Much More Than a Mistress (2 page)

She stopped in the break room to grab a cup of coffee, then headed back to her desk. When she walked through the door and realized someone was already sitting there, she stopped so abruptly she sloshed coffee onto her fingers.

Thinking she must have walked into the wrong office by mistake, she shot a quick glance to the the name on the door, but this was definitely the right place. So who was the man sitting at her desk?

He was lounging back in her chair, his designer shoe–clad feet propped on the desk surface, reading the list Tiffany had left. He wore typical office attire, sans the jacket, and the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled to his elbows. His hair was dark blond and stylishly short, and he had the sort of boyish good looks that made a girl swoon. Which was exactly what she felt like doing.

The question was, who was he and why he was in her office?

“Can I help you?” she asked.

The man looked up at her with a pair of deep-set, soul-warming hazel eyes and a grin that could stop traffic, and her heart actually flipped over in her chest. Who
was
this guy and where could she get one?

“I certainly hope so,” he said, dropping his feet to the carpet and rising from the chair. She was at least 5'11” in her heels and she had to look up to meet his eyes. He was tall and lean and work-out-in-the-gym-every-morning fit.

“You must be the new temp,” he said, reaching across the desk to shake her hand, which was still gripping the cup of coffee and damp from the sloshing. She quickly switched the cup to the opposite hand, wiped the damp one on her skirt and took his hand. It was big and warm and surprisingly rough for such a polished-looking guy.

His grip was firm and confident and she could swear she felt the effects all the way to her knees. She also didn't miss the way he gave her a quick once-over, one brow slightly raised.

“I'm Jane Monroe,” she said.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Jane Monroe.”

No, the pleasure was definitely hers, though she still didn't have clue who he was.

“By the way,” he said. “Someone named Mary called.”

Her heart stalled. Her
sister
Mary? How could she possibly have known where Jane was working? Her family didn't even know she was working for Edwin Associates. “She called
here?
”

“Your cell,” he said, opening the top drawer and holding up her cell phone.

“You answered my phone?” Who the hell did this guy
think he was? And how could she be so stupid as to leave it unattended in her desk with the ringer on?

“Actually, it went to voice mail before I found it in the drawer. But the display said it was Mary.”

Whoever this guy was, he had a lot of nerve. “Do you make it a habit of snooping through people's private property?”

He shrugged. “Only if I think I'll find something interesting.”

That was not the answer she expected. “Who
are
you?”

“You don't know?”

“Should I?”

The smile went from curious to amused. “I'm Jordan Everette, Miss Monroe. Your new boss.”

“M
-Mr. Everette,” Miss Monroe stammered, the color draining from her flawlessly painted face. “I'm so sorry. I didn't realize—”

“Not quite what you expected, I guess,” Jordan said.

She shook her head, pulling her full bottom lip between her teeth.

Well, neither was she. In fact, he was surprised that anyone had shown up at all.

“So, the temp agency sent you?” he asked.

“That's right.”

Funny, he had called the agency Friday afternoon to see what was taking so long—usually they had a temp to his office within hours of the request—but they had no record of a request ever being submitted. Yet here she was, bright and early Monday morning, standing in his office.

For a couple of weeks now there had been a strange vibe in the office. Something was just…
off.
He could only
assume that the focus of the investigation into the explosion at the refinery had now moved from his employees to him.

After six years of loyal service, and three as Chief Operations Officer, he would have thought Adam Blair, Western Oil's current CEO, would trust him by now. And if they had concerns, why not just ask him? Why this elaborate charade?

Because if they mistrusted him enough to think he could do this sort of thing—put his workers' lives in jeopardy—they probably didn't think he would tell the truth if confronted. So instead they hired someone to do what? Seduce it out of him? He couldn't imagine another reason they would send a woman who looked as though she moonlighted as a runway model.

Did they really think he was that shallow?

They obviously thought a lot less of him than he did of them. He would have at least hoped that his brother Nathan, the Chief Brand Officer, would come clean and tell him the truth. If he even knew, that is. Hell, for all Jordan knew Adam could be investigating him too. Maybe even Emilio Suarez, the CFO.

The weight of the betrayal sat like a stone in his gut, but his options were limited. He could confront Adam and put an end to the investigation, but that might only make him appear as if he had something to hide. He couldn't let anything, not even his pride, interfere with his chance at the coveted CEO position Adam would be vacating soon. His only choice was to cooperate with their investigation.

Of course, that didn't mean he was going to make it easy for his new “secretary.” Knowing who she was and why she was there, he could manipulate the situation, control the information she obtained. Let her see only what he wanted her to see. Not that they were going to find anything incriminating, because he hadn't done anything
wrong. But there were certain aspects of his life—financial ones in particular—that he preferred to keep private.

