by Maggie Cox
Put like that, his explanation sounded more than reasonable…seductive, even. But Morgen knew she couldn’t confide in Conall. Apart from being only too aware that he was the owner and senior partner of the firm she worked for, she was already acquainted with the fact that he despised weakness of any kind. And, when it came right down to it, why would a man like him want to bother with an ordinary little secretary like her anyway? She’d already had one humiliating experience with Simon, and knew that huge differences in money and status could be a problem in relationships. She certainly didn’t want to set herself up for a similar rejection again.
‘I thought you didn’t approve of people’s personal problems encroaching on their work, Mr O’Brien?’
‘Conall,’ he said irritably, raking his fingers through his hair, then suffered immediate remorse because he had been taunting her with ‘Miss McKenzie’ from the beginning.
Had he done it subconsciously, in an attempt to put up a barrier between Morgen and himself? To keep their relationship strictly professional and somehow curtail the violent attraction that coursed through his veins every time he looked at her? He generally made it a strict rule that he didn’t get involved with women at work. Those kinds of complications could and frequently did get messy, in his experience.
‘You don’t have a very high opinion of me, do you?’ he added.
‘You do what you have to do, I suppose. It doesn’t mean I have to like it.’ Shrugging one shoulder, Morgen took refuge behind her coffee cup.
‘You don’t think I care about the people who work for me?’
She coloured. ‘I didn’t say that.’
‘But you don’t think I’m particularly sympathetic?’
Feeling as if she’d just blundered into a hedge of stinging nettles, Morgen wished she hadn’t started this conversation. ‘Your reputation precedes you, Mr O’Br—’
His brows drew together in an irritable scowl. ‘If you call me that again, I’ll fire you.’
Her heart thumped heavily.
‘Like I said before, I’m running a business…’ The rest was left unsaid. Conall couldn’t understand why her comment had suddenly made him so uncomfortable. Had he become too hard-nosed for his own good? He was a success, wasn’t he? His firm was a success. And he genuinely believed people liked working for him. So why should Morgen McKenzie’s good opinion of him matter so much?
‘I know that can’t be easy.’ Mentally fielding another wave of heat, Morgen cautiously considered him from beneath her lashes. ‘But we’re all human, you know? And life isn’t a straight road with simple answers. Like I said before, I’m sure Derek didn’t deliberately sabotage his career by turning to drink.’
‘But we’re not talking about Derek right now.’ He rubbed his hand round the back of his shirt collar, then leant back in his chair and sighed. ‘I’m sorry you don’t feel that you can trust me enough to tell me what’s bothering you. Perhaps we should talk about that? Not now—’ He took a brief glance at his watch ‘—but as soon as we can arrange a little time together.’
The whole idea filled Morgen with intense trepidation. It was testing enough having to work with this man, never mind arranging ‘a little time together’ to talk about why she felt she couldn’t trust him.
‘There’s really no need. And, anyway, I’ve just got a cold. Nothing in particular is bothering me right now…’ Except you. ‘I’ll be fine in a minute or two.’ With an apologetic little shrug, she took another sip of the delicious coffee, feeling slightly calmer now, even though her skin still prickled with heat.
‘Perhaps you ought to go straight home after the board meeting? I’ll drive you myself.’
‘No!’
The vehemence with which she voiced her reply made Conall’s brows draw suspiciously together. Damn it all, the woman looked frightened. What was she trying to hide? A no-good feckless boyfriend who was unemployed, perhaps? Was that why Morgen looked so tired? Because she was supporting a man who relied on her to keep him? Anger briefly seared his gut, then he scolded himself for jumping to conclusions, making assumptions without knowing the facts—something Morgen had already had good reason to accuse him of. He suddenly saw there was ample reason for her not to trust him, and it was seriously beginning to get to him.
She didn’t want him to drive her home. She didn’t want him to see the small rundown street in which her poky two-bedroomed terraced house was situated. Not that she was ashamed of it—not when she had spent years lovingly turning it into a cosy, inviting little home for herself and Neesha. But it was surely way down the desirability league from what a man like Conall was used to. And if she so much as saw embarrassment or pity in his eyes he’d have her notice on his desk quicker than he could say Savile Row.
‘I’ll be fine to see out the day, then I’ll drive myself home. Thanks all the same.’
Sensing it was futile to argue, Conall drank his coffee down in one long draught, then pushed to his feet. ‘We ought to be getting back. I’ve got a full schedule today. Feeling any better now?’
‘Much,’ Morgen lied, her legs decidedly shaky as she followed him out through the door and into the street.
It was a long meeting—far longer than Conall would have liked. It seemed his fellow associates were making the most of his presence in the UK, and there had been several additions to the already crammed agenda.
Glancing at Morgen several times throughout the afternoon, Conall noticed the fine sheen of perspiration on her smooth brow when she swept back her fringe once or twice, and he thought that those arresting green eyes of hers appeared a little glassy and over-bright—as if she was running a fever. But they were already halfway through their discussion and there was nothing he could do about her condition right then—she was furiously taking down notes, and at that point the subject in hand was the lucrative Docklands project that Derek had been in charge of. Besides Derek, and lately Conall himself, no one else knew the project better than Morgen. Bringing in one of the other PAs to take over probably wouldn’t be a very good idea from that point of view alone.
