Bronwyn Jameson - In Bed with the Boss's Daughter

She didn’t want to go home to the empty apartment K.G. had supplied her with, or to the meaningless life she’d done nothing to change. It didn’t matter that K.G. had given her this job for reasons of his own, or that she’d taken it through sheer cussedness. She wanted to stay, to take this chance to prove herself worthy of respect—both K.G.’s and Jack’s.

When she opened her eyes, he had gone.

Thirty minutes later Julie arrived to take her on the grand tour of Grantham House. Her attitude wasn’t precisely unfriendly. She even smiled at Paris’s first attempt to break the ice, although she clammed up again after the second attempt went awry.

How was she to know his personal assistant presided over the Jack Manning Appreciation Club?

With those limpid eyes turned killer-wolf fierce, Julie informed her that Jack worked harder than anyone in the building, was scrupulously fair and never lost his temper. By all accounts, an all-round champion boss. Paris decided it wouldn’t be politic to disagree, but despite her best conciliatory efforts, Julie didn’t smile again.

She remained polite as she conducted the rest of the tour, explaining such essential information as photocopier protocol and how to work the coffee machine—Paris made a mental note to locate the nearest half-decent coffee shop—but when they arrived back on floor eighteen she was quick to leave Paris to her own company…without any of the promised background information on Milson Landing.

When the files hadn’t arrived by ten the next morning, Paris suspected Jack of failing to pass that instruction on. A phone call quickly put paid to her theory.

“I haven’t had a chance to get to that,” Julie informed her in the kind of offhand tone that indicated she wasn’t likely to get to it in the next week.

“I could come and collect them, if that’s any help.”

“It would help if I had the files here, but some are downstairs and I’m busy at the moment. I’ll let you know when they’re ready for collection.”

Clunk.

Paris regarded the disconnected phone with a mixture of disbelief and dismay. She hadn’t expected Julie to warm to her within twenty-four hours, but neither had she expected such blatant unhelpfulness.

Her options were narrow. Two came immediately to mind, but she quickly discarded the first—as much as this office turned her on, she needed something to do in it. There were only so many ways of twiddling one’s thumbs, after all. Which left option two: she needed to start helping herself. On a last second whim she turned right outside her door instead of left and headed for the elevator and Guido’s, the better-than-passable coffee shop she’d found next door to Grantham House.

Armed with two lattes, she made it to the corridor outside Julie’s office before second thoughts brought her to a halt. What if the other girl saw it as a bribe, a shabby attempt to buy her friendship? What if she didn’t drink coffee or took it black? The only employees Paris knew were K.G.’s cronies in senior management, hardly the types you could ring and ask about a secretary’s taste in beverages!

On the verge of dumping the coffee in a nearby potted plant and scampering back to the sanctuary of her own lair, Paris’s hands trembled, and coffee shlooshed over the rim of each mug. The sticky warmth she felt seeping down her right leg was the last straw.

“Get over yourself!” she admonished forcefully, and with a deep breath she breezed through the door into Julie’s office…and found it empty.

The anticlimax wrung a bark of laughter from deep in her chest. “Oh, this is priceless,” she muttered as she crossed the room and deposited the mugs before she spilled any more. As she reached across the desk for a tissue to wipe her hands, the vision on Julie’s computer caught her attention.

“Milson Landing,” she read out loud. She leaned closer for a better look at the screen.

“Can I help you?”

Paris jumped backward and sideways at once. One hand automatically flattened against her chest as if it might still the erratic leap of her heart. “You scared the life out of me,” she declared unnecessarily.

But Julie’s attention had been diverted to something on her desk, something that caused her eyes to widen with horror as she rushed across the room. Paris turned back just as the rich brown pool of coffee spilled over the ledge of the high reception desk and cascaded down onto the papers below. The desperate grab of Julie’s hand came a second too late.

“Oh, my God…I’m so sorry!”

Julie’s expression brimmed with censure. “Why is there coffee on my desk?”

Paris didn’t think “Because I spilled it” was the answer Julie sought. “I brought you coffee,” she supplied as a weak substitute.

