His Secretary's Nine-Month Notice (Mills & Boon Modern)

by Cathy Williams

  There’s a billionaire on her doorstep...

  Ready to secure his legacy!

  As commanding tycoon Matt’s secretary, it’s Violet’s job to be prepared for anything. Though absolutely nothing could have prepared her for today. Handing in her notice was not part of dedicated Violet’s plan...and definitely not because she’s carrying her boss’s baby!

  Still, nothing is quite as unexpected as Matt’s reaction. He wants his child—and Violet! It’s a negotiation he’s determined to win...but he’ll need to offer more than just passion for Violet to sign on the dotted line of a marriage contract!

  CATHY WILLIAMS can remember reading Mills & Boon books as a teenager, and now that she’s writing them she remains an avid fan. For her, there is nothing like creating romantic stories and engaging plots, and each and every book is a new adventure. Cathy lives in London. Her three daughters—Charlotte, Olivia and Emma—have always been, and continue to be, the greatest inspirations in her life.

  Also by Cathy Williams

  Bought to Wear the Billionaire’s Ring

  The Secret Sanchez Heir

  Cipriani’s Innocent Captive

  Legacy of His Revenge

  A Deal for Her Innocence

  A Diamond Deal with Her Boss

  The Italian’s One-Night Consequence

  The Tycoon’s Ultimate Conquest

  Contracted for the Spaniard’s Heir

  Marriage Bargain with His Innocent

  Shock Marriage for the Powerful Spaniard

  The Italian’s Christmas Proposition

  Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

  His Secretary’s Nine-Month Notice

  Cathy Williams

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  ISBN: 978-1-474-09814-4

  HIS SECRETARY’S NINE-MONTH NOTICE

  © 2020 Cathy Williams

  Published in Great Britain 2020

  by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

  By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

  ® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  Note to Readers

  This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

  Change of font size and line height

  Change of background and font colours

  Change of font

  Change justification

  Text to speech

  To my three wonderful daughters, Charlotte, Olivia and Emma.

  Contents

  Cover

  Back Cover Text

  About the Author

  Booklist

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Note to Readers

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  Extract

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  VIOLET’S FINGER HOVERED over the send button on her work email. She could already feel the emptiness of loss sinking its teeth into her and she breathed in deeply, banking down the rising panic at the thought of the unknown opening up at her feet like a gaping, bottomless hole. She wasn’t a kid any more. She was a twenty-six-year-old adult. And being afraid of what lay around the corner was no longer appropriate. She could deal with this.

  She clicked the button, closed her eyes and blanked out all the background noises of life happening outside her little mews house at seven thirty on a lovely summer Sunday evening in London.

  She knew exactly how her boss was going to react to the email that would pop up on his laptop.

  For starters—thank God—he wouldn’t actually read it until the following morning, when he would breeze into the office at the usual ridiculously early time of six thirty. He would make himself a cup of strong black coffee, sit at his desk—which was always littered with papers, notes scribbled on sticky notes, reports and an impressive array of stationery, most of which he never used—and then he would start his day.

  Top of the list would be reading his emails, and hers would be there, and he would open it, and he would...hit the roof.

  She stood up and stretched, easing her aching joints. There was only so much she could focus on at any one point, she decided, and focusing on her boss and how he was going to react to her resignation would have to be put on hold. She would be facing him soon enough when she went into work the following day, later than usual at the far safer hour of nine thirty, when the place would be buzzing with people and there might just be less chance of him erupting in front of interested spectators.

  Not that Matt Falconer ever seemed to give a hoot about what other people thought. He was a law unto himself. In the two-and-a-half years that she had worked for him, she had seen him storm out of high-level meetings because a lawyer, a CEO or a director had rubbed him the wrong way or, more often than not, failed to follow his outspoken and always brilliant logic. She had restrained him from slamming down incorrectly typed reports on the desk of whichever poor employee had submitted them. She had worked alongside him into the early hours of the morning to complete a deal because it just can’t wait. She had tactfully made herself scarce when he had gone into a funk, staring at the four walls of his office, feet on his desk, hands folded behind his head, because inspiration had temporarily deserted him.

  She had prepared herself a salad earlier, but her heart wasn’t in it as she dug her fork into lettuce leaves, beetroot and all the other good stuff that invariably tasted like sawdust after five seconds.