“Here,” Jordan said, backing away from her chair. “Have a seat.”

Smiling nervously, Miss Monroe rounded the desk. “Can I get you a cup of coff—” The toe of one spike-heeled “do-me” shoe caught on the desk leg and she lurched forward. She grabbed the corner of the desk in her attempt to catch her fall, but the foam cup she was holding in the opposite hand went airborne. And hit him square in the chest.

Miss Monroe gasped in horror, slapping a hand over her crimson-painted mouth as coffee soaked not only his shirt, but the carpet where he was standing. “Oh my God. I can't believe I just did that.”

She looked frantically around for something to clean up the mess and spotted a box of tissues on the desk. She lunged for it, ripping out a handful and shoving them at him. “Mr. Everette, I am
so
sorry.”

“It's okay,” he said, wiping up the coffee dripping from his chin. Not the most graceful runway model, was she?

She gestured helplessly at his damp shirt. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I keep an extra shirt in the closet for emergencies. You could grab it for me while I clean up.”

“Of course,” she said, scrambling for the closet.

Jordan walked to the bathroom in his office, unbuttoning his shirt. Some of the coffee had hit his pants too, but as luck would have it, he'd worn his brown suit that morning.

He dropped his shirt on the bathroom floor, and peeled his coffee-soaked undershirt over his head. Maybe she wasn't an agency operative after all. Or was this just all part of a clever disguise? A ruse to throw him off the trail?

“Mr. Everette?” she called from his office.

“In here.” He wet a washcloth in the sink and wiped the coffee from his face and chest.

“Here's your…”

Jordan turned to see Miss Monroe in the bathroom doorway, eyes wide and fixed somewhere between his neck and his belt. She blinked and quickly looked away, a red hue creeping up from the neckline of her blouse. Why would an above-average-looking woman who practically oozed sexuality blush at the sight of a shirtless man?

Interesting.

Eyes averted, she held out the hanger with his clean shirt. “Here you go.”

He took it, brushing his fingers against hers as he did, and she jerked her hand away.

Very
interesting.

“Are you going to fire me?” she asked.

Why bother? They would just send a new agency person in.

“Did you do it on purpose?” he asked.

She blinked in surprise and cut her eyes to him. “Of course not!”

He hooked the hanger on the towel rack, tugged the clean undershirt free and pulled it over his head. “Then why would I fire you?”

She pulled her lip between her teeth again, and it brought to mind nibbling on a plump red cherry. He wondered if she had the slightest clue how sexy she looked when she did that. The coy bit had to be an act.

He pulled on his shirt and buttoned it. “In answer to your question, yes.”

“My question?”

“I would love a cup of coffee. Although this time I'd rather not wear it.”

Her lips tilted into an embarrassed smile. “Of course.”

“My cup is on my desk.” He unfastened his belt and the button on his pants so he could tuck in his shirt, stifling a grin when she quickly looked away again.

“I—I'll go get it now,” she said, tripping over her own foot in her haste to get away.

He had the feeling that, until she discovered that the evidence she was hoping to find didn't exist and gave up, he could have an awful lot of fun at her expense.

 

The spike heels had been a really bad idea, Jane decided as she grabbed Mr. Everette's
World's Best Boss
cup from his desk and hurried to the break room, heart pounding from a combination of her own horrifying ineptitude and supreme lack of grace, and the sight of her new boss standing shamelessly bare-chested in her presence.

Not that he had
anything
to be ashamed of. His body—what she could see of it anyway—was a work of art. And she was betting that the bottom half was no less awe-inspiring. So much for her theory that he was middle-aged and fat. That's what she got for drawing hasty conclusions.

Some vampy, sex goddess secretary she'd turned out to be. She couldn't have made more of an ass out of herself if she'd dressed like a clown and donned a squeaky red nose. Proof that despite her physical transformation, deep down she was just as geeky and awkward as ever. Had she been completely fooling herself to believe that she could handle an undercover position?

She poured the coffee and added a teaspoon of creamer, mentally shaking away those negative thoughts. She could do this, damn it. She
was
good enough. She had been working up to this for months. Failure was not an option.

Squaring her shoulders, she carried the coffee back to Mr. Everette's office. She rapped lightly on the door before stepping inside, grateful to see that he was fully clothed
and sitting at his desk. He was also on the phone, meaning she didn't have to talk to him. It was both a disappointment and a relief. If she was going to glean the information necessary for the investigation, she was going to have to talk to the man. Get to know him. Earn his trust.

He gestured her over, telling the caller, “I'm sure it was just an oversight.”

