A Convenient Affair

“Moving in with me makes perfect sense….”

Cooper continued, “Living together would be the easiest and fastest way to convince people we’re a couple—and you did assure me that’s what you want your boss to think.”

“I want to convince him you’re serious about me,” Hannah replied. “I don’t want him to get the idea that I’ve gone totally insane.”

“There’s nothing insane about it. Anyway, Hannah, I invited you to live with me, not sleep with me.”

She was wary. “You’re not trying to blackmail me into bed?”

Leigh Michaels has always loved happy endings. Even when she was a child, if a book’s conclusion didn’t please her, she’d make up one of her own. And though she always wanted to write fiction, she very sensibly planned to earn her living as a newspaper reporter. That career didn’t work out, however, and she found she ended up writing for Harlequin Mills & Boon instead—in the kind of happy ending only a romance novelist could dream up!

Leigh likes to hear from her readers. You can write to her at P.O. Box 935, Ottumwa, Iowa, 52501-0935, U.S.A.

Books by Leigh Michaels

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

3600—HUSBAND ON DEMAND

3604—BRIDE ON LOAN

3608—WIFE ON APPROVAL

3628—THE CORPORATE WIFE

3637—THE BRIDAL SWAP

A Convenient Affair

Leigh Michaels

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

UNTIL that morning, Hannah had started to think it didn’t matter what hour of the day or night she walked Mrs. Patterson’s dog. If she abruptly decided to take Brutus out at two o’clock in the morning, she’d no doubt still run headlong into Cooper Winston somewhere along the way.

When she stopped to think about it, however, Hannah concluded that the wee hours of the morning were actually one of the more likely times to encounter the occupant of the penthouse condominium. In the hours after midnight, he was apt to be just coming home to Barron’s Court from a date… “And other associated activities,” Hannah added under her breath.

Of course, she had also run into him at the crack of dawn, at high noon, and at nine-fifteen in the evening. The time seemed to be immaterial, the encounter inevitable.

Today, however, the chain appeared to have been broken. She and Brutus had gone all the way from Barron’s Court up Grand Avenue to the governor’s mansion and back, encountering their share of commuters and joggers and even a few bundled-up babies taking their mothers out for an airing in the autumn sunshine. But for once Hannah hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of a dark-haired, gray-eyed, broad-shouldered, supercilious six-foot hunk of testosterone named Cooper Winston.

By the time they once more reached the lobby of the condo complex, Brutus was breathing hard and Hannah could feel a glow throughout her whole body from the exercise and the crisp October breeze. She punched the button to summon the elevator and bent to release the pug’s leash from his collar. “If you wouldn’t pull so hard,” she reminded him, “you wouldn’t be so out of breath at the end of your walk.”

She hadn’t heard the Art Deco doors open, but even before the man inside the elevator stepped into the lobby, she knew he was there. So much for thinking my luck has changed, she thought, and slowly straightened up, turning to face Cooper Winston.

She wasn’t sure precisely why the hair at the back of her neck always stood straight up the moment he appeared on the scene. Probably sheer dislike, Hannah thought, coupled with a touch of apprehension—for there was no doubt that lately she was the one who had been coming out the worse for wear in their encounters. Whatever the reason, it was certainly a negative one; it wasn’t as if there was anything she found magnetically attractive about the man.

Not that he was exactly hard on the eyes, she admitted. The first time she’d encountered him—over a negotiating table at Stephens & Webster, where she was an associate attorney—Hannah had thought Cooper Winston was extremely good-looking. She was partial to tall men with black hair and curly eyelashes and chiseled features. But of course that had been before she’d encountered the tight-set jaw, the perpetual crease between his brows, and the icy silver of his gaze.

All of which were in evidence right now.

She considered asking him—sweetly, of course—if he’d drunk his vinegar for breakfast as usual. But since there was nothing to be gained by gratuitous insults, she looked through him instead and said with cool politeness, “Good morning, Mr. Winston.”

