The Millionaire's Mistletoe Mistress. Natalie Anderson

Mr Mac’s number one for the best part of thirty years, was smiling. Half an hour in the guy’s company and he’d won over the most hardened cynic. Although really, why should she be surprised? It had only taken a split second for her to want to fall at his feet. But there could be no fraternising here—no sycophantic chats with the boss. Not when she’d seen him almost naked. Because that was how she still saw him.

      Her face flamed as his image slid into frame again. Frustrated, she focused on those looks. He was way too young for this kind of position. She worked up anger. Most likely nepotism all the way. He’d probably come in and ruin it for all of them. Just as George had ruined it for her back home in New Zealand at Bailey & Co. Sleeping with her boss had been stupid. Trusting a man who’d had everything too easy had been devastating.

      Ryan Taylor looked up, saw she was glaring at him. One brow lifted slightly, as if to ask, What’s your beef?

      You are, buddy, she mentally tossed back, with a wide American accent in mind. But he kept his focus on her, and then she got kind of distracted … Goodness, his eyes were blue. Electric. And right now they were honed in on her.

      Someone was talking. It seemed he was listening, because she saw his mouth move and heard some kind of noise, but she couldn’t have deciphered any sensible conversation. She was lost in the intensity of that look—in the blue skies that were his eyes. It was as if she was in freefall, flying—almost floating—waiting, still waiting, for the parachute to open …

      It wasn’t in any hurry. She blinked. Maybe she’d just clunk back to earth in a heap.

      But she’d been there, done that. And been left bruised and broken. She looked away, realising her grazes were throbbing again. No. One gorgeous heir to an empire was not going to throw her off-course.

      CHAPTER THREE

      IMOGEN got to work early the next day, wanting to be lodged in place behind her desk before anyone else and thus able to avoid comment on her aching limp. Then she couldn’t resist doing what she hadn’t contemplated or even had time for until now. She opened up the Internet. Typed in his name. Added ‘department store’ to narrow the search. There were still a zillion hits. She read a few headers.

      ‘The Taylor quartet …’ That was a spread in some flash American society mag. Mainly about his elder brother, but he and his sisters had got more than a mention, too. There were photos of them all at some swanky-looking party, with people too beautiful to be real.

      ‘Harvard-educated … grew up in style in New York … holiday homes in Colorado, Italy and the Caribbean …’

      She didn’t read any more. Didn’t need to. She knew the type well and she knew to steer clear. She’d worked hard to build her reputation at Mackenzie Forrest, and she knew how easily it could be ruined. Most of all she knew how fickle guys like Ryan were—guys born with not just a silver spoon in their mouths but with the whole damn canteen of cutlery. Those born into wealth and power grew up with decayed morals. They were always greedy for more. It was not a world Imogen could ever live in. George Bailey-Jones Jr had proved that. His family had added the exclamation mark.

      Ryan Taylor’s family made the Bailey-Joneses look like nameless nobodies.

      Unfortunately he arrived in the office in another made-to-mesmerise suit, his hair still damp from the shower as it had been the day before …

      The way her belly squeezed at the sight of him was crazy. Plain crazy. The way her thoughts ran riot if she let them—seeing him naked, seeing her astride his hips with his chest spread before her, bending forward to press her mouth to his bronzed skin, feeling the muscles beneath …

      Oh, she was one sick, sick woman. This kind of fever had to be broken. She watched as he coolly greeted everyone by name. He was too relaxed, too confident. And she knew he’d be unreliable.

      ‘Good morning, Mr Taylor.’ She got in first. Shona had always addressed Mr Mac formally. Imogen had thought it old-fashioned. Now it seemed like a really good idea. Distance—a good way of maintaining the employer-employee boundary. Because she could hardly say to him, Hey, I don’t usually wear a scarlet bra. It’s just that I was behind on my washing.

      His eyebrows lifted fractionally. ‘Are you able to have the latest financials ready for me by lunchtime, Ms Hall?’

      ‘Certainly, Mr Taylor.’ She retreated farther behind her computer, hoping to hide the way she blushed as he spoke to her.

      ‘How’s your knee? Better?’

      No retreat possible. He’d stepped right round her desk.

      ‘All better, thank you.’ She didn’t look up from her ferocious study of the screen. Determined not to let things get personal. Strictly professionally was how they’d interact.

      ‘That’s good to hear.’ His soft words went through her insides like a fork stirred through creamy mashed potato.

      ‘Is it just the current month you’re after, or last month’s as well?’ Think work. Think work. Not about being whipped into melting acquiescence by a deep American accent.

      ‘Just this month. I have the other data already.’

      Thank heavens he left then—off to the shop floor with the duty manager to meet the front-line staff, before coming back and meeting with Shona for over an hour.

      It was well before lunchtime when Imogen knocked on the frame of his open door. He glanced up from his desk. ‘Already?’

      ‘Yes.’ She didn’t look at him, focused on his desk, placing the report on it and walking straight out again.

      ‘Thank you.’

      She felt the words like bullets in her back.

      Less than an hour later, he stopped by her desk. ‘That report was excellent. Not a number out of place.’

      Was he teasing her?

      ‘Think I can get you to do me another, with some projections for the next quarter?’

      ‘Of course, Mr Taylor.’ She tossed her head as he turned away, determined to reframe his opinion of her and prove her worth. ‘There’s nothing you can ask of me that I can’t do.’

      He paused, and it was a miracle she didn’t combust as he assessed her with his blue fire eyes. ‘Ms Hall, you do like to set a challenge, don’t you?’

      Three days later Ryan congratulated himself on surviving so far—every minute of every day had been arduous. It shouldn’t have been so bad. In fact, he should have been able to say that things were going better than he’d anticipated—the Christmas tills were ringing, the figures were stacking up, and the staff were all accommodating if not bordering on welcoming. All but one. And he wanted her to accommodate him in a way that was thoroughly inappropriate. So much for conquering the lust.

      Theoretically, he should be over it. Every day this week she’d been dressed totally differently from that to-die-for green shirt and pants number at that first meeting. If anything she looked downright dowdy in the shapeless shirts and skirts she seemed so fond of. He couldn’t understand why she’d want to shroud herself in 1950s-schoolmarm-length skirts, and all he wanted to do was get her out of them. While the rest of the staff were looking festive, she looked funereal. Black, black and black was it. Drab and depressing it should have been. Except that on her the tone emphasised her pale skin, and made her eyes greener than genetically modified grass.

      And then there was the fact that it wasn’t just her looks he was attracted to. In the open-plan space outside his office, she and Shona were nearest to his door. The door he couldn’t bring himself to close—not when he could hear her low-voiced humour. She didn’t mix much with the others—just sat quietly next to Shona, passing the time with occasional wry and dry comments that had him hovering ever closer, increasingly interested. Wishing she’d laugh like that with him.

      And she was damn good at her job—at a junior