  Her head was too full.

  In the space of just a week, her life had been turned on its head, and she was still reeling.

  Violet didn’t like change. She didn’t care for surprises. She liked order, stab
ility and...routine. She loved all the things other girls her age generally despised.

  She didn’t want adventure. She certainly would never have contemplated jacking in her job although, deep down, she knew that she would have had to sooner or later, because...over time, her feelings for her brilliant, temperamental, utterly unpredictable boss had become just a little too uncomfortable. But to be forced into giving it up...!

  She pushed away her plate and stared around her, taking in her surroundings. She felt as though she was seeing them for the first time, but of course that made no sense, because she had been living here, in this beautiful little town house, since she had turned twenty. However, the prospect of renting it to a perfect stranger made her take stock of what she had. Years of perfectly positioned memorabilia...the bookcase heavy with the weight of her tomes of musical works, the manuscripts with so many notations made over the years, the pictures and ornaments and posters...

  Tears threatened. Again.

  She swallowed them back and turned her attention to tidying up the kitchen while the radio played in the background. Classical music, of course. Her favourite.

  She only became aware of someone at the door by the banging, relentless and unnecessary, because whoever it was hadn’t even had the common decency to give her time to get to the door.

  She hurried out to pull it open before the neighbours started complaining...and there he was.

  Matt Falconer. Her boss and the last person she’d expected to see standing on her doorstep. How on earth did the man even know where she lived?

  She’d certainly never told him! She’d turned reticence about her private life into an art form.

  Violet felt a guilty wash of colour flood her face. Caught on the back foot like this, without any time at all to brace herself for the impact he had on her, she could only stare at him, drinking in the stunningly beautiful lines of his lean face.

  Two-and-a-half years and he still never failed to have this effect on her. He was so tall, so beautifully built, with wide shoulders, a tapered waist and long, muscular legs. His hair was just a little too long and his navy-blue eyes were fringed with the darkest, lushest of lashes. And, of course, there was his exotically bronze colouring; there had been Spanish blood on his mother’s side somewhere along the line. Alongside him, other mere mortals always ended up looking wan, anaemic and pasty.

  ‘What...? Er, s-sir, what are you doing here?’ Violet stammered, tucking some straight, mousy-brown strands of hair behind her ear.

  ‘Sir? Sir? Since when have I been knighted? Stand back. I want to come in!’

  He straightened, and she automatically fell back, but her hand remained on the doorknob. The door was open a crack. One gentle push and she wouldn’t stand a chance of keeping him out. And, from the thunderous look on his face, he wasn’t going to think too hard about forcing an entry.

  ‘It’s Sunday,’ Violet said, using her calm voice, the voice she saved for work, and specifically for her wildly temperamental boss. ‘I expect you’ve come about my...er...letter... Well, email...’

  ‘Letter? Letter?’ Matt roared. ‘A letter somehow implies that the contents are going to be polite!’

  ‘You’re going to disturb the neighbours,’ Violet snapped.

  ‘Then let me bloody come in and they won’t be disturbed!’

  ‘It was a very polite letter of resignation.’

  ‘Want to have this conversation out here, Violet? I’m happy to knock on all the doors of your well-heeled neighbours and invite them outside to have a good old time earwigging. Everyone likes being outdoors in sunny weather, after all, and all the better if there’s a cabaret going on.’

  ‘You’re impossible, Matt.’

  ‘Well, at least we’ve dropped the sir. That’s a start. Let me in. I need something strong to drink.’

  He rested the flat of his hand on the door. Violet sighed and opened it, and then she stood to one side so that he could brush past her into the small but exquisite hall, with its black-and-white flagstones and rich colours.

  For a few seconds, he said nothing. He just turned a full circle and stared, taking his time, looking at everything while she remained where she was, already predicting the questions he would ask and resenting the answers she would be forced to give.

  When his gaze finally settled on her, there was lively curiosity alongside the raging anger that had brought him to her door.

  ‘How did you get my address?’ she asked.

  ‘Going into the personnel files is hardly beyond the wit of man. Nice place, Violet. Who would have guessed?’

  Violet reddened and glared at him. The infuriating man met her glare with a slow, curling smile, the smile of a shark that has suddenly and happily found itself sharing space with a tasty little morsel.

  She spun round on her heels and headed straight for the kitchen.

