Blackmailed Into Her Boss's Bed

by Sandra Marton

  Harlequin offers you another chance to enjoy this reader-favorite story from USA TODAY bestselling author Sandra Marton.

  After hours with the boss…

  Ruthless Logan Miller will do whatever it takes to get what he wants, and he’s set his sights on Talia Roberts. She’s the best in her field, and stunningly attractive, too, so Logan is determined to have Talia come work for him. He says he’ll ruin her reputation if she won’t meet his demands!

  With no choice but to agree, Talia enters the lion’s den, setting up a catering service in Logan’s new Brazilian office. But she hadn’t realized that sharing his apartment was part of the job description…or that she’d be doing overtime in the boss’s bed!

  Originally published in 1990 as Consenting Adults.

  Blackmailed into Her Boss’s Bed

  Sandra Marton

  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 ONE

  TALIA held the grey flannel suit against her as she stared into the mirror. Not bad, she thought, tilting her head critically. The suit, along with the matching kidskin pumps and the cream silk blouse still in her suitcase, was the perfect dress-for-success ensemble. She’d look calm and professional, an example of middle management at its respectable best.

  Nobody would suspect that in reality she was a quaking bundle of nerves, ready to come unglued at the first touch.

  She sighed as she hung the suit in the wardrobe. Her boss knew that she was a wreck, of course, but he wasn’t here. John was back in the San Francisco office, which was where he’d called from minutes ago.

  ‘Break a leg, kid,’ he’d said cheerfully, and Talia had winced. Somehow, she’d have preferred a simple ‘good luck’ to the traditional actor’s phrase. But John Diamond had pursued a fruitless stage career before he’d started Diamond Food Services, and he never tired of reminding anyone who’d listen that his heart was still in the theatre. His expertise, however, was in catering—hotels, schools, and now lucrative corporate accounts.

  Which was, Talia thought as she finished unpacking, the reason she was here, in a hotel on a wind-swept curve of northern California beach, about to take the first big step in her career. The thought turned her throat dry. She sank down on the edge of the bed and folded her hands in her lap.

  You can do this, she thought, meeting her eyes in the mirror. John wouldn’t have entrusted Miller International’s Executive Weekend to you if you weren’t up to it.

  Talia turned that over in her mind for a while. Of course she could do it. Two years working at a restaurant, four for a hotel chain, then three more at Diamond Food Services, working first in the kitchen, then in purchasing, finally in administration as John’s assistant, had given her the practical experience needed to temper the time she’d spent gaining a degree in hotel and restaurant management. She knew her stuff. There was nothing immodest about admitting it.

  She only wished she felt calmer. Talia, always practical, had planned her career with cool precision. The step up—the one she was about to take—had been one she’d expected in two years’ time. That it had fallen into her lap so soon was as jarring as it was exciting. Sometimes she had a suspicion that that was part of the reason John had given it to her.

  ‘This is liable to be a tough one, sweetheart,’ he’d said when the letter from Miller International had first reached his desk. ‘Their president says he wants us to set up a weekend retreat for upper-echelon execs; our choice of facility so long as it’s somewhere very private—his words—along the coast.’

  Talia had smiled. ‘Private, hmm? What does his company do?’

  Her boss had leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms behind his head, and grinned wickedly. ‘It makes money. If they want a secluded spot, they can have one.’ His grin had broadened. ‘In the old days, that would have meant they were into primal scream therapy for the overpaid and underworked,’ he’d said with the roguish aplomb of one who had survived the weirdness of California in the 1960s.

  Talia had nodded. ‘Right. Quiche and alfalfa sprouts. But surely that’s not what they want today?’

  ‘Not they, sweetheart. He. Mr Logan Miller. He’s Miller International—has been for the past forty years—and what he wants, he gets, even if it turns out to be strange.’ John had leaned forward and pushed the letter across the desk towards her. ‘Suppose you telephone him and find out what he has in mind.’