The other girl stared back. “Why?”

Paris shrugged and laughed nervously. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Oh, why didn’t I listen to those second thoughts? Before, she merely suspected my ineptness. Now I’ve gone and proven it.

“I don’t drink coffee at work,” Julie stated coldly.

“Well, I don’t blame you. The stuff in that coffee machine tastes like potting mix.”

“You’ve tasted it?”

“Potting mix? No way,” Paris grimaced. “I just assume it tastes like that instant caterer’s brew.”

“I meant the coffee.” Julie’s long-suffering look indicated she wasn’t amused by Paris’s attempt at lightening the moment. “I imagined you’d get your coffee sent up from Guido’s.” She glanced tellingly at the one mug still standing, its ornate gold logo glinting under the fluorescent light. Then, with a last coldly antagonistic glare, she pulled out her chair and sat down.

Paris’s chin rose in a reflex action. She knew she’d been summarily dismissed, but she refused to slink off like a naughty child. “I didn’t have the coffee sent up, I collected it myself.” When the other woman didn’t respond, irritation needled Paris into continuing. “I can understand why you didn’t welcome me with open arms. You don’t have to like me being here but, please, could you give me a fair chance to do my job?”

“The job you got through fair means?” Her tone was mild enough, but Julie’s brown eyes sparked with resentment, and Paris wondered if she had a personal agenda.

“I didn’t ask for this particular job, my father did. Please don’t hold that against me.”

A quick flush stained Julie’s cheeks, but she didn’t answer. Instead she started to sort through the coffee-splattered papers, fanning them out on the desk in an unspoken indictment of Paris’s incompetence.

“Did you want this job?”

Julie’s hands stilled, but her startled gaze flew to meet Paris’s. “Good heavens, no. Whatever gave you that idea? I love my job.” She looked down at the papers in her hand, sighed resignedly. “Jack is already working too many jobs. He needed someone to take work off his shoulders, not to add to his workload.”

The same old argument, Paris thought, with an irritated shake of her head. But then something about the heat in Julie’s defense of her boss caused her thoughts to back up a step. And before she could censor those thoughts, she blurted, “Do you have something going with Jack?”

Shock, swift and immediate, widened Julie’s eyes. “Good heavens, no.” She blew out a disbelieving gust of breath. “I mean, he is the most wonderful boss, but there’s no way we could, that I could…” She shook her head, apparently speechless.

“Because he’s your boss?”

“Because he’s not the least bit interested in me.” She glanced at Paris, and a small glint of unexpected humor danced in her eyes. “And if he was, Warren would break every bone in his body.”

“Warren?”

“My boyfriend. He’s a little possessive.” The look in her eyes indicated that she didn’t mind Warren’s possessiveness one bit.

Paris smiled back because she couldn’t help herself. Her heart felt lighter—because Julie had shared something personal, not because that something had any special ramifications, she told herself.

But as quickly as they’d connected, Julie seemed to pull back. Her smile faded. “I suppose you want those Landing files. I told you I’d call when I had them together.”

“And I wanted to help.”

Julie looked at the papers spread before her. “I wish you hadn’t.”

For the first time Paris took a good look at the pages. “They’re ruined, aren’t they?”

“Pretty much.” Julie shrugged. “They’re all on computer. I can reprint them.”

“Can I help?” Paris offered impulsively.

Julie considered the offer for a long moment. “I guess you could. That would give me time to get you those files.” She peeled one letter from the desk and held it up for Paris to see. “This reference number…here…corresponds to the file name in my computer. They’re in different directories, but you can find them by doing a search.” She looked up and must have caught the bewildered look on Paris’s face. “You do know how to find a file, don’t you?”

“I could learn.”

Julie turned away. “It will be quicker if I do it myself.”

This time Paris did feel like slinking away. Only the thought of spending another day doing nothing stopped her. “There is one other thing.” Julie’s expression was so put-upon that Paris lifted her chin automatically. “I want to arrange a meeting with the real estate agents who are marketing the Landing. Do you have their names?”

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