Bronwyn Jameson - In Bed with the Boss's Daughter

Jack nodded in response to her question, though every cell in his body screamed, Are you crazy?

“You think my father offered me this job to exert some sort of influence on you?” Paris stared at him narrow-eyed for a moment, then in several brisk strides she was out the door, but not before Jack detected the hurt in her eyes.

Her pride was hurt, he suspected. Same as six years ago. Except her offer then had been hugely different. Then she’d spoken of love. She’d wanted to gift him with her innocence and that had scared the hell out of him. Now she only wanted a quick affair to cure an old infatuation.

Well, tough.

He didn’t do one-night stands and he didn’t need to prove what he’d suspected all along—that having Paris Grantham would be addictive and way too consuming….

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the world of Silhouette Desire, where you can indulge yourself every month with romances that can only be described as passionate, powerful and provocative!

The ever-fabulous Ann Major offers a Cowboy Fantasy, July’s MAN OF THE MONTH. Will a fateful reunion between a Texas cowboy and his ex-flame rekindle their fiery passion? In Cherokee, Sheri WhiteFeather writes a compelling story about a Native American hero who, while searching for his Cherokee heritage, falls in love with a heroine who has turned away from hers.

The popular miniseries BACHELOR BATTALION by Maureen Child marches on with His Baby!—a marine hero returns from an assignment to discover he’s a father. The tantalizing Desire miniseries FORTUNES OF TEXAS: THE LOST HEIRS continues with The Pregnant Heiress by Eileen Wilks, whose pregnant heroine falls in love with the investigator protecting her from a stalker.

Alexandra Sellers has written an enchanting trilogy, SONS OF THE DESERT: THE SULTANS, launching this month with The Sultan’s Heir. A prince must watch over the secret child heir to the kingdom along with the child’s beautiful mother. And don’t miss Bronwyn Jameson’s Desire debut—an intriguing tale involving a self-made man who’s In Bed with the Boss’s Daughter.

Treat yourself to all six of these heart-melting tales of Desire—and see inside for details on how to enter our Silhouette Makes You a Star contest.

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

spent much of her childhood with her head buried in a book. As a teenager, she discovered romance novels, and it was only a matter of time before she turned her love of reading them into a love of writing them. Bronwyn shares an idyllic piece of the Australian farming heart-land with her husband and three sons, a thousand sheep, a dozen horses, assorted wildlife and one kelpie dog. She still chooses to spend her limited downtime with a good book.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

He missed her entrance, but Jack knew she’d made one. She would have made one even without arriving fashionably late on her father’s arm…and even if that man wasn’t Kevin “K.G.” Grantham, billionaire property developer and host of this shindig.

Paris Grantham made entrances because she was, quite simply, 180 centimeters of spectacular construction.

Jack rolled his tense shoulders, ran his tongue around his dry mouth and cursed the sudden scarcity of drink waiters. He scanned the crush for a white jacket or a tray held aloft but instead found her. Again. Dressed in something bronze and lacy, she shimmered like old gold against the backdrop of cocktail-party black, all long legs and sleek curves, as poised and graceful as a fashion model.

Except she would never cut it as a model. Not without kissing all those gorgeous curves goodbye.

Jack tugged at his collar to ease the stiff constriction of his bow tie and wished for an equally simple solution to another hot, tight pressure—the one spreading south. He blessed the appearance of a waiter and snagged a drink from his tray. Maybe the champagne would cool his blood.

Yeah, right! Maybe he should just have stayed the hell away!

All Grantham executives were expected to attend all project launches, but Jack usually ignored that unwritten rule. He despised black-tie as much as he hated small talk and the absurd excuse for food they served at these things. He took a long sip of champagne and surveyed the sole reason he had come tonight over the top of his glass. Objectively. With his mind instead of his body.

The hair she used to wear loose was piled high in an elaborate style that accentuated the regal tilt of her head, the high angle of her chin, the way she looked down her nose…and how her fine, straight nose was custom-built for the purpose. A tiara wouldn’t look out of place on that golden head.

Yeah, he snorted, K.G. should have set a tiara on his prodigal daughter’s head and stood her on the spotlit dais instead of the model for Grantham’s newest city-living complex. The Acacia Project wasn’t the star of this show.

Jack’s gaze fixed on her face, watching for some chink in that classic semibored expression favored by the born rich, something to show she’d adopted the look to fit tonight’s occasion, not because she’d changed. But nothing shifted. Not a flicker of her carefully arched brows nor a waver of her glossy half smile.