  The suggestion had surprised her. ‘Me? But that’s Harry’s job.’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you? I’ve asked him to head up the new office in Seattle.’ Her boss had winked. ‘You get to do the dirty deed instead.’

  Talia had tried to sound nonchalant, even though her heart was pounding. ‘Are you offering me Harry’s job?’ she’d asked.

  ‘Caught you by surprise, didn’t I?’ Laughter had glinted in John’s eyes. ‘You can’t plan everything in life, Talia.’ But you can try. The thought had come immediately, but she had suppressed it just as quickly. When she’d said nothing, John had looked at her. ‘Don’t you want it?’

  ‘Of course I want it,’ she’d said, forcing aside the images of brown rice casseroles and fertilised egg omelettes that had insisted on dancing through her mind.

  She’d shaken hands on her promotion, then hurried back to her tiny office with the letter from Logan Miller clutched in her hand. Reading it had calmed her. Typed on heavy vellum, signed with a firm, masculine scrawl, it had detailed a Friday night through Sunday morning retreat planned for executives of the corporation’s West Coast offices. When she’d got to the schedule and list of workshops that had been included, she had breathed a sigh of relief. The workshops were all business—Finance Strategies for Buyout Leverage had been one of the few comprehensive titles. Even the recreational activities had sounded wearing. The least strenuous was a dawn run along the beach.

  Logan Miller couldn’t be a day under sixty-five, but he’d planned a tough weekend. There’d be no brown rice or fertilised eggs for this lot, Talia had thought, and a phone call to Miller’s Los Angeles office had confirmed it. Not that she’d spoken to Mr Miller; he was, his secretary had said, in Brazil on business. Mr Miller’s food preferences? Lean meats. Fresh fish. Salads. Fresh vegetables.

  Of course, Talia had thought, scribbling notes furiously, a man of Miller’s age would be interested in a low-fat diet.

  And yes, the secretary had said, the facility needed to be removed from the pressures of civilisation. Mr Miller wanted to ensure that his people had no distractions to keep them from the activities of the weekend. Was there anything else Miss Roberts needed?

  ‘Yes,’ Talia had said. ‘When may I speak with Mr Miller?’

  ‘He’ll contact you if there’s any need, Miss Roberts. But I’m sure you’ll be able to handle things admirably.’

  Talia had taken the polite hint. Logan Miller was not to be bothered with details. She’d set to work, making arrangements and sending copies of everything to his office. But the final decision about where to hold the weekend, had hardly seemed a detail. When she’d narrowed her choices to two, she’d sent Miller a letter asking for his recommendation. Both hotels were equally suitable, it was simply a matter of taste, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

  She’d sat back to await his reply.

  It had come by express mail. Logan Miller’s note had been terse. It had said that he had no time to bother with such detai
ls, which was why he’d turned the job over to a catering corporation in the first place. And, if both hotels were equally suitable, why had he been asked to choose one over the other? He’d added that he doubted if either choice was appropriate anyway, and if that was the best she could manage, he could always take his business elsewhere. The note had ended with a handwritten, scrawled postscript. What of the Redwood Inn? it had asked. If memory served, it was perfect for the kind of weekend his organisation had planned.

  Miller’s response had at first upset Talia and then had infuriated her. Do the job yourself, he’d said, and then he’d proceeded to take it over. Coolly, Talia had sent off an answer, telling him he could, of course, choose the Redwood Inn. But the inn was closed for the season. Arrangements were possible, but would cost twice what her other suggestions would. There would be union fees, staffing fees…

  His answering note had been a barely legible scrawl. ‘Do it,’ he’d written across the bottom of her letter.

  And Talia had; she had planned everything, right down to the last detail, and it had cost a fortune, more than twice what she’d proposed. Her boss had turned pale when she’d shown him the final bill, but she’d shrugged and reminded him that Miller had approved the cost without comment.

