandpa Joe had just announced at the meeting that he, Harry, was Megan’s mentor. His beloved grandfather had just caught him in a corner and used it to his advantage. There was no way Harry could retaliate or back out now. He was stuck. Grandpa Joe arched his white eyebrows at Harry, the movement and his twinkling blue eyes saying what words could not.

Harry had been had. He was stuck. He’d have to play along. His sister’s words came into his head. They were the ones she’d often repeated when frustrated during her tenure at Jacobsen’s, “If I didn’t love Grandpa Joe.”

His grandfather came over to his seat and leaned down to speak just so Harry could hear. “It’s for your own good, and that of Jacobsen’s. Keep that in mind. I will expect you to accomplish this with no problems.”

“I understand,” Harry replied. He watched his grandfather leave the conference room. Four years of acting in high school theater allowed Harry to keep his face schooled into a neutral mask that hid all of his raging anger.

His only consolation was that across the table Megan looked shell-shocked. And for once she was speechless as people began leaving the meeting, each telling her congratulations as they walked by.

“HOW’D IT GO?” Cheryl looked up from sorting the mail as Megan returned to her office.

“Great,” Megan lied as she walked toward her cubicle. “Just great.”

Normally she would stop and chat with Cheryl. As a co-worker, she liked Cheryl. Because of poor performance, Megan had needed to fire the previous receptionist.

“I’m glad it went great,” Cheryl called after her.

Yeah, Megan thought. Most of the meeting had gone great.

The meeting had been going well, even after she’d made the major blunder of opening her mouth and blurting out her opinion of Harry’s idea.

After all, the meeting had been a brainstorming and that’s what think-tank brainstorming was, a shouting out of ideas so that people could look at all sides of the issues.

But she’d crossed Harry Sanders, again. Why did she keep doing that? This was the second time her politically incorrect semantics had discredited his ideas.

And then Joe Jacobsen announced to everyone that Harry was her mentor.

“I didn’t accept the job, you know.”

She’d recognize his voice anywhere. Its husky baritone washed over her, and she whirled around in her chair, finding Harry Sanders standing at the entrance to her cubicle, his presence filling the small opening. “So we can find some common ground and manage to work together on this project, know that he poleaxed me too.”

“I see,” Megan said. She bit back her anger. If he’d only backed out when she’d asked. But that didn’t matter now. They were stuck. Fighting like at their last encounter in his office would do both little good.

So instead she took a good look at him. Tiny hints of strain etched lines around his blue eyes. They were Jacobsen blue eyes, just like his grandfather’s. The only thing missing was the warmth Joe Jacobsen always had in his.

But there was no doubt about it, Harry Sanders was a beautiful man. His hair, almost the color of wheat with natural highlights washed through, was short and cropped into the latest fashion. His eyes were set deep—the top lid hidden, sunken into his face like Paul Newman’s or Simon Baker’s. And his lips, Megan didn’t want to think about those, or the number of women they’d kissed. Everyone at Jacobsen knew Harry’s playboy reputation. While he never dated anyone at work, the switchboard fielded enough of his calls, more than triple anyone else’s.

He smiled suddenly, and it lit up his whole face. Laugh lines creased around those generous lips, and Megan sucked in her breath. If he looked like that when he smiled politely, what would he look like when he really smiled, smiled with pleasure or wanting?

That was dangerous ground she didn’t need to tread. Harry Sanders was business, that was all. Averting her gaze from his straight white teeth, she tried to concentrate on what he was saying as he sat in a chair at her small table. Instead she saw paisley socks that perfectly matched both his suit and his shoes. The man knew how to dress. She blinked.

“…so my grandfather again gets what he wants. I’ll expect you to have the full proposal read by tomorrow. Even though Jill is researching your ideas, you need to be certain she gives you a full report before you board the plane. And lastly, buy yourself an updated wardrobe. Those clothes need to go.”

“What?” Had she heard him correctly? Her mouth opened a little in surprise.

“Clothes,” Harry said without missing a beat. She had heard him correctly. “You look like a dowager duchess. Prim. Proper. Not quite the look we want. You’re what, twenty-something?”

“Twenty-seven.” Her voice was indignant.

“Right. Well you should dress sleek. Young. Professional. Not frumpy. We’re going into the fashion capital of America and you aren’t sixty.”

“There is nothing wrong with my clothes,” Megan repeated, reining in her anger. After all, her clothes were designer labels, she’d just found them in an upscale consignment shop.

Harry folded his hands into his lap and leaned forward. The movement allowed her to glimpse the muscles under the suit jacket and her mouth went dry. “I’ve been given the task of being your mentor. Why don’t you assume I do know some things and follow my advice. Since I am your mentor, you are now a reflection of me and my tutelage. Thus, I’d prefer you listen.”

He leaned back and put his hands behind his head. That movement emphasized other muscles. Megan resisted the urge to lick her lips.

What was it about him? Other men had sat in her cubicle, but why was Harry’s presence affecting her like this? Megan attempted to focus, her gaze instead watching Harry as he shrugged, his jaw flexing as he spoke.

“But, if you don’t want to update your wardrobe I suppose that’s fine. When you discover I’m right, it will come at your expense.”

She attempted to regain control of the situation. Harry Sanders, who always looked perfect, was in her cubicle telling her how to dress. The thought rankled, giving her some of the bite she needed. “I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?”

Harry took what seemed like forever to study her. Megan felt her body heat as his blue-eyed gaze roved over her. It took all her mettle not to move a muscle. Whatever this test was, she would pass.

He finally spoke, his voice a bit lower, huskier, than before. “No. There’s nothing else. Everything else, hair, makeup, is fine. Just fine. Make sure you lose the frumpy clothes. My sister usually shops at…”

He rattled off the names of some stores and then he was gone.

Megan stared at the empty chair. Had he really been there at all? She knew he had, but it seemed so improbable. Harry Sanders, extending an olive branch of sorts?

If that’s what it actually was? And if it was an olive branch, it was probably only because he was stuck with her, and her with him. But he was correct about one thing. He did know how to dress, and he always looked impeccable no matter what designer suit he wore

New clothes. Buying clothes would break her tight budget, but as much as she hated to admit it, Harry was right. She needed a young professional wardrobe.

New York, here I come.

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