She crossed the room, the cup cradled gingerly in both palms, and set it on his desk. She started to turn, but he held up a hand, signaling her to wait. “Yes, Mother, I promise I'll talk to him today.” He paused, looking exasperated, then said, “Well, in all fairness, you ditched us on Christmas. Can you blame Nathan if he's feeling bitter?”

She could only assume he was talking about his brother Nathan, who was the CBO of Western Oil. Having worked closely with her own siblings for years, she knew how complicated the family dynamic could be. Especially when one broke tradition and made the decision to leave the fold to pursue their own aspirations. Not that she had a clue how the Everette family got along. Although most men in a decent relationship with their mother wouldn't have them on an auto callback list.

“The fact that he was a baron doesn't make it okay,” he said, holding up a finger to indicate that it would be just one more minute. “I have to go, Mother, I—” He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I
will
talk to him. I promise.” Another short pause then, “Okay, Mother.
Goodbye.
” He hung up the phone, blew out an exasperated breath and looked up at Jane. “Do you get along with your mother, Miss Monroe?”

The question threw her, and it took her a second to regroup. It wasn't that she didn't get along with her parents. They just refused to accept that they didn't know what was better for her than she did. And she couldn't help
wondering why he cared about her relationship with her mother. “It's…complicated.”

“Well, mine is a gigantic pain in the ass. She's a master manipulator and will browbeat you to within an inch of your life to get what she wants. You have to be firm and direct or she will walk all over you.”

“I understand,” she said, although firm and direct were never two of her strong suits. Her own family had been walking all over her for years. But she had broken the cycle, hadn't she? Well, for the most part anyway. She tended to just avoid them now. And, yes, bent the truth when it made her life easier.

“Would you mind pouring that coffee into a travel mug?” he asked. “There should be one in the cabinet over by the wet bar.”

“Of course.” She carried his cup to the bar across the room, asking casually, “Are you leaving?”

“I have a meeting at the refinery.”

That would give her time to snoop in his office. Her heart surged with nervous energy. She found the cup where he'd indicated and as she poured the coffee in, her hands were shaking.

Relax,
she told herself, taking a deep breath.

She could just imagine how impressed her superiors would be if she were able to bring them valuable information on her very first day. Then they would
have
to take her seriously.

It took a couple of tries but she secured the top on the cup and turned, jerking with surprise when she almost ran face-first into Mr. Everette. He was so close, she could smell the soapy-fresh scent of his skin. If the cup hadn't had a lid, they would probably both be wearing coffee this time.

“Sorry, didn't mean to startle you,” he said, but the
grin he wore said otherwise. Was he
teasing
her? Were the makeup and the clothes actually working?

He took the cup from her, the tips of his fingers brushing against hers as he did and she tried not to flinch. He set it on the counter beside the sink. “I think we'd all be safer if you didn't carry that around.”

She felt herself blushing. “Sorry.”

With a grin that was nothing short of adorable, he stepped past her to the closet next to the bathroom and pulled out his coat.

“Is there anything you need me to do while you're gone?” she asked as he shrugged into it.

“Just man the phones and take the day to get settled in. Familiarize yourself with the computer. I have a lunch meeting at twelve-thirty so I should be back sometime before two.”

Which would give her lots of time to snoop. No, not snoop…
investigate.
She had to start thinking like a pro, using the appropriate lingo. She had to play the part, even in her own mind. If she didn't take herself seriously, no one would.

“I should take you out sometime,” he said.

She blinked. Did he seriously just ask her on a date? And how was she supposed to respond to that? What would a sophisticated woman of the world say?

All she could manage was a befuddled, “Um…”

“I'm assuming you've never been to a refinery.”

Oh, he wanted to take her to the
refinery.
That made a lot more sense. “No, never.”

“It's an impressive operation,” he said, and she must have looked wary, because he added, “and contrary to what you've probably seen on the news, it's completely safe.”

She had heard negative press about the incident at the refinery, but the agency had several employees working
undercover directly on the line, and as far as she was aware, none of them had ever reported being in any danger. Sure, this was a high-profile case, but the other agents would never be sent into a situation that could cause them physical harm.

“I'd love to see it,” she said.

“I'm there several days a week, so maybe the next time I go.” He glanced at the platinum Rolex on his left wrist. “I'm late. If there's anything pressing while I'm gone, or something you aren't sure about, feel free to call my cell.”

“I will.” She handed him his cup, careful to avoid his fingers this time because frankly, she was nervous enough without all the intimate contact.

Cup in hand, he headed for the door. She followed him, stopping at her desk.

“By the way,” he said, stopping in the doorway and gesturing the coffee stain on the carpet. “Call janitorial to take care of that.”