However, Conall proceeded to keep a close eye on his newly acquired assistant. When the break came for coffee, and people were milling around the refreshments that had been arranged in the adjoining room, leaving him and Morgen alone, he went over to talk to her.
‘How are you feeling?’
He leant across her, saturating her senses with his seductively masculine scent, scrambling her brain even more than her temperature was already doing. Returning her gaze quickly to the pages of shorthand she had steadily been compiling throughout the meeting, Morgen decided avoiding those searching blue eyes was far safer than meeting them head-on.
‘I’m fine. Thank you for asking.’
‘You look a little flushed, if I may say so.’
‘It’s warm in here…don’t you—don’t you think?’
Momentarily forgetting her vow to keep visual contact to a minimum, Morgen found her glance suddenly trapped by his, like a ray of sunlight trapped a dust mote. No matter how hard she tried she couldn’t look away for several debilitating seconds.
Breaking the spell, Conall moved first.
‘I’ll open a window.’
He opened a couple, deliberately taking his time, praying the rush of cool fresh air would help calm down his heightened libido. Conall knew the heat of desire as much as any normal, healthy red-blooded male, but when he looked into Morgen McKenzie’s bewitching green eyes, with their sweeping black lashes, desire moved up to a whole other level. If he weren’t careful this yearning to have her in his bed would become an obsession.
‘That’s better. Thanks.’ She ran a hand round the back of her collar, where her hair was tied back, and Conall couldn’t help noticing the curling tendrils of ebony silk that drifted loose around her nape. He shoved his hand into his trouser pocket to stop himself from reaching out to touch—to discover for himself if it was as invitingly soft as it appeared.
‘Want me to get
you some sandwiches and a cup of coffee?’
‘No, thanks, I’m not hungry. Water is fine.’ As if to highlight her preference, Morgen poured herself a glass of water from the jug in front of her on the table and took a sip. Her hand was not quite steady, and Conall frowned at the idea that she was finding the meeting an ordeal.
‘Shouldn’t be too much longer now.’ Glancing down at his watch, he picked up the sheet of paper with the agenda printed on it from beside Morgen’s shorthand pad. ‘Five more items. I’ll keep them as short as I can, and when we’re done here I’ll take you home.’
Conall saw the word ‘no’ start to form on her exquisite lips and squared his massive shoulders. There was no point in being the boss if you couldn’t use it to your advantage in times of need. And right now Conall needed to know that he was driving Morgen home. He wasn’t being totally selfish either. Anybody could see the woman was running a temperature. She’d nearly walked out in front of a speeding car earlier; the last thing Conall wanted on his conscience was her having an accident on the way home because she was too ill to concentrate.
Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, Morgen sighed wearily. ‘I told you before—I appreciate your concern but I don’t need you to drive me home. Now, please, think no more of it.’
But at five-forty-five precisely Morgen found herself being guided towards the car park and helped into the passenger seat of a luxurious sedan by a solicitous but steely-eyed Conall, who wasn’t taking no for an answer—at least not today, and not from her. Resignedly, she gave him directions, and spent practically the entire journey in mutinous silence.
Why was he so insistent on taking her home? He was taking his responsibilities as her boss a little too seriously, Morgen decided. Expanding parameters he had no business expanding. Even Derek—bless him—as generous as he could be, would never have thought to drive her home because she was feeling under the weather. No, if he’d deemed it necessary at all, Derek would have got someone else to do it. But not this man.
Morgen stole a furtive glance at his handsome chiselled profile as he drove, and her insides fluttered with anxiety. As soon as they pulled up outside the house she’d make sure she had her key ready, thank him, then hurry away before he had a chance to insist on seeing her to the door—because she had a horrible feeling he was going to do just that. If she’d learned one thing about Conall O’Brien so far it was that he took his work and his responsibilities deadly seriously—no half-measures. Everything was done with absolute dedication and thoroughness. He was the epitome of the old adage ‘if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.’ Not that Morgen could fault that. It was just that right now she didn’t particularly want him to apply it to her.
But by the time they pulled up outside the cheerful red door, in a street where doors were predominantly painted black or, even worse, grey, Morgen was feeling too ill to care what Conall would or would not do. She certainly didn’t have the strength to worry about whether he thought the street she lived in looked rundown and poor, or whether the cars that were parked outside were several registrations older than his. All she wanted right now was her bed, and if she didn’t make it as far as that then the couch would have to suffice. Thank God Neesha was at her mother’s tonight, sleeping over, because she would hardly be capable of caring for her child the way she was feeling.
‘Thank you, I—’
‘Give me your key.’
‘What?’
His expression as implacable as granite, Conall turned towards her and put out his hand.
‘Your door key. I’m taking you inside, Morgen. I’m going to make sure you take some fever medication, then I’m going to make sure you get into bed. It doesn’t take a scientist to see that you’re burning up. I might even phone your doctor and ask him to pay you a visit.’
