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The Secretary's Seduction
Jane Porter
From sensible secretary…to sexy siren!Handsome business tycoon Morgan Grady has just been voted News Weekly's Man of the Year. Eager to move out of the media spotlight, Morgan decides it's time he found himself a wife. So New York's most eligible bachelor proposes to the one woman he knows he can trust–his sensible assistant,Winnie Graham!Alone on his exotic private island, Morgan discovers that Winnie's composed exterior hides a storm of passion and desire. The sexual attraction that had always simmered gently between them suddenly ignites into an inferno! Morgan wants Winnie, but a woman this feisty will never settle for being a convenient wife. She demands nothing less than her cynical boss's heart….
“I won’t need you,” she said sweetly, crossing her arms over her chest. “If I think about the history of our relationship, it’s you that needs me.”
“That’s a gross exaggeration!”
Winnie took a step back as he stepped forward. “Maybe, but it’s still true. When have I needed you for anything?”
Her arch question was met by complete silence. Morgan’s dark blue eyes met hers, held, and she saw a flicker there, in the dark blue depths—a hot blue fire she’d never seen before.
Winnie felt a tiny thrill, followed by a surge of adrenaline. He was looking at her, really looking at her, and he liked what he saw. It wasn’t an external thing, it was something else, something deeper, more basic, and there was heat in his eyes, heat in the way he leaned a little closer and then a little closer.
Very slowly, very deliberately, Morgan placed his right hand on the wall next to her shoulders, and then his left hand, trapping her there between him and the wall.
“I think you have needs, Winnie.”
Jane Porter grew up on a diet of Harlequin Presents
romance novels, reading late at night under the covers so her mother wouldn’t see! She wrote her first book at age eight and spent many of her high school and college years living abroad, immersing herself in other cultures and continuing to read voraciously. Now, Jane has settled down in rugged Seattle, Washington, with her gorgeous husband and two sons.
Jane loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her at P.O. Box 524, Bellevue, WA 98009, U.S.A. Or visit her Web site at www.janeporter.com.
The Secretary’s Seduction
Jane Porter
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For my great friend, Barb. It is a fairy tale, isn’t it?
CONTENTS
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
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS sweltering. No one, but no one, married in Manhattan in the middle of July. No one but Winnie Graham that is.
The organist paused and the packed congregation in St. Paul’s Cathedral seemed to rise in unison and all four hundred and fifty heads turned to stare at Winnie where she stood at the back of the church in her twenty-thousand-dollar silk bridal gown.
White silk gown.
Just like her white garter, white silk hose, white flowers, white carpet, white, white, white for a virgin bride.
For a twenty-five-year-old virgin bride who knew so little about life and men, that she was about to walk down the aisle without ever being kissed.
Well, she had been kissed once, badly kissed, back in seventh grade when Rufus Jones practically stuck his tongue down her throat at a junior high birthday party. She’d been so disgusted by the kiss that she’d nearly thrown up afterward, so that kiss didn’t count.
And now she was about to marry the love of her life except he didn’t love her and he’d never kissed her and she’d actually signed a contract agreeing to this horrible public society wedding which meant nothing to him.
What in God’s name was she thinking? What in God’s name was she doing?
How could she be a wife before she’d ever had a date?
Winnie closed her eyes, drew a deep breath and tried to calm herself but she was losing it, knew she was losing it. She was shaking so hard now she could barely keep her teeth from chattering. Funny how your teeth could chatter when you’re burning up. Perspiration covered her skin. Her heart raced. She couldn’t get enough air.
What a fool she was. What a perfect idiot.
Yes, she loved Morgan Grady. Yes, she was madly in love with Morgan Grady, but how could she sell herself like this? How could she sign away her life?
A contract.
She’d signed a contract to become his wife.
How could she love herself so little and him so much?
The organist struck the keys with fervor. Bars of music filled the cathedral, four hundred and fifty people seemed to inhale all at once, waiting for her to take the first step forward.
Winnie’s head swam. The people became a blur of white noise and heat. It was so hot in here. There were too many people and not enough air. She felt as though she were suffocating. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. And they were all waiting for her to move. To take that first step. Morgan was waiting for her to take that first step.
So she did. She took a step, she turned around, she ran.
Winnie dropped her bouquet of white lilies, roses and orchids in the cool foyer, dashed through the cathedral’s paneled doors, down the wide marble steps and jumped into a passing taxicab.
CHAPTER TWO
“WHERE to?” the cabdriver asked, sweating profusely and craning his head to get a look at her in the back seat, the stiff petticoats in her wedding gown making the white silk billow like huge sails on an eighteenth-century schooner.
The cabbie needed a shower. The inside of the car stank of old sweat. Winnie cranked her window down, dangerously close to throwing up.
“Anywhere,” she choked, needing air, but the hot muggy air outside only made her more nauseous.
The driver shot her another glance. “I got to go somewhere, lady.”
Where to go, where to go after leaving her family, Morgan and four hundred and fifty people behind in the church?
She had to go someplace that no one would find her. Someplace where no one would be. “The Tower, on Wall Street,” she said, sinking against the seat, naming her office building.
It was Saturday, the office would be deserted, and not even Morgan would think to look for her there.
