The Mistress Contract. Helen Brooks

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      “You’re my boss.”

      “Not anymore,” Conrad said with a satisfaction that started Sephy’s heart thumping.

      There was suddenly no doubt in Sephy’s mind. He was propositioning her. “What…what are you saying exactly?” she asked at last.

      “I want you, Sephy. I want you very badly. Is that clear enough? I would like to start seeing you—out of work. You’ve got under my skin in a way I can’t explain.”

      “You are talking about a cheap affair, aren’t you?” she said quietly.

      “No, I am not.”

      HELEN BROOKS lives in Northamptonshire, England, and is married with three children. As she is a committed Christian, busy housewife and mother, her spare time is at a premium, but her hobbies include reading, swimming, gardening and walking her two energetic, inquisitive and very endearing young dogs. Her long-cherished aspiration to write became a reality when she put pen to paper on reaching the age of forty, and sent the result off to Harlequin.

      The Mistress Contract

      Helen Brooks

      MILLS & BOON

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      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ONE

      ‘ME?’ SEPHY stared at Mrs Williams—the company secretary’s assistant—in horror, her velvet-brown eyes opening wide as she said again, ‘Me? Stand in for Mr Quentin’s secretary? I don’t think I could, Pat. I mean—’

      ‘Of course you could,’ Pat Williams interrupted briskly, her sharp voice, which matched her sharp face and thin, angular body, signalling that the matter was not open for discussion. ‘You’re as bright as a button, Seraphina, even if you do insist on hiding your light under a bushel most of the time, and after six years at Quentin Dynamics you know as much as me about the firm and its operating procedures. More, probably, after working for Mr Harper in Customer Support and Service for four years.’

      Sephy smiled weakly. The Customer Support and Services department was, by its very nature, a fast-moving and hectic environment within Quentin Dynamics, and in her position as assistant to Mr Harper—who was small and plump and genial, but the sort of boss who arrived late, left early and had three-hour lunch breaks most days—she was used to dealing with the hundred and one panics that erupted daily on her own initiative. But Mr Harper and Customer Service was one thing; Conrad Quentin, the millionaire entrepreneur and tycoon founder of the firm, was quite another!

      Sephy took a deep breath and said firmly, ‘I really don’t think it’s a good idea, Pat. I’m sorry, but I’m sure there must be someone else more suitable? What about Jenny Brown, Mr Eddleston’s secretary? Or Suzy Dodds? Or…or you?’

      The other woman waved a dismissive bony hand. ‘Those two girls would last ten minutes with Mr Quentin and you know it, and with the end of year accounts to pull together I can’t desert Mr Meadows. No, you’re ideal. You know the ins and outs of the business, you’ve got a level head on your shoulders, and you’re used to dealing with awkward customers every day of the week so Mr Quentin won’t throw you. We can get a good temp to fill in for you until Mr Quentin’s secretary is back—’

      ‘Can’t Mr Quentin have the good temp?’ Sephy interjected desperately.

      ‘He’d eat her alive!’ Pat’s beady black eyes held Sephy’s golden-brown ones. ‘You know how impatient he is. He hasn’t got time for someone who doesn’t know the ropes, besides which he expects his secretary to practically live here, and most girls have got—’ She stopped abruptly, suddenly aware she was being tactless as Sephy’s small heart-shaped face flushed hotly.

      ‘Most girls have got boyfriends or husbands or whatever,’ Sephy finished flatly.

      Sephy had never hidden the fact that she rarely dated and that her social diary wasn’t exactly the most riveting reading, but it wasn’t particularly warming to think that Pat Williams—along with everyone else, most probably—thought she had nothing better to do than work twenty-four hours a day.

      ‘Well, yes,’ Pat murmured uncomfortably.

      ‘What about Marilyn?’

      ‘Tried her first, lasted an hour.’

      ‘Philippa?’

      ‘Howled her eyes out in the ladies’ cloakroom all lunchtime and has gone home with a migraine,’ Pat said triumphantly. ‘She’s not used to men snapping and snarling at her like Mr Quentin did.’

      Sephy thought of the beautiful ash-blonde who was the marketing manager’s secretary, and who had different men in flash, expensive sports cars waiting outside the building for her every night of the week and nodded. ‘No, I can imagine,’ she agreed drily. ‘And you think I am, is that it?’

      ‘Seraphina, please. Try it for this afternoon at least.’ In spite of the ‘please’ it was more of an order than a request, and Sephy stared at the other woman exasperatedly.

      Pat Williams was the only person she knew—apart from her mother—who insisted on giving her her full Christian name when she knew full well Sephy loathed it, but it went with the brusque, army-style manner of the company secretary’s assistant, and the utilitarian haircut and severely practical clothes.

      For her first two years at Quentin Dynamics, Sephy—along with the other secretaries and personnel of the hugely successful software firm that majored in specialist packages for different types of companies—had thoroughly disliked Pat Williams, but there had come a day when she and the other woman had been working late and she had found Pat in the ladies’ cloakroom in tears.

      All Pat’s defences had been down, and when Sephy had discovered her history—an upbringing in a children’s home where she’d met the husband she adored, only for him to develop multiple sclerosis just after they married, which now confined him to a wheelchair and made Pat the bread-winner—her friendship with the older woman had begun.

      And it was that which made Sephy sigh loudly, narrow her eyes and nod her dark head resignedly. ‘One afternoon,’ she agreed quietly. ‘But I can’t see me lasting any better than the others, Pat. It’s a well-known fact Madge Watkins is so devoted to him she puts up with anything, and she’s been his secretary for decades! How can anyone step into her shoes?’

      ‘She’s been his secretary for thirteen years,’ Pat corrected cheerfully, allowing herself a smile now Sephy had agreed to help her out of what had become a very tight spot. ‘And I’m not asking you to step into her shoes; they wouldn’t fit you.’

      They