‘Now, wait a minute, I—’
But it wasn’t easy to be indignant when you felt as if your head was going to become personally acquainted with the pavement at any second, Morgen realised. Nodding with a mixture of fatigue and resignation, she dug into her bag for her keys and dropped them into his opened palm.
‘There’s a good girl.’
‘I resent that!’ Pulling him back by the sleeve of his expensive suit, Morgen glared, despite the spinning sensation in her head. ‘I’m not a girl—I’m a woman!’
Conall’s blue eyes darkened perceptibly.
‘Sweetheart, from the minute I laid eyes on you there was never any doubt in my mind about that. Now, let’s get you inside before you collapse where you sit.’
CHAPTER FIVE
AFTER negotiating a bright but narrow hallway, lined as far as he could see with prints of herbs and flowers, Conall felt his senses beset by the uplifting notes of rose and vanilla—two fragrances he knew well because of his sister Teresa’s penchant for scented candles.
Morgen’s house was an Aladdin’s cave of sensory delights, he realised as he followed her into the living room. Much like the woman herself. Proportionally the room might have been small, but what it lacked in square footage it more than made up for in comfort. It was a room that a person could seriously look forward to coming home to, Conall decided, feeling a tug of something almost unfamiliar.
He’d thought he’d long ago put to rest the urge or the need to put down roots. To have a place and a person you loved to be there for you when you returned home from work at the end of the day was not something he’d considered for a very long time. Besides…for him it would never work. He hated to admit it, but he was too much like his father for that.
‘What a lovely room.’
Although the main colour scheme was pale yellow and gold, there were splashes of bold vibrant colour in evidence everywhere. Soft red velvet and silk throws were draped across two big couches, and piles of cushions in a kaleidoscope of hues and textures spilled across every available seating space. Above the Victorian fireplace, that had clearly been lovingly and painstakingly restored, there was a huge, vivid framed print of a beautiful pre-Raphaelite model with skin as pale as milk and hair a rich and luxuriant auburn decorated with a wreath of white roses. Conall studied it briefly before switching his perusal to Morgen, suddenly alarmed that she looked barely able to stand on her feet.
‘Thank you.’
Although feverish, she heard the genuine appreciation in Conall’s tone, and something warm crowded into the empty space in her heart. Here was a man who had a reputation as an architect par excellence, who she knew had designed and built houses for the rich and famous—houses that were featured in the glossiest up-market magazines—dream houses—and yet there he stood, in the middle of her humble little living room, and professed he thought it ‘lovely’. Right then, she almost cried.
‘Why don’t you sit down, kick off your shoes and let me get you some aspirin and a glass of water? If you don’t sit down soon you look like you’re going to fall down.’
She was in no position to argue. Dropping down onto the couch before Conall had even finished speaking, she kicked off her sensible leather loafers, flexed her toes and shook her hair loose from its knot.
For a moment Conall just stared at the glossy raven mass that slipped around her shoulders, then he moved abruptly to the door, once again engineering some safe distance between himself and her—because his desire to reach out and touch was almost too compelling to be ignored.
‘The kitchen’s just down the hall—the last door at the end. You’ll find some medicine in the cupboard above the fridge.’
In the small compact kitchen, with its clean pine furniture and terracotta-tiled floor, Conall easily located the medicine, filled a glass with water, then stood momentarily transfixed by the childish drawings displayed on the front of the fridge, held in place by several colourful magnets.
He was particularly drawn to the one with a bold title in bright red felt-tip: ‘My Mummy.’ The surprisingly well-executed picture was of a tall slim lady with long flowing black hair, cat-like green eyes and a lush red mouth. For
a long moment Conall just stood, absorbing the shock—acclimatising himself to the realisation that Morgen had a child. She was a mother. It had to follow, then, that the child had a father…Morgen’s boyfriend? This Neil character? Or was the child the offspring of a previous relationship? He knew he had no right to be jealous or angry, but just then none of his feelings made any sense.
Swallowing hard, Conall made his way back down the narrow hallway to the living room, the thick sea-green carpet deadening the sound of his footfall. When he found Morgen lying on the couch, her head resting on a bank of velvet cushions, her eyes closed, his chest tightened inexplicably, and he found he needed a minute to accustom himself to the idea that a relationship with her—apart from a professional one, of course—was now totally out of the question. As much as he desired her—and even the thought made his heart pump faster—he wouldn’t try to break up an already established relationship, especially not one where there was a child concerned.
As if sensing his presence, Morgen opened her eyes.
‘You found it. Thanks.’ Struggling to sit up, she accepted the two white tablets into her palm, then swallowed them one at a time with two big gulps of water.
‘You keep a very tidy house,’ Conall drawled softly. ‘It makes it easy to find things. Why didn’t you tell me you had a child?’
The swimming sensation in her head increased. The kitchen—of course… He must have seen Neesha’s drawings on the fridge. Oh, well. Focusing her tired gaze on Conall’s serious but undeniably handsome face, Morgen decided she might as well be frank with him. Under the circumstances, what else could she be? Too bad if he didn’t like it. She hadn’t asked him to drive her home in the first place, and she certainly hadn’t invited him in.