The Boss's Valentine. Lynne Graham

measures with liquids from the HR manager had set the seal on her shame while she had also been reminded of her first formal warning, which had resulted from poor timekeeping in her very first month at Aragone Systems. ‘One more strike and you’re out,’ had been the message she’d received after the coffee incident and she really was determined not to make any further blunders.

      ‘What are you wearing to the party tonight?’

      Grateful for the interruption, Poppy glanced up with a smile from the unexciting graph she had been tinkering with on her monitor. It was Lesley, a tall, slim brunette on the market research team. ‘Nothing special. Just a dress.’

      She listened while Lesley described her own outfit. She knew that without a doubt it would enhance every slender curve of the other woman’s enviable figure. As Desmond informed her that he wanted the graphs she had been working on for a meeting, she hurried into printing them, relieved that she had finished the last one in time.

      ‘I heard that Santino got a valentine card,’ Lesley continued, and as Poppy tensed she added, ‘I was more surprised to hear he didn’t get a whole sackful! I bet it was from his ex trying to get back in with him.’

      ‘Ex?’ Poppy queried, relaxing again.

      ‘Don’t you read the gossip columns? He dumped Caro Hartley a month back,’ Lesley informed her with authority. ‘I didn’t think that would last long. She’s quite a party girl and I suspect Santino got bored fast. He’s a very clever guy.’

      ‘I’m sure he’ll not be on his own for long,’ Poppy remarked, anxious eyes on Desmond, her boss, as he treated the printed graphs to a cursory appraisal. Had she changed the colouring of the one she had first done in pink for her own amusement? Yes, she was sure she remembered doing so. Even so, she didn’t lose her tension until he had slotted them into a folder.

      Never, ever again would she play around with the colours of the graphs, she swore as she went into the cloakroom to freshen up at lunchtime. If it killed her, she was going to erase her every bad habit. She gave herself only the most fleeting look in the mirror. At least she had grown out of the spots and her skin now looked great. But her rippling auburn curls were a constant source of aggravation, for the little tendrils that gathered round her face ensured that her hair never looked as tidy as other women’s. However, cut short her riotous curls were even harder to handle, so she kept her hair long and wore it clipped back at the nape of her neck.

      Her unfashionable curves were the biggest challenge, she conceded ruefully. She was in dire need of a new, inspiring diet. The banana regime had put her off bananas for life, and the cabbage soup one had ensured that she felt queasy just passing vegetables on a market stall. No, it was back to boring old salad and yogurt, which worked but meant that she spent most of her time fantasising about food and feeling so hungry she could have munched on wood.

      When she returned to her desk, the email icon was flicking on her monitor and she opened it, hoping it was a cheering communication from a friend.

      ‘Pink graphs are inappropriate in a business environment,’ ran the email.

      Poppy looked at the message in shock and then glanced around herself to see if anyone was looking at her, but nobody was. Who had seen her mucking about with that graph before lunch? Who was pulling her leg? It was unsigned and the address was a six-digit number and, as such, anonymous.

      ‘Says who?’ she typed in and sent the email back.

      ‘I like graphs in dark colours.’

      ‘That’s boring,’ Poppy told her correspondent.

      ‘Rational. Pink is a distraction.’

      ‘Pink is warm and uplifting,’ she protested in reply, typing at full tilt.

      ‘Pink is irritating, cute, feminine…inappropriate.’ That awful word, inappropriate again. Her correspondent was a guy, she decided, and certainly not Desmond, who regarded email as a time-wasting exercise and who would surely have gone into orbit the instant he saw a pink graph.

      ‘How did you see my graph?’ she typed.

      ‘Stick to the issue.’

      Poppy grinned at that rejoinder. Definitely a guy.

      ‘One more warning and you could be out of work. Be sensible.’ That next message came in fast on the previous one without having given her the chance to respond.

      Her grin fell off her lips at supersonic speed. ‘How do you know that?’ she typed.

      But this time, infuriatingly, there was no answer. Thinking about her mystery correspondent, Poppy conceded that quite a few people would be aware of those warnings on her employment record. The very first time it had happened she had been so upset, she had talked about it herself and, after the coffee episode, Desmond had been so furious that he had announced his intent to complain about her in such ringing decibels that most of the department had heard him.

      Intrigued by those emails, scanning her busy colleagues with intense curiosity, Poppy sent several more to the same address that afternoon but still received no further response. Then she began thinking about the party that evening and wondered what she would wear, since pink had become such a controversial issue…

      ’I’m amazed that you’re still laying on large supplies of alcohol for your employees.’ Jenna Delsen’s exquisite face emanated shocked disapproval as she scanned the low-lit noisy room full of party revellers. ‘Daddy used to help our staff to get sloshed at our expense, too, but not since I joined the company. Now we have a nice sober supper do. No loud music, no dancing, no drink and everyone behaves.’

      ‘I like my staff to enjoy themselves. It is only one night a year.’ Santino suppressed the ungenerous thought that the blonde could be a pious, penny-pinching misery, for she had been welcome company at the funeral that afternoon and he had enjoyed dining with her and her father at their home afterwards.

      ‘I suppose that’s the extrovert Italian in you. You threw some very riotous parties when we were at Oxford together.’ Jenna gave him a flirtatious, rather coy look as she reminded him that they had known each other since university.

      In receipt of that appraisal, all Santino’s defensive antenna hit alarm status. ‘Let me get you a drink,’ he suggested faster than the speed of light, already mentally listing the unattached executives present on the slender but hopeful thought that she might take a shine to one of them instead. They had always been friends, never anything else.

      Jenna curved a slender hand round his arm when he returned to her side. ‘I have a confession to make…for the whole of the time we were at uni together, I was in love with you.’

      Santino conceded that what had started out as an unusual day, and had gravitated into being a very long day, was now assuming nightmarish proportions. ‘You’re kidding me.’

      ‘No.’ Jenna fixed her very fine green eyes on him in speaking condemnation. ‘And you never noticed. In four long years, you never once noticed that I felt rather more for you than the average mate.’

      In one unappreciative gulp, Santino tipped back an entire shot of brandy meant to be savoured at leisure. He was transfixed and trapped by that censorious speech. There was no polite or kind way of telling her that, beautiful and intellectually challenging as she was—for she had a first-class brain—there had been no spark whatsoever on his side of the fence.

      ‘And I had to sit back and watch you chasing girls who couldn’t hold a candle to me,’ Jenna continued with withering bite.

      ‘Oddly enough, I don’t recall you sitting home alone many nights,’ Santino countered sardonically.

      ‘Once I understood that I was in love with a commitment-phobe, I trained myself to regard you only as a friend—’

      ‘Jenna…when you first met me, I was eighteen. Most teenage boys are commitment-phobes.’ Santino groaned, thinking what an absolute pain she seemed to have become, still nourishing her sense