  In her heart, she’d thought that the increase was no more than Logan Miller deserved. But the vengeful thought was so unlike her that she’d kept it to herself. She prided herself on level-headed behaviour; that an old man she’d never met could anger her enough to bring out such an emotional side to her personality was embarrassing.

  Now, hours before the cocktail party that would signal the start of the carefully planned weekend, she thought, grudgingly, that Miller had been right. The Redwood Inn, perched on a hill overlooking the Pacific, with the beach at its feet and a forest of giant redwoods at its back, was perfect.

  She finished putting away the rest of her things, then glanced at her watch. Her staff would be well into their preparations by now. It was time to check and see how they were doing. They were all seasoned veterans, but it never hurt to check things yourself.

  Talia stripped off the silk shirtwaist dress she’d travelled in. Kitchens were not only places of spills and stains, they were also invariably hot, especially in the dog-days of September. Shorts, a cotton-knit top and a pair of sandals would do. No one would see her except her staff, she thought, taking a quick glance into the mirror and smoothing back a strand of dark auburn hair.

  Her pulse gave a nervous leap, and she made a face at herself. There was nothing more to worry about until the weekend really got under way. Still, she took a deep breath before she left her room.

  The kitchen was a whirl of activity. Her people barely acknowledged her presence. Everyone was busy, going from the huge refrigerators to the stoves…

  Talia frowned. No, not everyone. The back door was open, probably to catch any breeze that drifted by. A man lounged in the doorway, watching the flurry of proceedings with an impassive expression on his face. He was leaning on the frame, arms crossed against his chest, feet crossed at the ankles, looking like a casual spectator at a sporting match.

  He turned towards her, their eyes met, and a lazy smile tilted at the corners of his mouth. For some reason it made her feel uncomfortable, and she looked away from him.

  ‘Do we have enough shrimps?’ she asked no one in particular. ‘And what about oysters and clams?’

  There were plenty of oysters and shrimps. And the clams had just been delivered. Did she want to check them herself? Minutes later, Talia had forgotten all about the man in the doorway. She was, instead, intent on tasting a Welsh rarebit that was simmering on the stove.

  She hesitated, the spoon halfway to her mouth, as she felt a prickling along her skin. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she looked up. The stranger was watching her. Even at a distance, there was no missing the intensity of his gaze.

  Talia felt a slow flush rise along her skin. The shorts she was wearing were old and faded, the knit top loose and virtually shapeless. But she was suddenly aware of how skimpy an outfit it was.

  His eyes moved over her, and she felt as if he were stripping the clothing from her body. The insolence of the man! And what was he doing in the kitchen of the Redwood Inn? There was no reason to see anyone but her staff in here right now. There’d be others in and out of the room tonight, when the extra servers that had been hired showed up. But that was hours away. And…

  Of course. That was what he was—a temporary worker, hired to pass trays of hors-d’oeuvre and wait table this evening. There’d been no problem arranging for half a dozen such people: California beach communities tended to collect drifters who followed the sun and the surf, and drifters took work wherever they could.

  The man in the doorway had that look, Talia thought, her glance moving dismissively over him. He was tall, leanly muscled, wearing ragged-edged cut-off denims and a T-shirt inscribed with what seemed to be a college seal, so faded it was illegible. She could almost picture him with a surfboard under his arm, although he seemed to be in his late thirties. Well, this was California. She’d seen stranger things than over-age beach bums since she’d moved West.

  The stranger was smiling under her scrutiny, a very private, intimate smile, and a coldness clamped down on Talia’s heart. Did he really think that would work with her? Carefully, she put down the spoon and moved towards him. ‘May I help you?’

  His teeth flashed in a quick grin. ‘I don’t know. What do you have in mind?’

  He was good-looking, in an obvious kind of way, and he was probably used to doing rather well with women. Well, he was in for a surprise.

  ‘Keep it up,’ she said quietly, ‘and you won’t have to worry about tonight.’

  His eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘My, my,’ he said teasingly, ‘that’s a pretty direct approach.’

