Misbehaving with the Millionaire: The Millionaire's Misbehaving Mistress. Kimberly Lang

needed. As she declined, something on the desk beeped and Jewel’s attention shifted. Dismissed, Gwen went to wait. A leather couch nicer than the ones in most people’s homes looked too squishy to get up from gracefully, so she chose the less comfortable, but much more dignified wing chair instead. Copies of the HarCorp Annual Report covered the small coffee table and for lack of something else to do, Gwen picked one up and flipped through it absently as she mentally rehearsed her pitch one last time.

      As a “few minutes” turned into twenty, then thirty, her irritation level rose steadily. At two thirty-five, a forty-something dark-haired woman in a lime-green suit turned the corner and introduced herself as the Nancy Tucker of that morning’s phone call.

      “So sorry you had to wait. Mr. Harrison can see you now.”

      About damn time, Gwen thought before she checked herself. Breathe. Don’t get irritated. This is too important to get all twitchy about punctuality issues.

      Nancy was all business. She led Gwen down the hallway in silence, no small talk at all, and delivered her to William Harrison’s office door. After a quick knock, she opened it, ushering Gwen in ahead of her.

      A stunning view of the Dallas skyline greeted her, but the occupant of the office did not. Without breaking his conversation with whomever was on the phone, he waved her in and indicated he’d be with her in just a minute.

      Nancy guided her to one of the chairs facing the massive desk, then slipped silently out the door. Gwen set her briefcase on the floor, crossed one foot behind the other, folded her hands in her lap and waited.

      Lesson number one: Don’t talk on the phone while there’s a flesh and blood person in front of you. Taking a deep breath, she kept her frustration to herself. He was a busy man, and he’d at least acknowledged her presence. So she sat quietly, but uncomfortably, as the conversation continued. Gwen tried to keep her gaze on the view of the city as it would be rude to stare at Will Harrison.

      And she knew for certain that it was Will Harrison. She’d seen his picture in the papers enough to recognize him. While she might not run in the same circles of society as he, her clients certainly did, and as one of Dallas’s Most Eligible Bachelors, many of her debs and their mammas were quite obsessed with him.

      She could easily see why they were swooning. If she weren’t so irritated, she might feel a teeny-tiny swoon coming on herself. None of his pictures did him justice. In person, he didn’t look at all like a buttoned-up and stuffy Fortune 500 CEO. His collar and cuffs were both unbuttoned in fact, his tie pulled loose at the knot and his sleeves rolled up over his forearms. His dark hair hung a little longer than most executives’, and the tan on his face said he didn’t spend all of his time in the boardroom. Gwen could easily picture him as the outdoorsy type, and the broad shoulders and strong arms indicated it was something far more active than executive golfing. Maybe he was one of those weekend cowboys? The office lacked any Western-themed decor, so that didn’t help. She tried to casually scan his office for clues to his hobbies, telling herself it was strictly for business purposes…

      A deep, rumbling chuckle jerked her attention back to the man behind the desk. This time, he caught her eye and smiled. It was the smile that nearly did her in. The man had a dimple, for God’s sake, and the total effect would give any live woman a pulse spike.

      And, if her pulse was any indication, she was very much alive at the moment. Mercy. Most Eligible, indeed. She stifled the urge to fan herself as the room grew a little too warm.

      He was around the desk and extending his hand to her before she even realized he’d hung up the phone. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Miss Sawyer. Will Harrison.”

      Up close, the man was even more devastating to the senses. At this distance, Gwen could see that Will’s eyes were hazel—not the murky hazel of her own, but a clear, perfect hazel. The hand he offered was strong and warm and sent a little tingle of electricity up her arm as she touched him. That swoon seemed more and more likely with each passing minute.

      Focus, Gwen. She gave herself a mental shake. You’re not a groupie here to drool over the man. Pull it together because it’s showtime. “Not a problem.” She opened her briefcase and pulled out several of her HarCorp folders. “Everyday Etiquette has a reputation—”

      Will returned to his chair on the other side of the desk. “Nancy assures me you are the best at what you do, so I have no doubts you will be successful with Evie. However, we’re on a deadline here, and I need to know you can work quickly. And, of course, your discretion is essential.”

      Irritation at being interrupted midsentence was tempered by the compliment that she was the best. She was, darn it; it was about time somebody took note. But how did Nancy know? And who was Evie? Discretion? What kind of training did HarCorp need?

      “The Hospital Benefit is less than three weeks away. It’s Evie’s ‘launch,’ so to speak.”

      Confusion reigned. She knew exactly when the Med Ball was—it had been a major topic in one of her classes last week. But what did HarCorp have to do other than write a check? She cleared her throat, berating herself for not getting more details from Nancy that morning on the phone. “Mr. Harrison, Ms. Tucker didn’t provide any specific information about what kind of services HarCorp needed, so I’m afraid I’m a bit at a loss as to what you are talking about.”

      Those black eyebrows shot up in surprise, but his computer pinged, and his attention moved to the screen. “Damn.” His fingers flew across the keyboard before responding. “Evie is my sister—my half sister, actually.”

      Ah, the elusive Evangeline she’d read about. The society columns were buzzing with speculation… Oh, no. A bad feeling crept up her spine.

      “She’s living with me now, and her manners are atrocious. I need you to teach her how to be a lady. That is what you do, correct?”

      Please let me be wrong. Please. “You need social training for your sister?”

      “Table manners. Polite conversation. How to behave at a party.” Another ping from the computer, and his eyes went immediately to the screen. “And she’ll need help with her wardrobe as well.”

      Damn. Her heart sank as what was left of her hopes evaporated. HarCorp didn’t need her—another spoiled debutante did. Just to be sure, she asked, “And how old is Evie?”

      “Fifteen.”

      Gwen tried to keep her disappointment out of her voice. “Fifteen’s a bit young for debutante training, don’t you think? Surely you have a few more years before…”

      That got his full attention. She trailed off as he pinned her with those hazel eyes, and his voice took on a sharp edge. “She’s not a debutante. She’s an heiress and a Harrison.” He said “Harrison” like it was a synonym for “royalty.” “Sadly, my father and stepmother didn’t see to it that Evie learn how to behave properly in public before they died. Evie needs someone to teach her, and she needs to know enough not to embarrass herself or the family at the Hospital Benefit. It’s pretty straightforward.”

      This time, it was the phone on his desk that beeped, drawing his attention away again with only an offhanded “excuse me” as he answered it. Irritation bloomed again before she could help it. She dug her nails into her palm and bit her tongue. Good manners meant she couldn’t call him on his rudeness—and busy man or not, he was starting to really fray her Miss Behavior nerves.

      Good manners also meant she shouldn’t eavesdrop on his conversation, and she needed a moment to think and regroup anyway.

      She shouldn’t be upset that he wanted her to do social training—it was, after all, her primary source of income at the moment, and she was very good at it. Her pride was just a bit bruised because she’d come in with such high hopes for something else. She should agree to work with his sister…maybe some of the lessons would rub off on him.

      That thought kindled her hopes again. Maybe, just maybe, this was the way