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“Think about it,” he said, frustrated, angry and not at all sure what to do. Should he fire her? Could he trust her? What was supposed to happen next? “Are you going to a job interview on Friday?”
She hesitated for the briefest moment. “Yes.”
He was out of patience. Sitting forward, Morgan punched another button on his market monitor. The market was open. Trading had begun. “If you take the job, I’ll expect two weeks’ notice.”
Winnie looked away, stared past his shoulder to the wall of windows behind him. There was no emotion in her face. She looked like the serene, capable assistant he’d always known. “How did you find out about my job interview?”
His stomach felt hard, tight. He hated conflict. Hated feeling mistrustful. Charlotte had done a number on him, and while it’d been fifteen years since she betrayed him, some things were impossible to forget.
But Morgan didn’t let any of his emotion show. He’d learned years ago to keep his personal life private. “Mr. Osborne’s office called on Monday doing a reference check. I spoke with Mr. Osborne personally.”
Winnie’s head lifted, and her gaze met his, eyes large and worried behind the heavy glasses. “What did you say?”
He felt his lips twist into a ghost of a smile. “That you were the best damn secretary I’d ever had.”
“Morgan, we’re worried about you. Reed’s worried about you.” Rose Grady’s precise diction was even more vigorous than usual. “Every time we turn on the television, you’re there. We can’t pick up a magazine without a story about you.”
Morgan finished pulling his T-shirt over his head, having stripped off his suit and changed into jeans and a T-shirt now that he was home.
“You’re sick of my press?” he teased, shifting the phone from one ear to the other as he headed for the kitchen.
“That’s not what I mean,” Rose retorted indignantly and Morgan could picture the elegant arch of her eyebrows rising higher. “We know how hard you’ve worked at putting the past behind you, but now these reporters are digging into everything. And I do mean, everything.”
Morgan popped open the mineral water and took a long cool drink. “It’s going to be all right,” he said, wanting to believe his own optimism as he leaned against a stainless-steel counter, his kitchen huge and modern, big enough to accommodate a fleet of chefs. “The reporters will hound someone else soon. People get bored and move on.”
“That’s not all, Morgan. There’s something else, and I’m not sure how to tell you, or even if I should tell you, but I don’t want you to hear this from anyone else.”
“Then tell me.”
Silence stretched across the line. “I saw Charlotte.”
Morgan froze. “What?”
“Charlotte came to the house.”
It felt as if he’d been slammed on the chest with a shovel. He couldn’t catch his breath. “Alone?”
“Yes.”
He set the water down so forcefully the bottle rattled on the counter. “What did she want?”
“To hear about you. To know what you’ve been doing all these years.”
Charlotte. Charlotte. “What did you tell her?”
Rose sighed impatiently. “I said, read the papers. Turn on the evening news. Morgan’s life is everywhere.”
He nearly smiled. Trust Rose to give an answer like that.
“She says, she made a mistake,” Rose continued more faintly, as if delivering this information caused her great pain. “She indicated she wanted to make amends.”
“It’s been fifteen years.”
“You once wanted this.”
“Fifteen years ago.”
“Five years ago,” Rose rebutted.
Morgan shook his head slowly, angrily, not understanding why this had to happen now when he had so much pressure on him, when he had so many people depending on him. “How did she look?”
“Even more beautiful. She’s certainly matured well. She’s a classic beauty. What do you expect?”
His chest tightened. He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to hear this, didn’t want to know this. “I don’t want to talk to her.”
“Fine.”
“And I don’t want to see her.”
“Then don’t.”
But even as he said the words, he was laughing at himself. Who was he kidding? Even fifteen years after she disappeared from his life he still wasn’t over her.
“Rose…Mom..” Morgan pressed a clenched fist to his forehead, battling fears that very few knew about. “What do I do? How do I get out of this?”
“First of all, forget Charlotte, she’s inconsequential,” Rose said crisply, comfortable taking charge again. “And second, get rid of the press!”
“How?”
“Morgan, you’re smart. Throw them a bone. Give the media a story…and I don’t mean Charlotte!”
