The Secretary's Seduction. Jane Porter

      There was something about him, she thought, putting the top of her pen to her mouth, something deeper, more complex than he wanted to reveal. But what?

      “Good morning, Winnie.”

      “Good morning, Mr. Grady.” She managed a firm, professional smile. It was the competent smile she knew executives preferred. “The president of Shipley’s Bank just called. Would you like me to get him back on the line?”

      “Not just yet. I have a couple of things to take care of first. I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”

      “Of course, Mr. Grady. Is there anything else I can do for you right now?”

      “No. Just hold all calls.”

      “Yes, Mr. Grady. I’ll do that, Mr. Grady.”

      His door closed and she sank back into her chair and covered her face with her hands. Could she possibly sound more pathetic? Mr. Grady. No, Mr. Grady. Isn’t the sky perfectly blue, Mr. Grady?

      She sounded like a simpering idiot. Winnie, you need a life.

      You need to be good at something besides typing. You need to have interests other than Morgan Grady. You need to stop waiting for something good to happen.

      And suddenly tears filled her eyes, ridiculous tears that had nothing to do with work and everything to do with wanting so much and not knowing how to accomplish any of it.

      Once the tears started, she couldn’t seem to make them stop. Suddenly she was crying because she was the middle daughter and the uninspiring daughter and the only one of her sisters who wasn’t spectacular. Alexis and Megan were stunning, and talented, and incredibly popular. Unlike Winnie who’d never even been invited to the prom, Alexis and Megan had never missed a high school dance.

      She’d never been beautiful or special, and as horrible as the tears were, as embarrassing as they were, they were real. It’s hard to be plain and unexciting when the world embraces style and beauty.

      The tears continued to stream and Winnie, who firmly believed that tears didn’t belong at the office, grabbed a tissue from the box of Kleenex and blew her nose before being forced to pull off her glasses and wipe her eyes dry.

      “Are you all right?” It was Mr. Grady, and his voice was coming from above her desk. She hadn’t heard his door open or his footsteps approach.

      Winnie struggled to hide the tears and quickly tossed the damp tissue away. “Yes, Mr. Grady. I’m just great.”

      His skeptical gaze swept her face. She knew she was a wreck when she cried. Some women were delicate weepers. She was not. Her nose went shiny. Her eyes turned pink. Her complexion took on a mottled hue. But she squeezed her lips into a smile and prayed it’d work.

      It didn’t. His brow creased deeper. “You look like you’re in agony. Do you want to go home? Take an early lunch?”

      “Heavens, no. It’s not even nine-thirty, sir, and it’s nothing…it’s just…it’s just…”

      “Just what?”

      “I’ve made a mistake.”

      “I’m sure it can be fixed.”

      “No, it’s too late.”

      “Is it a stock order? A market transaction?” he asked, clearly dumbfounded.

      “No, it’s about my job. This job, and the job in Charleston. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore. I don’t know what’s right anymore—” She broke off, eyes welling up again, and Winnie struggled to get her glasses back on, but in her haste she bypassed one ear and the black frames ended up dangling off her face.

      “I think you’ve missed something,” Morgan said surprisingly gently.

      “An ear, sir.” She hiccuped, took the glasses off, and slid them on correctly, hooking the glasses around each ear with as much composure as she could muster considering the fact that her nose had gone stuffy and her voice sounded thick and she’d just been sobbing her heart out. She wasn’t making sense. She knew she wasn’t making sense and it only made her feel worse.

      “I’m sorry,” she said, drawing a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “I’m fine now. I just had something in my eye—”

      “I think those are called tears, Winnie.”

      She smiled faintly at his joke. It was a feeble joke but she appreciated it. “Yes, you’re right. And I’m fine now. Please, go back to work and put this out of mind.”

      “Easier said than done.”

      “It’s an achievable goal, sir.” She turned to face her computer, her fingers hovering above her keyboard and fixing her gaze on her computer screen she waited for him to disappear.

      He did not. He remained where he stood, just across her desk, his tall, solid body a delight in Italian wool and Egyptian cotton. She could smell his fragrance, smell the tantalizing hint of musk, and her gaze slowly lifted, traveling up his white shirt, past the elegant gray and black tie to the square cut of his chin and his impressive lips. She thought sometimes she’d do just about anything to have a kiss from those lips…

      And there she went again, fantasizing, like she’d spent half the night last night.

      Last night she’d imagined driving around Manhattan in the back of Morgan’s black stretch limo and she was wearing something silky and clingy and they were kissing madly. His hand was cupping her breast and she was making desperate little whimpering sounds and she couldn’t get enough of his mouth, of his hands. In her dream she wasn’t stodgy old Winnie, but someone exciting, someone smart and funny and beautiful. But of course morning came and she woke and dragged herself into the bathroom for a reality-check shower.

      And still he stood there, before her desk. She didn’t know what he wanted, what he was waiting for. Winnie dropped her hands back into her lap. “Do you need something, Mr. Grady?”

      He was looking at her most strangely. Looking at her as if she wasn’t Winnie but someone else. The slash of his black eyebrows drew closer together and a lock of dark hair fell forward on his brow. “Yes. I want to know more about the job in Charleston. Why were you interested in it?”

      Heat filled her, a warm slow heat that made her tingle from head to toe. She knew what she was, and saw herself all too clearly—slightly pudgy, rather frumpy, and prone to panic attacks—but oh, how she loved him and oh, how she wanted him. But living in fantasyland was just about to do her in.

      “Change,” she answered huskily, wishing yet again she were someone else, someone with style, someone with grace, someone that men would fight to ask out. Although, really, she didn’t want men, she wanted just one man. Morgan.

      What a stupid, futile wish. What a stupid, futile path she was traveling.

      Sniffling, she jerked open her desk drawer and dug around for a paper clip to stop her eyes from welling yet again. She had to get a grip. She had to get on with things. Because even if she wore a red dress and put hot rollers in her hair, she wasn’t the supermodel of Morgan Grady’s world. Wake up, Winnie. Grow up, Winnie. You’re never going to be his type.

      “But you like New York?” he persisted.

      She swallowed the lump in her throat. Of course she liked New York. He lived in New York. She’d love Timbuktu if that’s where he was. “Yes, Mr. Grady.”

      “So the problem is here, at the office.”

      Her chest felt raw, her lungs ached with bottled air. “Yes.”

      His black eyebrows drew even more tightly together. “You don’t like working for me?”

      Like didn’t exactly factor into it. It was more of a love-hate thing. She loved working for him but hated being a nobody. She didn’t want to be his secretary. She was dying to be his lover.

      Winnie