  ‘What I meant,’ Talia said sharply, ‘was that if you go on like this, you won’t have a job to come to this evening.’ He looked blank, and she sighed. ‘You’re here to work the cocktail party and dinner, aren’t you?’

  ‘Ah.’ The smile came again. He stepped away from the wall and nodded. ‘The Miller thing. I suppose you might say that, yes.’

  A lock of auburn hair fell over Talia’s forehead and she brushed it back impatiently. ‘You’re due here at seven. Until then, you’re just in the way.’ Her eyes moved over him again. ‘I take it you can put your hands on black trousers? We’ll provide the jacket and bow-tie.’

  He laughed and put his hands on his hips. The movement made the muscles roll beneath his skin, and she thought, yes, definitely a surfer with that sun-bleached hair and taut body. Only someone who spent his time in constant activity could look so—so…

  ‘And a white shirt,’ she said, while a flush ran up under her skin.

  He nodded. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said solemnly. ‘Black trousers, white shirt. Anything else, Miss…?’

  ‘And black shoes. Polished, of course.’

  A grin tugged at his mouth. ‘Of course. Miss—Miss…’

  ‘Roberts.’ Her voice was crisp. ‘Talia Roberts. I’m in charge.’

  The man stared at her for a minute, and then he took a step towards her. ‘How nice to meet you,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘And I’m—’

  ‘I don’t care in the least who you are,’ she said coldly.

  His smile dimmed a little. ‘That’s not very polite, Talia. When you deal with people, you might—’

  Her chin rose. ‘My name is Miss Roberts. And if I need advice, I’ll certainly not ask for it from someone like you.’

  The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘If I were you, Miss Roberts—’

  ‘But you’re not. And if you want to get paid tonight, you’d better learn to do as you’re told.’

  His smile turned to ice. ‘Are you always this unpleasant to the people who work for you?’

  No, she thought in surprise, she wasn’t. Courtesy to staff was one of the things she prided herself on. Then why, she wondered, wa
s she being so rude to him? The answer came quickly. Because he was impertinent. Because he had no business here. Because—because he made her uncomfortable and edgy and—

  ‘Dammit to hell!’

  The chef’s voice roared across the kitchen as the Welsh rarebit boiled over. Talia took one look and grabbed for a towel. When she turned around again, the man had vanished.

  She forget all about him as the afternoon passed. There were a dozen last-minute crises, none—thank goodness—that couldn’t be handled. Finally, with only moments to spare, Talia hurried to her room to shower and change for the evening. When she was dressed, she looked into the mirror and smiled. She’d been right, the grey suit and silk blouse were perfect. She looked as cool and collected as…

  Talia jumped. For a second, her reflection had seemed to waver; she’d imagined she’d seen the stranger looking back at her, smiling his insolent smile.

  She turned away sharply and picked up her bag. If the man showed up, which she doubted, she’d tell her people to keep a careful eye on him. He was more likely to try and skive off than work. He might even try to come on to the few women executives scattered in the group, and she didn’t need that kind of headache. The cocktail party, and the dinner following, would bring enough problems of their own.

  The hall was silent. The inn was three storeys high, and Logan Miller’s people had all been housed on the first two levels. Talia had taken a room on the third floor, where she could monitor things without intruding on them.

  Her heels clicked loudly as she walked down the corridor. The floating staircase loomed ahead, an impressive structure of redwood, stainless steel and glass. She paused at the top, her hand on the polished wood railing, and looked down. In a little while, all her months of planning and hard work would come together. And everything would be fine—she’d left nothing to chance.

  ‘You’re such a stickler for detail, Talia,’ one of her assistants had said today, smiling. ‘I bet it runs in the family.’

  Wryly, Talia had been tempted to tell her the truth. ‘Not in my family it doesn’t,’ she’d almost said. ‘The only detail my mother ever worried about was getting married before her pregnancy showed. And my father’s only thought was how long it would take before she wouldn’t give a damn if he left and never came back.’