by Kira Blakely
Relax, Abby. You’re going to be fine. Mr. Herbert would be a fool not to see how lucky he is to have you.
Grabbing the coffee, I step out of the car and walk up the front steps, my heels clacking against the stone. In front of the wooden double doors, I stop, searching for a doorbell. None. I guess the house is as old-fashioned as it looks.
I try the iron door knocker, half-expecting a middle-aged butler to come to the door in his crisp tailcoat and pristine, white gloves. No one comes, though, and so after a few more knocks, I try opening the door.
It opens with a creak, and I reluctantly step forward.
“Hello?”
No answer.
Strange. I thought Mr. Herbert would be here, and the guard did say he was awake. Then again, the house is huge so maybe he didn’t hear me. I guess I have no choice but to look for him.
The search proves to be slow as I find myself distracted at every turn, pausing to admire something – a painting, a sculpture, a vase, a piece of furniture – every other minute. The house is stocked with the best of the old and new – antique crafts and the most expensive appliances. It’s two worlds seamlessly merged into one, and the result is simply fascinating.
I almost forget what I’m there for but when I remember, I hurry, especially as I realize the cup of coffee in my hand is getting cold.
No one likes a cold cup of coffee.
Finally, I hear sounds coming from a room at the end of a hall. Mr. Herbert’s office, maybe? As I approach, I notice that the door is ajar. Even so, I decide to knock, only to stop with my raised fist an inch from the wood when I hear a whimper.
Or is it a moan?
Against my better judgment, I take a peek, my eyes growing wide as I see Mr. Herbert standing behind his desk or, more accurately, behind a brunette bent over his desk.
I should have known he’d be with a woman.
And I should leave. It’s the proper thing to do. I can’t, though. My body seems frozen and rooted to the spot, my heart the only part of me moving, beating wildly as heat courses through my veins.
I can’t see the woman’s face, her brown hair having come loose to form a curtain over her cheeks. I can see Mr. Herbert’s face clearly, though, and I can’t help but watch. Right now, his blue eyes are half lidded, his nostrils are flaring and his square jaw is tightly clenched. As he moves, rocking the body beneath him and the desk in turn, golden strands of hair dance above his eyebrows and a bead of sweat trickles down the side of his face to land on one flushed cheek.
I swallow. My throat, bra, and panties are all feeling suddenly uncomfortable.
What the…?
“Fuck!” The crisp curse escapes his thin lips just before his features grow taut, his eyelids falling shut as he throws his head back.
With every shudder that goes through him, a wave of delicious heat washes over me, leaving my palms, nape, breasts, and sex tingling. As he goes still, my heart comes to a stop as well, my breath stolen. It’s over, but the damage has already been done. My skin is flushed, my panties wet.
I didn’t just have an orgasm, did I?
Suddenly, he opens his blue eyes and gazes directly into mine.
Shit.
The spell broken, I step back quickly only to bump into the table against the wall, causing the vase on it to wobble. I manage to keep the vase from falling – whew! – but it’s too late. I’ve already made my presence known.
“Hey.” Mr. Herbert steps out of the room, a smile on his face. “You’re Abby, right?”
Impulsively, I look at his crotch, relieved to find his pants zipped.
Wait. Why am I looking at my boss’ crotch? And why is he grinning? Isn’t he mad at me?
“Mr. Herbert, I…”
He offers me his hand. “Please call me—”
“Call me, Grant,” the brunette interrupts as she appears behind Grant, touching his arm. Casting a spiteful glance in my direction, she gives Grant a lingering kiss on the cheek then leaves, her heels clacking down the hall.
“Like she said, call me Grant.” Mr. Herbert extends his hand further.
I look at it, blinking. Why is he pretending nothing happened?
“It’s clean, I promise.”
I blush, shaking his hand. “Grant, I’m sorry I—”
“Please come inside,” he cuts me off, heading back inside his office.
I follow, stopping in the middle of the room. He goes behind his desk, the same desk he was fucking that brunette on.
I shake off the image.
Focus, Abby.
“So, you like coffee?” he asks as he sits down on the black leather chair.
I look at the cup I still have in my hand. “Actually, I brought this for you. I thought you might—”
I take a step forward to hand him the coffee but my shoe gets caught on the edge of the rug. I stumble, the cup falling out of my hand and hitting the desk, splattering on its surface and onto Grant’s shirt.
“Oh, shit.” I clasp a hand over my gaping mouth as I look at the disaster I’ve caused then quickly take the box of tissues out of my purse to undo it, straightening the cup and wiping the growing puddle on the desk. “I’m so sorry.”
What have I done? What’s wrong with me? I’ve never made mistakes like this before.
“It’s fine,” Grant tells me, standing up. “No harm done.”
No harm done? How can he say that when this desk is probably decades old? Not to mention I’ve stained his expensive shirt. I grab another tissue to wipe it.
He grabs my wrist. “Really, you don’t have to worry about it.”
I look into his eyes. Now that they’re not half-lidded, I can see just how blue they are – dark blue like the Atlantic. He is far more handsome than his pictures on the Internet, the combination of his eyes with his straight-edged nose and chiseled cheekbones enough to make my heart skip a beat.