He didn’t answer. She felt his gaze slide over her, and she was suddenly and painfully aware of her tousled hair, her wind-reddened cheeks, her far-from-new sweatsuit, and the faint aroma of dog that she’d acquired when she’d scooped up Brutus and carried him across Grand Avenue to beat a stream of traffic.

If the man dared to make a comment…

She looked straight at him, her chin held high.

Cooper didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to, Hannah thought bitterly. One dark eyebrow, lifting just a fraction of an inch, said it all.

At her feet, Brutus growled.

Cooper looked down. “You no doubt have some logical reason why this animal isn’t on a leash, Ms. Lowe.”

“Brutus has never bitten you,” she pointed out.

“He’s threatened often enough.”

“Only because you make it so plain that you don’t like him.”

“What’s to like? He’s ugly, overweight, and ill-tempered.”

“Being ugly isn’t his fault,” Hannah said crisply. “All pugs are. And if you were locked up all day, every day, in Mrs. Patterson’s teeny little apartment, you’d probably be—” She bit her tongue, but it was already too late.

Cooper’s voice was silky. “Overweight, too? And even more ill-tempered than I already am?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“What a nice compliment you’ve paid Mrs. Patterson. She’s quite a powerful woman, if merely being in her company could have such a destructive effect.”

“Wait a minute! If you think I was saying that Mrs. Patterson is—” Hannah sputtered to a stop. He’d done it again, she admitted, irritated. Without even trying, he’d put her squarely in the wrong—and it wasn’t much comfort to know that this time she’d handed him the opportunity.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t dream of saying anything against Mrs. Patterson, Ms. Lowe. At least not where she might hear about it.”

Hannah bristled. “I simply meant that her arthritis keeps her from taking Brutus for walks, so of course he’s fat and irritable and not well-conditioned.”

“But you’ve been exercising him for weeks now,” Cooper pointed out, “and though he does seem to have slimmed down and stopped wheezing like a hippo, he’s still in a bad mood all the time. What does that say about your company, Ms. Lowe?”

She smiled up at him. “Are you ever going to forgive me for interfering with your agreement to sell that restaurant chain, Mr. Winston? After all, I was only looking after my client’s best interests. And the sale did eventually go through as you’d arranged, even though the terms were slightly altered.”

“That’s what you call slightly altered? Ms. Lowe, I’ll forgive you about the same time I forget the fifteen million bucks your interference cost me.”

Hannah feigned a sigh of relief. “Then, since fifteen million is pocket change to a man like you, I must be well on the way to rehabilitation.”

“Fifteen million,” he mused, “and all because you batted your eyelashes like an ingenue and asked a last-minute, breathless, innocent-sounding question.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“You mean it wasn’t as innocent as it sounded? I’m glad you’re at least admitting to being cold and calculating.” He didn’t give her an opportunity to answer, but strode across the lobby toward the street.

Just as well, Hannah thought. Brutus had only growled at him, as usual; Hannah herself would have been tempted to bite the man if he’d kept it up.

On the fifth floor, she delivered Brutus to his owner and with regret refused a cup of coffee. Then, rather than wait for the elevator again and risk the chance that instead of leaving for the day Cooper had only been going to the convenience shop down the street for a newspaper, Hannah took the fire stairs up two flights and walked down the hall to Isobel’s condo.

Isobel’s condo. Even though Hannah had lived there for nearly three months now, she still didn’t call it home.

She paused just inside the door, bracing herself to face the silence. The rooms had never been quiet like this when Isobel was alive. But it had been almost exactly a month since Isobel had gone to a friend’s house in Windsor Heights one afternoon to play bridge—and never came back.

It seemed to Hannah that the condo which had been Isobel’s home for so many years was waiting for her to return. The sofa cushions were still crushed as if she had stood up just moments ago. The magazine she’d been reading lay facedown on the fainting couch in her silk-draped bedroom. The satin and lace peignoir she’d taken off when she’d dressed for her bridge party that last afternoon still lay across the foot of her bed. Bath powder still dusted the glass top of her mirrored dressing table.

Even the musky scent of Isobel’s perfume had hardly faded; it seemed to be embedded in everything she’d owned, and every time Hannah opened a drawer or a closet she released a new cloud of fragrance.