  The town house wasn’t big, but neither was it small. Off the hall, a highly polished staircase led up to the bedroom floor. Several doors opened out downstairs into a generous sitting room, a small snug that she used as her office and music room, a cloakroom lovingly displaying wallpaper and paint from its Victorian ancestry. And, of course, the kitchen, that was spacious enough to house a six-seater kitchen table on which were reams of papers that she hurriedly swept up into a bundle and dumped on the dresser. Then she turned to him, face still flaming red, leant against the counter and folded her arms.

  Violet could not have felt more out of her comfort zone. Her neat work suits protected her from him, established all the necessary divisions between boss and secretary.

  Here, in her house, dressed in a pair of jeans and an old tee shirt handed down from her dad’s bad old days, she felt...exposed and horribly vulnerable.

  But she wasn’t going to let that show on her face.

  ‘You never told me that you lived in an exquisite little jewel like this,’ he mused, settling into one of the kitchen chairs, for all the world as though he was in it for the long haul.

  ‘I don’t believe I ever told you anything about where I lived,’ Violet returned, and he tilted his head to one side and nodded slowly.

  ‘My point exactly. Why would you hide this sort of thing from me? Most people keep quiet about their homes because they’re embarrassed.’

  ‘I have coffee,’ Violet offered. ‘Or tea. Which would you like?’

  ‘Does that mean that there’s no whisky lurking in any of the cupboards? No? Well, coffee it is, in that case. You know how I take it, Violet, because you know everything there is to know about me...’

  He sank lower into the chair, his long body dwarfing it, his legs stretched out in front of him, his body language that of someone in no rush whatsoever. He folded his hands behind his head and looked at her with undisguised curiosity.

  In terms of nightmares coming true, this was pretty much up there with the best of them.

  Matt Falconer, billionaire legend of the IT and telecommunications world, the man adored by the press and women alike, in her house, nose twitching, because nothing would please him more than to ferret out information about her, information she had always made a point of keeping very firmly to herself.

  From the very moment she had walked into his office, nestled high up in one of London’s most iconic buildings, she had sensed that her boss wasn’t going to be like the other two guys for whom she had worked. He wasn’t going to be affable or fatherly like George Hill, with whom she had worked for two years before having been made redundant. Nor was he going to be anything like Simon Beesdale, her last boss, who had been a proud new daddy with photos of his family spread along his desk, keen to integrate her into his ‘other family’, as he called his team of fifteen people, always smiling, always encouraging.

  No, Matt Falconer had kicked off proceedings by turning up late on day one, leaving her kicking her heels in his office, and from thereon in she
had been tossed into the deep end and left to fend for herself. She’d had to rise to the challenge and learn fast on the spot. And she’d enjoyed every second of it. She’d loved the early mornings and the late nights, the buzz of activity and the frenetic, fast pace. She’d enjoyed the informality of the working environment, even though, orderly as she was, she knew she really shouldn’t. And she’d kept up, earning his respect and seeing her salary rise several times in the space of two years.

  But Matt’s brilliant intellect and demanding work ethic were twined with staggering self-assurance of the kind she found vaguely disconcerting, an abundance of charm that brought out every cautious instinct in her and an inquisitive, questioning personality that was programmed to ignore all boundaries and every single do-not-trespass sign.

  She had stood firm against the barrage of questions that had greeted her on a daily basis when she’d first joined his company. She had sidestepped the idle prying into her private life and had failed to rise to the bait when, in week three, he had told her with a certain amount of tetchiness in his voice that women tended to respond when he showed interest in their private lives.

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t be me,’ she had murmured, with a blatant lack of sincere apology in her voice. ‘I believe in keeping my private life strictly separate from my working life.’

  And she had not regretted her decision because, as time had moved on, as she had with deep reluctance fallen further and further under the spell of her charismatic boss, she could only thank the Lord that common sense had prevailed from the outset.

  So his presence here now, in her charming mews house, was sending her body into panicked overdrive.

  ‘For instance,’ he was drawling now, ‘I’m guessing that you know me well enough to have realised that I should have been out with Clarissa at the ballet this evening...and so wouldn’t have read your email until tomorrow morning. Presumably, you intended to waltz in at some ungodly, late hour in the hope that I might have digested the bare bone message that you’re walking out on the best paid job you could hope to find. Not to mention the most invigorating.’