The Secretary's Seduction. Jane Porter

bad, Willa was far worse.

      She’d corrected him before, several times actually, but he’d always been on his way in or out, or in the middle of something important, so she forgave the slips, and made up excuses for him.

      But after five and a half months, the excuses had worn thin. Her patience had worn down. And her outer skin had worn off. She couldn’t do this anymore, nor could she handle being invisible. It was definitely time to move on.

      Winnie’s lungs ached and she exhaled, feeling the elastic of her panty hose pinch her waist. She’d gained some weight over the winter, her usual extra five or ten pounds and she’d been slow to lose the weight this year. “You called me Willa.”

      He didn’t look up. His attention never wavered from his Palm Pilot where he was making copious notes. “Yes.”

      Her panty hose was killing her. She couldn’t remember when she felt so frumpy or dull. And worst of all, it wounded her pride that Mr. Grady was completely oblivious to her existence, while she knew—and was expected to know—everything about him.

      Morgan Louis Grady. Born August first, Boston, Massachusetts.

      A Leo, he took four newspapers daily, but didn’t start reading until he’d hit his treadmill and weights for his morning workout.

      He read all the important business sections of the paper between six and seven in the morning, during which he drank exactly two and a half cups of very strong, very black coffee. He had nothing until lunch—light salad and chicken from a caterer that delivered every day—and worked without interruption until three when she brought him a shot of espresso from the coffee cart downstairs.

      Shirt size: sixteen and a half. Shoe size: eleven.

      Height: six foot three. Weight: two hundred and five muscular pounds—he never varied in weight.

      Impeccable dresser.

      His hair was another matter. That couldn’t, wouldn’t be tamed. Thick, glossy and nearly black, he had a cowlick at his temple and he wore the back longer than the rest. He could cut it all short but he never did.

      She knew all this, and more, and yet he didn’t even know her name. Drawing a deep breath she blurted, “Mr. Grady, my name is Winnie, not Willa. I’m Winnie Graham and I’ve worked here since January second.”

      His dark head lifted. “Oh.”

      She stood a bit straighter, pulled back her shoulder blades, trying to project that she was taller, more impressive than her five feet, five inch height. “I replaced Miss Dirkle. And Miss Dirkle replaced Miss Hunts. And Miss Hunts, I believe, took over for Mrs. Amadio.”

      “Yes. Miss Dirkle, Miss Hunts, I remember.”

      They were making progress. Eye contact had been established. He recognized some names. He appeared to be listening. Good.

      Now was the time to mention Friday.

      Friday, four days from now, she had a final interview with a company in Charleston for a position much like the one she held now, executive assistant to the CEO of a major Fortune 500 firm. The job responsibilities and salary were equitable with what she had now, except that the cost of living in Charleston was much more affordable than Manhattan, and she’d be working for a kind, grandfather-like gentleman in his sixties rather than Morgan Grady, Wall Street’s Most Eligible Bachelor. “About Friday, Mr. Grady—”

      “What about Friday?”

      “I sent you a memo.”

      “I don’t recall.”

      There were moments she wondered how he could possibly be New York’s youngest, shrewdest, most aggressive money manager. Everyone said he was brilliant. His firm received more press than any other investment firm on Wall Street, citing his leadership, insight and intuition, but he didn’t display a bit of that insight and intuition with his assistant.

      Flushing, Winnie pressed the stack of paperwork to her chest. “I left you a memo two weeks ago about needing Friday off, and then a follow up e-mail last week—”

      “Sorry.” He shook his head once, a short cryptic shake even as his gaze dropped to his desk and he reached for his phone. “Anyway, Friday’s bad. Can’t do. Wait until later in the summer, right?”

      Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Not only had he said no, but she’d lost his attention.

      Twenty seconds of conversation and he’d mentally checked out.

      She glared at him, fighting tears, wondering just what went on inside that head.

      He was heart-stoppingly beautiful. Women fell at his feet in droves.

      Last year he’d even been voted Wall Street’s Most Eligible Bachelor, six months ago he’d been selected New York’s Sexiest Bachelor, and the florist deliveries continued to stream in. Long-stemmed red roses, potted palms, elegant orchids. Socialites, models, actresses, other men’s wives…they all wanted him.

      Including her.

      She tried to study him dispassionately but there was nothing dispassionate about her feelings for him.

      He had a great nose, a strong nose, with the smallest hump at the bridge and serious dark blue eyes, matched by the best mouth and most perfect chin in all of New York. Correction, the most perfect face in all of New York.

      Manhattan was the place of beautiful people and he was the most beautiful of all. But she couldn’t handle it anymore, couldn’t handle being a nothing, a nobody and so soon she’d be gone, off to another job, a slower pace of life, and an elderly white-haired, bespectacled boss.

      “I can print off another memo, Mr. Grady. The original’s still saved on my hard drive.”

      He shook his head, hung up the phone and began to place another call all without a glance in her direction. “Doesn’t matter. Friday’s not good.”

      “But I asked you two weeks ago.” She heard her voice falter, and immediately strengthened it. “You didn’t say no then.”

      “I didn’t say anything at all.”

      “Exactly!”

      “You can’t take a non-answer as a yes.”

      “But, Mr. Grady—”

      His dark head lifted abruptly. “Is this a family emergency?”

      “No.”

      “Death in the family?”

      “No.”

      “Death of a friend or former colleague?”

      “No deaths. Personal leave.”

      He was staring at her and he had beautiful eyes, not exactly sapphire, more indigo, and when he looked at her like that, she could swear he saw straight through her. Literally. Straight through her to the wall behind her with the big clock and the fancy framed Chagall. She’d lost him. He wasn’t even thinking about her request. He was thinking numbers, odds, research, stocks, options, you name it, anything and everything but what she needed.

      “Personal leave,” he repeated softly, a crease between his brows.

      “Yes, sir.”

      He was still staring at her, eyes narrowed slightly. “On Friday.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “During the shareholder’s meeting?”

      She had his full attention now and she felt oddly warm, and very uncomfortable, feeling the weight of his scrutiny. “I’ve found a replacement,” she said, her voice cracking, her composure cracking. “She’s highly qualified, shorthand, word processing, data processing—”

      “No. Sorry,” he cut her mercilessly off. “Reimburse yourself for the ticket from petty cash and leave me a copy of the ticket voucher.”

      Mr.