It might have been a little easier to make the transition, Hannah thought, if she herself had lived there for more than a couple of months before Isobel died. But she’d still felt pretty much like a guest on the day Isobel’s heart had abruptly given out—cautious of every action and every word, trying her best not to get in her elderly hostess’s way or upset Isobel’s longstanding routines. Now, living alone in Isobel’s condo, Hannah felt like an intruder.

She’d intended to move out immediately, but that was more easily said than done, considering the shortage of apartments in the city just now and the prices they commanded.

Besides, when she’d mentioned the move to her boss at the law firm, Brenton Bannister had simply shaken his head. “It isn’t as if you don’t have a right to be there till the estate is settled,” he’d said. “Your aunt was one of our clients, and I’m sure Ken Stephens would prefer to have the condo occupied—especially by someone he can trust—than to leave all of Isobel’s treasures there unprotected while he deals with the paperwork and gets everything in order.”

“She wasn’t my aunt, she was a distant cousin,” Hannah had reminded him. “And Barron’s Court is the most exclusive condo complex in the city. It’s not exactly a high-crime district.”

But Brenton had only smiled at her as if she’d said something terribly witty, and the next day he assured her that he’d spoken to the senior partner who had been Isobel’s attorney and gotten approval for Hannah to stay on.

So Hannah had stayed, but her discomfort hadn’t lessened as the weeks went by. Every time she touched one of Isobel’s possessions—even if she was only moving it out of her way—she had to fight off a superstitious shiver. And it might take months to sort out Isobel’s estate; there appeared to be no end to the things the woman had owned.

Regardless of what Brenton thought about her rights, Hannah decided, it was past time to find another place to live.

Of course, she’d never find anything as nice or as convenient to the office as Barron’s Court was, even if she could afford the price such a place would cost. But even if she ended up living in a cracker box, at least she wouldn’t be running into Cooper Winston all the time. That would be the biggest benefit of all.

Wherever Cooper had gone that morning, it wasn’t far enough for Hannah’s taste—because when she pushed open the lobby door, her nemesis was standing under the portico, obviously waiting for his car to be brought around from the garage at the back of the complex.

She almost drew back in order to avoid him, knowing that the parking valets wouldn’t keep him waiting long. But Brenton would be along any minute to pick her up for the short ride to work, and he wasn’t known for patience any more than Cooper was. So Hannah gritted her teeth and went out into the crisp autumn air.

The portico wasn’t very large, so Hannah found herself standing uncomfortably close to Cooper.

His gaze slid slowly over her emerald green suit, the best-quality item her wardrobe boasted. “I must say I like that fashion ensemble better than the one which includes the dog. I realize it isn’t saying much, but—”

“You know,” Hannah mused, “your grandfather would have done us all a favor, when he remodeled this building into condos, if he’d provided separate front entrances.”

A sleek red sports car pulled up in the fire lane and Brenton Bannister lowered the passenger-side window and leaned across the seat. “Good morning, Winston. Can I offer you a lift?”

Hannah wondered for an instant if he seriously expected Cooper Winston to fold himself into the sports car’s tiny rear seat, or if Brenton had forgotten about her altogether.

“They’re bringing my car around now,” Cooper said. “But thank you.”

“You don’t carry any hard feelings over that last little deal, I hope,” Brenton probed.

“Not where you’re concerned.” Cooper opened the passenger door of Brenton’s car with a flourish and held out a hand as if to help Hannah get in.

Or to push me into the street, Hannah thought. She avoided his touch, though she thanked him with elaborate politeness.

As the car pulled away from the curb, Brenton said, “He’s mellowing. I thought he would, given a little time. He’s a businessman, and he knows you can’t always win on every point.”

Hannah stared at him in disbelief. Hadn’t he heard the irony in Cooper’s voice? “Mellowing? I suppose you think Mount Rushmore is made of blue cheese, too.”

“Hannah, you’ll never get Winston’s business with that attitude.”

“Stephens & Webster will never get his business at all.”

“Why not?”