“At least the coffee wasn’t hot,” he adds.
No. But you sure are.
Wait. What?
I jerk my wrist away and continue wiping the desk. “Not a good thing, I’m afraid. I’ve never heard of a secretary serving cold coffee.”
“Nathan’s right,” he says as he takes off his shirt. “You are a perfectionist.”
“I like getting things done as well as I can,” I correct, trying not to look at his sculpted upper body, at those broad shoulders leading down to toned arms, one of them marked with a tattoo... Trying so very hard to not look at his hardened pectorals glistening with a thin layer of sweat, bulging out over well-defined rows of abdominals that dip and curve in all the right places – trying and failing. “Any job worth doing is worth doing well, right?”
He wipes his chest with his shirt, and my throat goes dry as my eyes inadvertently follow the fabric gliding over those rippling muscles, wishing it was my hand instead. “And you like to keep things neat and orderly.”
“It’s p-part of my job,” I inform him, swallowing as I look away, continuing to wipe the desk.
I don’t know what’s harder – gathering every drop of spilled coffee or picking up the pieces of my composure.
“Is that a problem?” I ask him.
“No.” He tosses his shirt away and sits down.
I glance at him. “Aren’t you going to put on a shirt?”
“Later, maybe. Is that a problem?”
It is, but I don’t say so. I focus my attention on finishing my task. “So, what else did Mr. Landers tell you?”
“Oh, quite a bit.” He leans on his arm. “He didn’t say you were attractive, though.”
I pause. Plain old me? Attractive? There must be something wrong with his eyes.
“I’m not sure how that would matter in my job,” I tell him as I pick up the soaked pieces of tissue.
“Ah, but it matters to me.” He places his elbows on the desk. “After all, I’ll be seeing a lot of you, won’t I?”
He means he’ll be seeing you often, Abby. Stop jumping to conclusions – or delusio
ns.
I shrug. “Well, I’m your personal assistant starting today, after all.”
“About that, have you given some thought to my request?”
“You mean about me staying here?” I carry the used pieces of tissue and the empty cup to the garbage can in the corner and drop them inside.
“I’ve read most personal assistants stay at their bosses’ homes.”
So, he’s done some reading, too, huh?
“Besides, I’ve decided to conduct my business from here at home,” Grant adds. “And sometimes, I’ll have to do it in the evenings so I think it’s best if you stay here.”
I turn to look at him. “You’re not asking me, are you?”
He sits back and taps his fingers on his desk. “It’s a part of the job, I’m afraid.”
I frown. Well, if he puts it that way, I can’t really refuse. He is my boss, after all, and he is paying me a lot, more than Mr. Landers paid me.
Actually, I’m not completely against the arrangement. I’ve already brought my things from my apartment, in fact. But given what just happened, I can’t help but have second thoughts. Should I live in the same house with the only man who’s managed to arouse and rattle me so far?
“Well?”
“All right,” I say. Regardless of what just transpired, Grant is still my boss, and I have no choice. “But on two conditions.”
“Name them.”
“One: My room shouldn’t be too close to yours. That way, I’ll have some personal space. And two: You should promise never to enter it.”
“Unless invited, of course,” Grant says.
Invited? I suddenly have an image of him and me in a bedroom, but I shake that off. I ignore the suggestion as well.
“Do you accept my conditions?” I ask, squaring my shoulders.
“Yes.”
“All right.” I take a deep breath. “If you’ll excuse me, then, I’ll go get my things.”
“I’d ask someone to help you but I’m afraid I haven’t hired maids,” Grant says. “I just moved in here a week ago.”
“That’s fine,” I tell him. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying my things. Also, I can help you hire the maids if you’d like.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
I turn on my heel.
“Oh, and Abby?”
I glance back.
He leans forward on his desk. “I look forward to having you around.”
For a moment, I think I see a spark of lust in his eyes but then it vanishes so I must have imagined it. There’s no way a man as hot and powerful as him could want someone like me. The sooner I firmly engrave that in my mind and stop imagining things, the better.
Outside the office, I heave a sigh of relief. Well, at least my new boss likes me. Still, something tells me that being Grant’s personal assistant isn’t going to be as easy as I thought.
Chapter 2
Grant
Getting Abby to fall for me is going to be easier than I thought.
Watching her sitting on a garden bench from an upstairs balcony, stretching her arms and looking completely at ease, I grin. She may have managed to regain her composure this morning. She may have put up a brave front and tried to keep her distance from me. She may appear tough and cold. But I know better. I know what I saw in her dark eyes when they first clashed with mine.
Wonder. Excitement. Desire.
Just as I expected.
Indeed, so far, everything is going according to plan.
“You’ve got that creepy look on your face again,” Roger’s voice breaks into my thoughts.
I still find it puzzling how such a large man can make such little noise. Then again, he was a spy of some sort before he came to work for my grandfather.
“What creepy look?” I ask as I sit down.
He opens the bottle of water in his hand as he leans on the wall. “I take it your first meeting went well?”
“It did.” I grab the bottle of brandy and pour myself a glass. “Better than I expected.”
“Can’t you just ask her nicely?”