CHAPTER FOUR
RIDING the subway to work the next morning, Winnie heard Mr. Grady’s words ring in her head. The best damn secretary he’d ever had. It was the highest compliment she could be paid. It was the highest compliment she’d ever been paid, and as pitiful as it sounded, those words from Mr. Grady meant everything to her.
She shifted on the subway seat, already sticky and warm despite the air-conditioning. Winnie told herself it was the summer heat wave making her feel a little hot, and more than a little bit crazy, but really, it had less to do with the thermometer than it did with her own feelings.
Two days from now and she’d be on a plane for the final interview in Charleston and she dreaded the interview now in Charleston, she dreaded her last day at Grady Investments, she dreaded everything to do with leaving.
Don’t think about it, she told herself, as the subway arrived at her stop and she lurched to her feet. You have two weeks before you have to say goodbye. No reason to cross that bridge today.
The advice had been sound, but the moment Mr. Grady walked into the office, Winnie’s heart did the same wild lurch it always did, making her feel as if she were on the subway or elevator again.
What was it about him that she loved so much? She stared at his eyes, his mouth, his chin and while the features were all perfectly shaped, her interest had less to do with the physical perfection than the intensity beneath.
There was something about him, she thought, putting the top of her pen to her mouth, something deeper, more complex than he wanted to reveal. But what?
“Good morning, Winnie.”
“Good morning, Mr. Grady.” She managed a firm, professional smile. It was the competent smile she knew executives preferred. “The president of Shipley’s Bank just called. Would you like me to get him back on the line?”
“Not just yet. I have a couple of things to take care of first. I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”
“Of course, Mr. Grady. Is there anything else I can do for you right now?”
“No. Just hold all calls.”
“Yes, Mr. Grady. I’ll do that, Mr. Grady.”
His door closed and she sank back into her chair and covered her face with her hands. Could she possibly sound more pathetic? Mr. Grady. No, Mr. Grady. Isn’t the sky perfectly blue, Mr. Grady?
She sounded like a simpering idiot. Winnie, you need a life.
You need to be good at something besides typing. You need to have interests other than Morgan Grady. You need to stop waiting for something good to happen.
And suddenly tears filled her eyes, ridiculous tears that had nothing to do with work and everything to do with wanting so much and not knowing how to accomplish any of it.
Once the tears started, she couldn’t seem to make them stop. Suddenly she was crying because she was the middle daughter and the uninspiring daughter and the only one of her sisters who wasn’t spectacular. Alexis and Megan were stunning, and talented, and incredibly popular. Unlike Winnie who’d never even been invited to the prom, Alexis and Megan had never missed a high school dance.
She’d never been beautiful or special, and as horrible as the tears were, as embarrassing as they were, they were real. It’s hard to be plain and unexciting when the world embraces style and beauty.
The tears continued to stream and Winnie, who firmly believed that tears didn’t belong at the office, grabbed a tissue from the box of Kleenex and blew her nose before being forced to pull off her glasses and wipe her eyes dry.
“Are you all right?” It was Mr. Grady, and his voice was coming from above her desk. She hadn’t heard his door open or his footsteps approach.
Winnie struggled to hide the tears and quickly tossed the damp tissue away. “Yes, Mr. Grady. I’m just great.”
His skeptical gaze swept her face. She knew she was a wreck when she cried. Some women were delicate weepers. She was not. Her nose went shiny. Her eyes turned pink. Her complexion took on a mottled hue. But she squeezed her lips into a smile and prayed it’d work.
It didn’t. His brow creased deeper. “You look like you’re in agony. Do you want to go home? Take an early lunch?”
“Heavens, no. It’s not even nine-thirty, sir, and it’s nothing…it’s just…it’s just…”
“Just what?”
“I’ve made a mistake.”
“I’m sure it can be fixed.”
“No, it’s too late.”
“Is it a stock order? A market transaction?” he asked, clearly dumbfounded.
“No, it’s about my job. This job, and the job in Charleston. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore. I don’t know what’s right anymore—” She broke off, eyes welling up again, and Winnie struggled to get her glasses back on, but in her haste she bypassed one ear and the black frames ended up dangling off her face.