“After all the money we cost him last time around—”

“Fifteen million is peanuts to Cooper Winston,” Brenton said comfortably. “Anyway, that’s precisely my point. As soon as he cools off, he’ll want us on his team because we’re demonstrably better than the firm he was using. They never anticipated that little loophole.”

Hannah bit her tongue. It wasn’t her job to try to break through Brenton’s delusions.

“And just think, Hannah—that deal was a very small one, relatively speaking. There will be more. When Winston’s monolith swallowed up its rival in that merger deal, they got all kinds of side businesses that they won’t want to keep. The restaurant chain our client bought was only a fraction of the package. There’s a shipping firm and the aircraft refitters and a string of nursing homes—” He was practically drooling at the thought.

“I think it’s a little early to start looking for buyers,” Hannah said dryly. “He said good morning, he didn’t offer us a retainer.”

“It still wouldn’t hurt to be nice to him,” Brenton argued.

Yes, it would, Hannah thought. It would hurt a great deal. Compared to the effort involved in being nice to Cooper Winston, suffering through an impacted wisdom tooth would be like winning a prize.

Within two hours of arriving at work, Hannah was beginning to feel as if she’d been buried alive in the law library archives. Her table, located in the farthest corner, was surrounded by boxes stuffed with crumbling documents, and each time she moved a page, the musty aroma made her want to sneeze.

The first few days of digging through Jacob Jones’s old files hadn’t been so bad, but with each passing hour her claustrophobia seemed to grow worse. This case was nowhere near as interesting as the transfer of the restaurant chain had been.

But so long as she was merely an associate, the lowest-level attorney the firm had, the tedious details would fall to her. The restaurant case had had its dull days, too, she reminded herself. In fact, it had been pretty much routine right up until the instant before the deal was consummated, when Hannah had thought of one more small thing to be considered. The one small thing which everyone else, on both sides, had overlooked completely. The one small thing which had cost Cooper Winston fifteen million dollars.

Brenton Bannister poked his head around the corner of a bookshelf. “How’s it going?”

“Not very well. I haven’t found a shred of evidence yet to support our client’s case.”

“Don’t sweat it just now.” He perched on the corner of her table.

Hannah looked at him in disbelief. What on earth did he have on his mind to make him suddenly regard the Jones case as insignificant?

“Ken Stephens wants to see you in his office this morning,” Brenton said briskly. “It’s about your Aunt Isobel’s estate.”

“Cousin,” Hannah said automatically.

“What?”

“I’ve told you before, Isobel wasn’t my aunt, she was my grandfather’s cousin.”

“Aunt, cousin, whatever.” Brenton shrugged. “I suggest you hurry right upstairs and find out what he wants. You don’t keep a senior partner waiting.”

“Why take up his time at all? He sent a message through you to say I could stay in the condo. I wonder why he didn’t just do the same to tell me it’s time to leave.”

“Don’t be silly,” Brenton scoffed. “You’re too important for that kind of treatment now.”

Hannah frowned. “Important? What do you mean?”

Brenton hesitated, as if he’d said more than he’d intended. Then he shrugged. “Just a guess. Considering how agreeable he was about you staying on in the first place, I’m betting Isobel left you the condo.”

Hannah shook her head. “I doubt she’d will her home to a distant cousin whom she’d met for the first time just weeks before she died.”

“Why not?” Brenton said coolly. “Who else is there to inherit it? Anyway, she invited you to move in with her—which is more togetherness than a lot of elderly people would offer their young relatives. She must have had something of the sort in mind.”

“I think,” Hannah mused, “that she saw a chance to acquire a personal maid and social secretary for the cost of room and board. Not that I minded helping out, but there never was a time she didn’t have a list of things for me to do. Letters to write and phone calls to return and errands to run and even canapés to hand around when she entertained—”

Brenton laughed. “Maybe this is her way of paying you back. From everything I’ve heard about Isobel, waiting to reward you till she was certain she wouldn’t need the money anymore would be right down her alley.”

Hannah had to smile, for Brenton was unquestionably right. Her elderly relative had been anything but the fluffy, generous, grandmotherly type.