Closing her eyes, Winnie sagged against the sticky vinyl seat and tried to forget that she’d just run away from her own wedding, that she, Winnie Graham had left Morgan Grady, New York’s Sexiest Bachelor, standing at the altar.
But eyes closed, she saw it all, saw how it happened.
She even knew the day—the hour—the moment—that everything in her life had changed.
June sixteenth. His office. Her insecurity.
“Willa, I need copies of these immediately,” Morgan Grady said, thrusting a sheath of papers across the desk without looking up, “and the top two sets faxed to the client noted on the cover page.”
Winnie’s heart fell. Five and a half months she’d been working for him. Five and a half months and he still didn’t know her name.
“It’s Winnie,” she corrected faintly, growing warm as color crept into her cheeks.
“What’s that?”
She balled one hand and pressed her thumb across her knuckles. She’d never liked her name, never understood how her parents could look into her face as a newborn and think, Winnie, yes, you with the little puffy eyes and tiny mouth, you’re our Winnie. But if Winnie was bad, Willa was far worse.
She’d corrected him before, several times actually, but he’d always been on his way in or out, or in the middle of something important, so she forgave the slips, and made up excuses for him.
But after five and a half months, the excuses had worn thin. Her patience had worn down. And her outer skin had worn off. She couldn’t do this anymore, nor could she handle being invisible. It was definitely time to move on.
Winnie’s lungs ached and she exhaled, feeling the elastic of her panty hose pinch her waist. She’d gained some weight over the winter, her usual extra five or ten pounds and she’d been slow to lose the weight this year. “You called me Willa.”
He didn’t look up. His attention never wavered from his Palm Pilot where he was making copious notes. “Yes.”
Her panty hose was killing her. She couldn’t remember when she felt so frumpy or dull. And worst of all, it wounded her pride that Mr. Grady was completely oblivious to her existence, while she knew—and was expected to know—everything about him.
Morgan Louis Grady. Born August first, Boston, Massachusetts.
A Leo, he took four newspapers daily, but didn’t start reading until he’d hit his treadmill and weights for his morning workout.
He read all the important business sections of the paper between six and seven in the morning, during which he drank exactly two and a half cups of very strong, very black coffee. He had nothing until lunch—light salad and chicken from a caterer that delivered every day—and worked without interruption until three when she brought him a shot of espresso from the coffee cart downstairs.
Shirt size: sixteen and a half. Shoe size: eleven.
Height: six foot three. Weight: two hundred and five muscular pounds—he never varied in weight.
Impeccable dresser.
His hair was another matter. That couldn’t, wouldn’t be tamed. Thick, glossy and nearly black, he had a cowlick at his temple and he wore the back longer than the rest. He could cut it all short but he never did.
She knew all this, and more, and yet he didn’t even know her name. Drawing a deep breath she blurted, “Mr. Grady, my name is Winnie, not Willa. I’m Winnie Graham and I’ve worked here since January second.”
His dark head lifted. “Oh.”
She stood a bit straighter, pulled back her shoulder blades, trying to project that she was taller, more impressive than her five feet, five inch height. “I replaced Miss Dirkle. And Miss Dirkle replaced Miss Hunts. And Miss Hunts, I believe, took over for Mrs. Amadio.”
“Yes. Miss Dirkle, Miss Hunts, I remember.”
They were making progress. Eye contact had been established. He recognized some names. He appeared to be listening. Good.
Now was the time to mention Friday.
Friday, four days from now, she had a final interview with a company in Charleston for a position much like the one she held now, executive assistant to the CEO of a major Fortune 500 firm. The job responsibilities and salary were equitable with what she had now, except that the cost of living in Charleston was much more affordable than Manhattan, and she’d be working for a kind, grandfather-like gentleman in his sixties rather than Morgan Grady, Wall Street’s Most Eligible Bachelor. “About Friday, Mr. Grady—”
“What about Friday?”
“I sent you a memo.”
“I don’t recall.”
There were moments she wondered how he could possibly be New York’s youngest, shrewdest, most aggressive money manager. Everyone said he was brilliant. His firm received more press than any other investment firm on Wall Street, citing his leadership, insight and intuition, but he didn’t display a bit of that insight and intuition with his assistant.
Flushing, Winnie pressed the stack of paperwork to her chest. “I left you a memo two weeks ago about needing Friday off, and then a follow up e-mail last week—”
“Sorry.” He shook his head once, a short cryptic shake even as his gaze dropped to his desk and he reached for his phone. “Anyway, Friday’s bad. Can’t do. Wait until later in the summer, right?”
Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Not only had he said no, but she’d lost his attention.
Twenty seconds of conversation and he’d mentally checked out.
She glared at him, fighting tears, wondering just what went on inside that head.
He was heart-stoppingly beautiful. Women fell at his feet in droves.
Last year he’d even been voted Wall Street’s Most Eligible Bachelor, six months ago he’d been selected New York’s Sexiest Bachelor, and the florist deliveries continued to stream in. Long-stemmed red roses, potted palms, elegant orchids. Socialites, models, actresses, other men’s wives…they all wanted him.
Including her.
She tried to study him dispassionately but there was nothing dispassionate about her feelings for him.
