The End of Faking It. Natalie Anderson

      Praise for Natalie Anderson

      ‘Natalie Anderson is one of the most exciting voices in

      steamy romantic fiction writing today. Sassy, witty and

      emotional, her [books] are in a class of their own …

      an extraordinary new talent who can blend passion,

      drama, humour and emotion in one unforgettable read!’

      —www.cataromance.com

      ‘Mistress Under Contract is a fantastic contemporary romance full of intense emotions, funny moments, blazing sexual tension and moving romance; don’t miss it!’ —Pink Heart Society on Mistress Under Contract

      ‘Natalie Anderson’s His Mistress by Arrangement is a charming romance of childhood friends reconnecting. It’s both fun and flirty, and conveys the wonderful feeling of finding someone you can truly be yourself with.” —RT Book Reviews on His Mistress by Arrangement

       About Natalie Anderson

      Possibly the only librarian who got told off herself for talking too much, NATALIE ANDERSON decided writing books might be more fun than shelving them—and, boy, is it that! Especially writing romance—it’s the realisation of a lifetime dream kick-started by many an afternoon spent devouring Grandma’s Mills & Boon^® books … She lives in New Zealand, with her husband and four gorgeous-but-exhausting children.

      Swing by her website any time—she’d love to hear from you: www.natalie-anderson.com

      Also by Natalie Anderson

      Walk on the Wild Side

      Unbuttoned by Her Maverick Boss*

      Caught on Camera with the CEO*

      To Love, Honour and Disobey

      Hot Boss, Boardroom Mistress

      *Hot Under the Collar duet

       Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

       The End of Faking It

      Natalie Anderson

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      For my awesome daily support structure:

      Dave, Mum & Soraya.

      You guys helped with the heartache of this one especially.

      Am so happy to be returning the favour now, Soraya!

      CHAPTER ONE

      ANOTHER two minutes couldn’t possibly matter—late was late and this was too important to leave.

      ‘Come on, Audrey,’ Penny muttered softly. ‘Let’s keep you all healthy, huh?’ She scattered the plant food and put the pack back in the top drawer of the filing cabinet. Then she picked up the jug of water.

      ‘What are you doing?’

      Her fingers flinched and she whirled at the sound of deep, accusing anger. She saw black clothes, big frame, even bigger frown. Striding towards her was a total stranger. A tall, dark, two hundred per cent testosterone-filled male was in her office, late at night. Not Jed the security guard, but a hard edged predator coming straight for her—fast.

      She flung forward, all raw reflex.

      He swore as water hit him straight in the eyes. She lunged again, hoping to knock him out with a Pyrex jug to the temple. Only halfway there her arm slammed against something hard, whiplash sent shudders down her shoulder. Painfully strong fingers held her wrist vice-tight. She immediately strained to break free, twisting skin and muscle. He sharply wrenched her wrist. She gasped. Her fingers failed and the jug tipped between them.

      The shock of the ice-cold water splashing across her chest suffocated her shriek. She recoiled, but he came forward relentlessly, still death-gripping her wrist. The drawer slammed as she backed up and banged against it.

      ‘Who the hell are you and what are you doing in here?’ he demanded, storming further into her personal space.

      Shock, pain, fear. She couldn’t move other than to blink, trying to see clearly and figure a way to escape.

      But he moved closer still. ‘What are you doing with the files?’ Pure menace.

      The cold metal cabinet dug into her back. But he wasn’t in the least cold. She could feel his heat even with the slight distance between them. His hand branded her. Her scream couldn’t emerge—not with her throat squeezed so tight and her heart not beating at all.

      He pushed back his fringe with his free hand, also blinked several times—only his eyes were filled with the water she’d thrown at him, not tears like hers. He actually laughed—not nicely—and his grip tightened even more. ‘I didn’t think this was going to be that easy.’ He looked over her, scorn sharpening every harsh word. ‘You’re not screwing another cent out of this company.’

      Penny gaped. He was insane. Totally insane. ‘The security guard will be doing his rounds any minute,’ she panted. ‘He’s armed.’

      ‘With what—chewing gum? The only person going to the police cells tonight is you, honey.’

      Yep, totally insane. Unfortunately he was also right about Jed’s lack of ammo—the best she could hope for was a heavy torch. And it was a hopeless hope because she’d been lying anyway—Jed didn’t do rounds. He sat at his desk. And she was ten floors up, alone with a complete nut-job who was going to … going to …

      Jerky breathing filled her ears—as if someone was having an asthma attack. It took long moments to realise it was her. She pressed her free hand to her stomach, but couldn’t stop the violent tremors. Her eyes watered more, her muscles quivered. Dimly she heard him swear.

      ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said loudly right in her face.

      ‘You already are,’ she squeaked.

      He instantly let go of her wrist, but he didn’t move away. If anything he towered closer, still blocking her exit. But she could breathe again and her brain started sending signals. Then her heart got going, pushing a plan along her veins. All she had to do was escape him somehow and race down to Jed on Reception. She could do that, right? She forced a few more deep breaths as both fight and flight instincts rose and merged, locking her body and brain into survive mode.

      ‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’ he asked, a little quieter that time, but still with that peremptory tone, as if he had all the authority.

      Which he didn’t.

      ‘Answer that yourself,’ Penny snapped back.

      He glanced down to where the jug lay useless on the floor and, beside her, where the plant’s tub sat. ‘You’re the cleaner?’ He looked from her toes back up to her face—slowly. ‘You don’t look like a cleaner.’

      ‘No, who are you and what are you doing here?’ Now she could see—and almost think—she took stock of him. Tall and dark, yes, but while the jeans and tee were black, they were well fitting—as in designer fitting. And it wasn’t as if he was wearing a balaclava. Not exactly hardcore crim kind of clothing. The intensely angry look had vanished, and his face was open and sun-burnished, as if he spent time skiing or sailing. The hard planes of his body, and the strength she felt firsthand, suggested a high degree of fitness too. On his wrist was one of those impressive watches, all masculine and metal with a million little dials and functions