And he realized the tightness in his gut had changed from heated awareness to disappointment. No. Disappointment came nowhere near describing this acid gnawing.

What had he expected?

Simple.

He’d expected a grown-up version of the Paris he remembered, the one whose smile filled the room, whose widely spaced smoky eyes mirrored her every emotion. The one who dared wear a tiny leather skirt to a Grantham’s Christmas party, who swigged Bollinger straight from the bottle and danced like she’d swallowed the music with it.

The girl-woman who’d rocked his foundations with her clear, honest proposition and then, before he could grasp the concept of the boss’s daughter all grown-up and suddenly wanting him, had run away to London to live with her mother.

He’d expected to see that Paris and to declare, without reservation, the rumors false.

But this Paris looked like the kind of woman who would dump her fiancé when his money ran out. She looked like the kind of woman who would come running home to the comforting arms of Daddy’s billions.

Jack drained his glass and wished he’d swallowed something harsh like tequila to match his mood. He fought the urge to wade through the sea of dinner suits and designer dresses, to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. To remind her how he’d told her to grow up, not grow into a Grantham!

Carefully he loosened his clenched fingers from the delicate stem of crystal in his hand. What did he know about Paris Grantham, anyway? For years she’d been the gangly limbed kid hanging about the edges of her father’s weekend house parties, parties that were no more than business summits in casual dress with drinks. He’d noticed her, he’d felt sorry for her, he’d encouraged her to talk to him. When she went away to boarding school, he didn’t see her for two years, not until that night six years ago when she’d made her feelings for him extravagantly clear.

Feelings or intentions?

It didn’t matter. At twenty-six his goal of snagging Grantham’s top project-management job was so close he could taste it. At eighteen she’d been too young and too wild and too much the boss’s daughter to be anything but trouble.

Six years on, she was still the boss’s daughter, although everything else about her had changed. Jack unclenched his jaw and told himself the changes should please him. This woman wouldn’t mess with his head at a time when he needed it clear and focused.

But pleasure was not part of the volatile cocktail of emotions curdling his gut. He recognized intense disappointment, a sense of loss and, seething through it, an irritation bordering on anger. And he knew he couldn’t leave well enough alone. He had to know why she’d left so suddenly…and why she’d come back.

Paris shook her head slightly to stop her eyes crossing, not from boredom so much as sleep deprivation. If only she could summon up a dash of the anticipation that had kept her awake through most of yesterday’s twenty-four-hour flight, a skerrick of the excitement that had kept her flying sky-high long after the plane touched down.

It seemed as if her head had barely touched the pillow when K.G. pulled the curtains wide on a bright October morning. Caroline, her latest wannabe-stepmother, couldn’t wait to meet her. Caroline then insisted they shop and do lunch and that Paris mustn’t sleep or her whole body clock would be out of whack.

At this moment she longed for “out of whack.” It sounded a vast improvement over her current state of totally whacked. She needed to perk up before she nodded off on the lord mayor’s shoulder. The thought of her mother’s reaction to such a breach of etiquette brought a wry half smile to her mind if not her lips.

Lady Pamela definitely would not approve!

Up until now she’d done her mother proud. The Collette Dinnigan cocktail dress might be a tad revealing for her mother’s taste, but she had accessorized perfectly…and the upswept hair was consummate Lady Pamela. Paris couldn’t wait to shake it loose, but in the meantime it served a purpose. Its weight prompted her to hold her head high, which reminded her to keep her smile in check and to answer every welcome-home platitude with polite good grace. And whenever her smile slipped a smidgen, she restored it with a quick reminder of why she was here.

Because you will soon be part of the Grantham team.

Years after she’d given up trying to convince her father she had capabilities beyond the ornamental, K.G. had asked her to come home and help with a special project.

With her smile suitably restored, she allowed K.G. to steer her toward another group.

“Princess, I’d like you to meet…”

She exchanged greetings with Hugh and Miffy and Miranda and Bob—or was that Bill? Her weary brain whirled with names and faces and titles. Was there anyone here she hadn’t met? In response, the crowd split as if cleaved in two and she found herself looking directly into a pair of deep, dark, angry eyes.

Of course, she’d known he was there, somewhere across the crowded reception room.

About one nanosecond after arriving, as though they had some Jack-Manning-sensing radar capabilities, her eyes had zeroed in on his broad shoulders, the narrow band of white collar above his jacket and the thicker band of very tanned neck. The changes had sizzled through her body—he’s cut his hair; he’s wearing a suit—before she snapped herself back to reality.