“What? Just go up to her and say ‘Hey, can you fall in love with me so that I can get Lindsey Holland to put her name on my apps?’” I shake my head as I take a sip. “Sorry, but no.”
A few weeks ago, I spoke to Lindsey Holland, the country’s top female psychologist, who also happens to be my ex. I told her I was coming up with a whole line of apps designed for women and I wanted her name on them. She refused and when I persisted, she said she would only agree if I managed to make a woman fall in love with me for real. So far, I’ve sent her a few women I’ve slept with but she’s turned them all against me with her psycho-babble to prove they weren’t really in love with me. I can’t waste any more time. I have to take things more seriously. I have to find the perfect woman.
The moment I saw Abby in Nathan’s office, I knew she had potential. And as soon as I’d read her file, I knew she was the one. She’s single. She’s smart, so Lindsey won’t take her for a fool, and she hasn’t been with a man for a while, which means she’s probably waiting to be swept off her feet. That is exactly what I’m going to do. Plus, she’s a Filipina, so Lindsey should approve of her.
I look at Roger. “You like her, don’t you?”
“She isn’t like all the other women you’ve been with before.” He puts the cap back on his bottle after drinking. “She’s… strong.”
Wow. Roger was able to form that opinion even though he just got a few minutes to talk to Abby? If I didn’t know him better, I wouldn’t have believed him. But I do.
I’ve known Roger since he started working for Grandfather. I was only a teenager then. I’m not exactly sure what his background is but I know he fell in love with my mother and promised her he’d watch over me, which is why he’s here with me now. I know, too, that he’s as good a judge of character as he is skilled with a gun and a knife.
If he says Abby is strong, she must be. But it doesn’t matter.
“If you didn’t want her getting hurt, you should have kept the gate closed,” I tell him.
“I guess I’m taking a chance on her.”
I crease my eyebrows at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Anyway, you are going to hire maids, aren’t you?” Roger asks. “The house is clean right now but it won’t take long for the dust to settle. And I washed the kettle and some cups so I can make tea but the rest of the silverware still needs cleaning.”
“Abby said she’ll take care of it.”
Roger nods then leaves. Alone, I continue watching Abby, who’s still in the garden deep in thought and without a clue she’s being watched.
So she managed to impress Roger, huh? Well, I have to admit I’m fascinated by her personality as well. As for her looks... she’s attractive enough, maybe even more so because she’s trying to hide it. For example, she has her brown hair tied in a bun on the top of her head and something tells me that’s how she’s always worn it. She has full lips but she isn’t wearing lipstick. In fact, she’s barely wearing any makeup. Her gray cashmere turtleneck, black cardigan, and floral scarf expertly conceal her ample-sized breasts and slim waist while making nothing of a fashion statement. Her pencil skirt extends two inches below the knee even though I caught a glimpse of smooth legs.
Why is she hiding? Who is she hiding from?
It doesn’t matter. It makes things more interesting. In fact, heat stirs in my crotch as I anticipate setting her hair loose and unraveling all those layers of unflattering clothing.
Right. I’m going to break through those walls around her, draw her out, and win her over. I’m going to make Abby mine.
And I already have the next step planned.
***
“You want me to go out and have dinner with you?” Abby looks up at me from the plate she’s wiping on the kitchen counter, her eyes wide.
I had knocked on her bedroom door, but she wasn’t there. I searched the house only to find her in the kitchen
washing the dusty dishes. I told her she didn’t have to do it but she explained how she stumbled upon them while searching for a glass and she couldn’t just leave them alone and unwashed.
“Yes,” I answer her simply.
“Because?”
“Because there’s nothing here in the kitchen,” I tell her. “I haven’t hired a cook yet.”
“I see.” Abby tucks a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. “I guess I’ll have to help you do that, too. For now, though, I can cook. I mean, there’s food in the pantry. And now, there are some clean dishes.”
She lifts the plate she’s finished wiping.
“I have no doubt you’re a good cook, but I’d rather we have dinner out. I know a good restaurant.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“I figured we could take this chance to break the ice and get to know each other better,” I explain. “So that we can work together smoothly.”
She carries some of the clean dishes to the cupboard. “So, you’re asking me as my boss?”
I carry the rest, following her. “Well, if you want to make it a date with me, that’s fine, too.”
Abby stops and falls silent, a blush coating her cheeks.
“Fine, I’ll go,” she says finally as she puts the dishes in. “But it’s not a date. It’s more like a meeting.”
Another wall up.
“Whatever you say.”
She takes the dishes from my hands. “And it better not be a fancy French restaurant because I don’t have an evening gown.”
“No.” I lean on the counter. “You can just come as you are.”
I have to admit, though, I’m suddenly curious to know how she’d look in a gown.
“Good.” She closes the cupboard. “Just give me fifteen minutes to shower and change. I don’t want to be all covered in dust.”
“Sure.” I grin. “Take all the time you need.”
***
All the women I’ve met have taken at least an hour to get ready for a dinner date. But in exactly twelve minutes, Abby comes down the stairs in an oversized maroon knit dress that looks like one of my old sweaters.
So much for hoping for a little black dress.