“Anyway, Ken Stephens is waiting for you.” Brenton slid off the corner of the table and added casually, “I’ll be tied up with clients all afternoon. But I’ll take you out to dinner tonight at the Flamingo Room and you can tell me all about it.”

Hannah was startled. In the months she’d worked under Brenton’s supervision, they’d spent countless evenings together over pizza or Chinese takeout and one case or another, and they’d grown to be friends. He’d taken her to the theater for her birthday, and she’d taken him to a concert for his. But there was something different about this invitation. Perhaps it was the restaurant he’d chosen—the nicest one in the city. Or perhaps it was something in the tone of his voice…

Her surprise must have registered in her face, for Brenton suddenly looked as self-conscious as a schoolboy. “We’ll make a special evening of it. A very special evening. Over the last few months, Hannah, as I’ve gotten to know you…” He cleared his throat. “But you haven’t got time for that now. You can’t keep Ken Stephens waiting.”

Hannah brushed the musty scent of Jacob Jones’s files off her suit as best she could and took the elevator to the uppermost level of Stephens & Webster’s three floors, to the most-prized corner office belonging to the senior partner.

She was still a bit dazed by Brenton’s declaration of love—if, indeed, that was what it was. But what else could he have meant?

As I’ve gotten to know you…A very special evening…

The very idea that Brenton might actually be serious about her created an all-gone sensation in the pit of Hannah’s stomach. She wasn’t sure she liked it. She’d looked on him as a friend, that was all. If he wanted their relationship to be more—

But she’d deal with that later, she told herself. Right now, she needed to concentrate on Ken Stephens and whatever he had to say about Isobel’s estate.

And who knew? Maybe Brenton was right after all and Isobel had left her something. Not the condo at Barron’s Court, of course—that was far too much to expect. But it wouldn’t take much of an inheritance right now to make a big difference in Hannah’s life.

Ken Stephens’s waiting room was a great deal larger than the cubicle Hannah used as an office, and it was far more luxurious. Furthermore, the young woman who sat at his secretary’s desk was much better dressed than Hannah herself was.

But then—unlike Hannah—Ken Stephens’s daughter didn’t have law school loans to repay, so she could afford designer clothes. Of course, that begged the question of what Kitty Stephens was doing here at all; if she was in the habit of acting as her father’s secretary, Hannah had never heard about it.

Hannah took a chair and entertained herself by making a mental list of the things she would buy, if indeed Isobel had left her a small legacy. A few more really good suits would be first. Clothes might make the man, as the old saying went, but they could destroy a woman. A man could get by with a minimally stocked closet and a good dry cleaner, since one masculine pinstriped suit looked so very much like another. A professional woman, on the other hand, needed a wide variety if she wasn’t to get looks of the sort Cooper Winston had given her this morning.

Not that her desire for new clothes had anything to do with him. For all she cared, he could look at her in the same green suit from now till Armageddon. After all, he didn’t have to pay attention to what she wore.

And it wasn’t that she was getting her hopes up for a legacy, either. She was just killing time. So much for Brenton’s idea that Ken Stephens was waiting for her; it was too bad she hadn’t thought to bring along a carton of Jacob Jones’s old receipts so she could keep working. But of course the musty smell would hardly have been a welcome addition to the senior partner’s waiting room.

A chime on the secretary’s desk sounded, and—looking bored—Kitty Stephens waved a hand toward the heavy door of the inner office.

Hannah tapped and went in.

Behind a desk that was roughly the size of Hannah’s entire cubicle, a silver-haired man half rose and pointed toward a pair of chairs pulled up directly across the polished surface from him. “Have a seat, Ms. Lowe. I’m sorry to have interrupted your day. I understand you’re working with Bannister on the Jones case now.”

Hannah smiled faintly. “I wouldn’t say I’m working with, exactly. I’m simply going through all the papers so I can brief him on the background before the case comes to trial.”

“Well, that’s the kind of support we rely on our young associates to provide.” His gaze coolly assessed Hannah. “I understand you’re also the genius who caused a bit of a panic at the last minute over Cooper Winston’s restaurant chain.”