“I think you’ve missed something,” Morgan said surprisingly gently.
“An ear, sir.” She hiccuped, took the glasses off, and slid them on correctly, hooking the glasses around each ear with as much composure as she could muster considering the fact that her nose had gone stuffy and her voice sounded thick and she’d just been sobbing her heart out. She wasn’t making sense. She knew she wasn’t making sense and it only made her feel worse.
“I’m sorry,” she said, drawing a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “I’m fine now. I just had something in my eye—”
“I think those are called tears, Winnie.”
She smiled faintly at his joke. It was a feeble joke but she appreciated it. “Yes, you’re right. And I’m fine now. Please, go back to work and put this out of mind.”
“Easier said than done.”
“It’s an achievable goal, sir.” She turned to face her computer, her fingers hovering above her keyboard and fixing her gaze on her computer screen she waited for him to disappear.
He did not. He remained where he stood, just across her desk, his tall, solid body a delight in Italian wool and Egyptian cotton. She could smell his fragrance, smell the tantalizing hint of musk, and her gaze slowly lifted, traveling up his white shirt, past the elegant gray and black tie to the square cut of his chin and his impressive lips. She thought sometimes she’d do just about anything to have a kiss from those lips…
And there she went again, fantasizing, like she’d spent half the night last night.
Last night she’d imagined driving around Manhattan in the back of Morgan’s black stretch limo and she was wearing something silky and clingy and they were kissing madly. His hand was cupping her breast and she was making desperate little whimpering sounds and she couldn’t get enough of his mouth, of his hands. In her dream she wasn’t stodgy old Winnie, but someone exciting, someone smart and funny and beautiful. But of course morning came and she woke and dragged herself into the bathroom for a reality-check shower.
And still he stood there, before her desk. She didn’t know what he wanted, what he was waiting for. Winnie dropped her hands back into her lap. “Do you need something, Mr. Grady?”
He was looking at her most strangely. Looking at her as if she wasn’t Winnie but someone else. The slash of his black eyebrows drew closer together and a lock of dark hair fell forward on his brow. “Yes. I want to know more about the job in Charleston. Why were you interested in it?”
Heat filled her, a warm slow heat that made her tingle from head to toe. She knew what she was, and saw herself all too clearly—slightly pudgy, rather frumpy, and prone to panic attacks—but oh, how she loved him and oh, how she wanted him. But living in fantasyland was just about to do her in.
“Change,” she answered huskily, wishing yet again she were someone else, someone with style, someone with grace, someone that men would fight to ask out. Although, really, she didn’t want men, she wanted just one man. Morgan.
What a stupid, futile wish. What a stupid, futile path she was traveling.
Sniffling, she jerked open her desk drawer and dug around for a paper clip to stop her eyes from welling yet again. She had to get a grip. She had to get on with things. Because even if she wore a red dress and put hot rollers in her hair, she wasn’t the supermodel of Morgan Grady’s world. Wake up, Winnie. Grow up, Winnie. You’re never going to be his type.
“But you like New York?” he persisted.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. Of course she liked New York. He lived in New York. She’d love Timbuktu if that’s where he was. “Yes, Mr. Grady.”
“So the problem is here, at the office.”
Her chest felt raw, her lungs ached with bottled air. “Yes.”
His black eyebrows drew even more tightly together. “You don’t like working for me?”
Like didn’t exactly factor into it. It was more of a love-hate thing. She loved working for him but hated being a nobody. She didn’t want to be his secretary. She was dying to be his lover.
Winnie bent her head, rolled her eyes. How perfectly Ninny Winnie.
“So it is me,” Morgan repeated.
“No!” She looked up at him, emotion so strong she was sure he could see what she was feeling in her eyes. But she did need to tell him something because obviously, she was having a problem right now. Her job search. The book on her desk. Her emotional breakdown just now. This wasn’t the dependable, rational Winnie Graham he knew. She wasn’t exactly a rock this week.
“It’s not you,” she said hoarsely, ashamed that she was practically disintegrating again. “It’s me.”
He shook his head, lines fanning from his eyes, deep grooves etched beside his mouth. “I don’t understand.”
