The Expectant Secretary. Leanna Wilson

today.”

      “That was nice.” Her sister’s gaze narrowed. “You don’t have a thing for your boss, do you?”

      “Depends on what you mean by ‘thing.’”

      Amy groaned. “Oh, no, Jill. This is not a good idea.”

      “You mean ‘wasn’t a good idea.’”

      Her sister’s brow wrinkled with sudden concern. “What happened? Did he make a pass at you? Did you make one toward him?”

      Jillian flushed. For a moment she thought she might faint again, but realized she was experiencing a different type of headiness. “Past tense.”

      “Are you purposefully trying to confuse me?”

      “Not really.” She shrugged. “Maybe I am.” She confused herself. Forget Brody, she warned herself. But she knew it was an impossible feat. She popped another lemon drop into her mouth and slid it across her tongue until it lay between her cheek and gum. “Remember when I went to school in Australia?”

      Amy nodded.

      “Well, I knew Brody—my current boss—then. We, um, sort of dated.”

      Amy’s eyes grew round with disbelief. “You’re kidding!”

      “I wish I were.” She gave a heavy sigh. “It ended badly. But we’re trying to go on about our business now. It doesn’t mean anything.”

      “Uh-huh.” Amy gave her a sly grin. “I think I know why you’re a klutz and forgetting things lately.”

      Jillian arched an eyebrow.

      “It’s not your pregnancy, little sister. It’s Brody. The new man in your life!”

      Three

      Brody is not the new man in my life!

      Jillian didn’t need a man.

      Didn’t want one.

      Certainly not Brody.

      She repeated that mantra throughout the rest of the week, especially when she was in his presence. She refused to let him affect her. Negatively or temptingly as he once had. He did not make her feel things she shouldn’t. He did not make her feel anything at all.

      Carrying a tray with a couple of sandwiches, bags of potato chips and ice-cold drinks, she fortified her resolve and, pushing open the door with her hip, backed into his office. Either he was starving or he was expecting company for lunch.

      Brody sat at his desk, his leather chair swiveled to face the panoramic view, and spoke in hushed tones into the phone. From her angle she could glimpse his autocratic profile, his sharply slanted nose, his chiseled jaw. As she moved to his desk she fortified herself to ignore the fact that he’d tugged loose his canary-yellow silk tie and unbuttoned the top button of his starched white shirt, allowing a tuft of dark hair to peek out. Earlier in the day he’d discarded his navy jacket and folded his cuffs up to his elbows. Seeing the dusting of black hair over his tanned forearms hadn’t fazed her in the least.

      Proving her sister had been wrong in saying Brody was affecting her, Jillian set the tray on his desk, careful to not spill the drinks or knock over the brass picture frame on the desk that held a photograph of a bloodred quarter horse, its shoulders well-muscled, its majestic head turned toward the camera. Probably one of his family’s prized studs.

      Not at all interested in Brody’s hobbies, or that of his family, she turned to go. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Brody’s hand signal, motioning for her to wait until he finished his call. Anxious to get back to her desk and the financial report Brody had asked her to generate, to get away from him, she clasped her hands in front of her, shifted from foot to foot and stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the view of San Antonio.

      The late summer sky shimmered like a turquoise stone, polished and smooth. Sunlight glimmered off a nearby high-rise. Down below, on Kingston Street, live oaks made shady patches in the park with their wide-stretching branches and jade-colored leaves.

      “Why don’t you have dinner with me?” Brody said into the phone, his voice low, appealing.

      Jillian’s attention boomeranged back to him. See-sawing a pen between his fingers, making it thump rapidly against his thigh, he elevated her anxiety level several notches. Great, she thought, this was just what she needed. She’d walked in while he was asking a woman out on a date.

      Her stomach clenched, roiling with a number of indiscernible emotions. What did she care? And why did she want to hate the woman?

      He cradled the phone between his neck and shoulder, leaning forward as if anticipating a positive response from the person on the other end. A sudden memory flash stung Jillian. She remembered dancing with Brody beneath a starlit sky. Slow, erotic music wrapping softly around them, cocooning them, binding them together in her mind. Her cheek rested against his chest. His chin propped on the top of her head, tucking her safely into the curve of his shoulder.

      She slammed the brakes on those memories. Her emotions jackknifed, causing a pile-up inside her as longing, despair and irritation crashed into each other. He’d once made her feel cherished, given her the love and security she’d desperately needed. But the truth had twisted her insides into a heap of mangled metal. She’d never forget—or forgive—the humiliation she’d felt when she’d learned that the entire time he’d been dating her he’d also been seeing an old girlfriend.

      Angry with herself for looking back, aching for strong arms to wrap around her with heart-stirring tenderness, she straightened her spine. It was a waste of time to yearn for what had once been between them. What had been only an illusion.

      Amy was wrong. She didn’t feel anything for Brody. Not anymore.

      Proving to herself it didn’t matter whom he dated, or what he did with some woman, she busied herself, rearranging his lunch on the tray, folding then refolding his napkin until the paper resembled a handmade fan. She wasn’t stalling, wasn’t waiting to find out if the woman on the other end of the phone would agree to have dinner with him. She was fixing his lunch.

      She tore the paper off a straw and stuck it in his drink, sloshing some of the cola over the side. With each passing moment, her nerves twisted into fine knots. She refused to eavesdrop on his conversation. After all, she didn’t care who the woman was. Or what she looked like. It wasn’t any of her business.

      But she couldn’t block out the way he said, “See you then, love.”

      Furious at herself for paying attention, for the wave of disappointment that knocked her off her feet and the simmer of electricity that made the fine hairs along the back of her neck stand on end, she gritted her teeth. “Your lunch is ready.”

      She slapped a sandwich down on a paper plate in front of him. Barbecue sauce shot out a slit in the paper covering the sandwich and speckled the front of his shirt. She gasped. “Oh, dear!”

      He glanced down at his now spotted shirt, his brows slanting into a frown.

      “I’m so sorry.” She grabbed a napkin and rounded the desk. She wiped at the mess she’d caused, but the tiny crimson spots smeared. “Oh, no.”

      His hand folded around her wrist. Tiny fissures of heat spread along her nerve endings. “It’s all right,” he said, his voice warm, amused, that damn sexy Australian accent reminding her of balmy nights and hot kisses. “Don’t worry about it.”

      Embarrassment branded her cheeks. Her skin tingled where he held her. “B-but I’ve ruined your shirt.”

      “I’ve survived worse.” Standing, he continued holding her arm, his hand encircling her wrist like a heavy, iron band. His height made her tilt her head back to meet his solid-marble gaze. “No worries.”

      His husky tone sent tiny sparks along her spine and electrified her insides. As quickly as he’d grabbed her arm, he released her and stepped away, leaving