The Playboy's Protegee. Michele Dunaway

smiled suddenly, and it lit up his whole face. Laugh lines creased around those generous lips, and Megan sucked in her breath. If he looked like that when he smiled politely, what would he look like when he really smiled, smiled with pleasure or wanting?

      That was dangerous ground she didn’t need to tread. Harry Sanders was business, that was all. Averting her gaze from his straight white teeth, she tried to concentrate on what he was saying as he sat in a chair at her small table. Instead she saw paisley socks that perfectly matched both his suit and his shoes. The man knew how to dress. She blinked.

      “…so my grandfather again gets what he wants. I’ll expect you to have the full proposal read by tomorrow. Even though Jill is researching your ideas, you need to be certain she gives you a full report before you board the plane. And lastly, buy yourself an updated wardrobe. Those clothes need to go.”

      “What?” Had she heard him correctly? Her mouth opened a little in surprise.

      “Clothes,” Harry said without missing a beat. She had heard him correctly. “You look like a dowager duchess. Prim. Proper. Not quite the look we want. You’re what, twenty-something?”

      “Twenty-seven.” Her voice was indignant.

      “Right. Well you should dress sleek. Young. Professional. Not frumpy. We’re going into the fashion capital of America and you aren’t sixty.”

      “There is nothing wrong with my clothes,” Megan repeated, reining in her anger. After all, her clothes were designer labels, she’d just found them in an upscale consignment shop.

      Harry folded his hands into his lap and leaned forward. The movement allowed her to glimpse the muscles under the suit jacket and her mouth went dry. “I’ve been given the task of being your mentor. Why don’t you assume I do know some things and follow my advice. Since I am your mentor, you are now a reflection of me and my tutelage. Thus, I’d prefer you listen.”

      He leaned back and put his hands behind his head. That movement emphasized other muscles. Megan resisted the urge to lick her lips.

      What was it about him? Other men had sat in her cubicle, but why was Harry’s presence affecting her like this? Megan attempted to focus, her gaze instead watching Harry as he shrugged, his jaw flexing as he spoke.

      “But, if you don’t want to update your wardrobe I suppose that’s fine. When you discover I’m right, it will come at your expense.”

      She attempted to regain control of the situation. Harry Sanders, who always looked perfect, was in her cubicle telling her how to dress. The thought rankled, giving her some of the bite she needed. “I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?”

      Harry took what seemed like forever to study her. Megan felt her body heat as his blue-eyed gaze roved over her. It took all her mettle not to move a muscle. Whatever this test was, she would pass.

      He finally spoke, his voice a bit lower, huskier, than before. “No. There’s nothing else. Everything else, hair, makeup, is fine. Just fine. Make sure you lose the frumpy clothes. My sister usually shops at…”

      He rattled off the names of some stores and then he was gone.

      Megan stared at the empty chair. Had he really been there at all? She knew he had, but it seemed so improbable. Harry Sanders, extending an olive branch of sorts?

      If that’s what it actually was? And if it was an olive branch, it was probably only because he was stuck with her, and her with him. But he was correct about one thing. He did know how to dress, and he always looked impeccable no matter what designer suit he wore

      New clothes. Buying clothes would break her tight budget, but as much as she hated to admit it, Harry was right. She needed a young professional wardrobe.

      New York, here I come.