The Secretary's Seduction. Jane Porter

Winnie didn’t feel like talking anymore. Women always wanted to be friends with her if they thought it’d get them closer to Morgan Grady. “Yes,” she answered, voice clipped.

      “So what’s he like?” Tiffany persisted.

      Winnie pushed her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose. “Who?”

      Tiffany let out a little laugh, her pink-painted lips parted. “Very funny. Morgan Grady, silly. You work in his office. You must have met him. What’s he like…I mean, really, what’s he like?”

      “Busy.”

      “Of course. He’s huge. He completely dominates the investment world. Everyone pays attention to his market forecasts.”

      Winnie forced a small, tight smile. “Isn’t that nice?”

      “But the part I find most amazing, is that he’s not just this brilliant brain in a glass jar—he’s gorgeous, too.” Tiffany sounded positively giddy. “No wonder he’s been named New York’s Sexiest Bachelor twice in a row. He’s sexier than sin. I’d kill for a moment alone with him.”

      “And I should just kill myself,” Winnie muttered beneath her breath, feeling painfully inadequate. Living on the periphery of Morgan Grady’s world was about as excruciating a thing as Winnie had ever experienced.

      Thank God she’d soon be working somewhere else. Maybe then she’d get some self-esteem back.

      Tiffany had a one-track mind. “What’s he like as a boss?”

      “Let me loan you my book, Never Work for a Jerk, and then you tell me what you think.”

      Tiffany giggled. “Is there really such a book?”

      “Yes.”

      Tiffany laughed even harder. “And you have a copy?”

      “No, not yet. But I plan on buying it soon.”

      Tiffany was laughing so hard she had to wipe her eyes. “I had no idea you were so funny,” she cried, tapping her cigarette. “Who would have thought?”

      “Yes, who would have thought?” A voice coolly cut in. It was a deep voice, husky and distinctly male, a voice Winnie knew far too well. “She’s a woman of many hidden talents.”

      Winnie felt ice water flood her limbs. Mr. Grady!

      “And her next job,” he continued dryly, “will be working as a standup comedian.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      IT COULDN’T be. He couldn’t be here. He didn’t hear her say that…did he?

      Paling, Winnie turned to discover Morgan Grady behind her, a black trench coat thrown over his arm, his long dark hair almost tidy.

      “Mr. Grady,” she whispered, her mouth drying. “Heading out?”

      He gazed down at her, his expression curiously hard. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

      Heat surged to her cheeks. “I came down for a soda.”

      “I see.”

      There was a moment of strained silence between them, something that had never happened before. He’d always talked; she’d always listened. He’d never been silent with her before. “Did you want something?”

      “You had a phone call from a Mrs. Fielding. She said it was urgent. I left the number on your desk.”

      Winnie couldn’t remember Mrs. Fielding and wondered what could possibly be urgent. “Thank you.”

      His dense black lashes lowered, his mouth compressed. “Next time you might want to remember to take this,” he added, extending his arm to reveal her small pager.

      Winnie moved to take the pager from him but tensed as her fingers brushed his palm and a sharp current of sensation sizzled through her.

      He was angry.

      In her five and a half months with him he’d never displayed any emotion and yet now he was angry.

      Quickly, to hide her confusion, Winnie clipped the pager to the waistband of her skirt even as Tiffany dropped her cigarette, stubbing it out with the spike of her high heel.

      “Mr. Grady,” Tiffany murmured, her voice dropping an octave as she held out her hand.

      He hesitated, turned ever so slightly, and smiled a cool quizzical smile. It was a smile he must have practiced for moments like this, when he needed to put distance between himself and others without appearing aloof. The smile was a little slow, a little crooked, and made his rugged jaw wider, his cheekbones stronger. “We’ve met?”

      “Once,” Tiffany answered archly. Her smile stretched as his hand closed around hers, her cheeks glowing with the faintest touch of pink. “Well, we sort of met. You had business with one of the firm’s partners and I notarized the paperwork.”

      “Ah.” Morgan’s teeth had never looked so straight or white and he continued to hold her hand in his. “You work with Jeff.”

      “Yes. He thinks the world of you. We all do.”

      A black limousine slid next to the curb, and the driver shifted into neutral but the car remained on, engine idling. Morgan Grady released Tiffany’s hand, glanced at the limo, and then back at Tiffany. “I must run, but it was a pleasure meeting you, Miss—”

      “Saunders. Tiffany Saunders. And I work with Jeff.”

      “On the sixty-third floor, right.” He smiled again, and Winnie could see why women melted at his feet. There was something in his eyes, something in his energy and intensity that made you feel—however brief—that you were special. That you were the only one alive.

      Winnie sucked in a painful, self-conscious breath.

      He’d never looked at her once that way.

      He’d never even gotten her name right.

      A lump filled her throat and Winnie wished with all her heart she’d never worked for Morgan Grady.

      Mr. Grady started for the waiting car, conversation forgotten, no goodbyes necessary. Move On, seemed to be his unwritten motto, no time to linger, no patience for niceties. Just move on to the next thing on the agenda.

      But suddenly he stopped and turned back. It was muggy hot, the muggy hot of New York in late June when the air felt thick and yellow, yet he looked coolly elegant in his black suit and shirt.

      She wondered how he did it, how he handled the heat and pressure without sweating or wilting or fading.

      How did he predict the market before the market knew what it was going to do?

      How did he juggle dozens of complicated, million and billion dollar deals without worrying, panicking, overeating?

      She didn’t know. She couldn’t know. He was nothing like her.

      Mr. Grady was staring at her now, his high tanned brow slightly furrowed. “Are you job hunting, Miss Graham?”

      It was the last question she expected from him, the absolutely last thing she expected him to say, and Winnie wobbled in her sensible heels.

      She reached for a handkerchief from her pocket and came up with nothing. Instead she gripped the pager in her perspiring hand. Good Lord. Did he know about her job interview, too? Or was it just a joke, a follow-up to his comedian remark moments ago?

      Winnie blinked, swallowed, and blinked again, her glasses fogging slightly, her thoughts spinning in no logical direction.

      What was she supposed to say? How was she supposed to answer that?

      “No,” she blurted at last, cheeks darkening. “Of course not.”

      His eyebrows lifted. He stared at her hard, his lips twisting ever so slightly.