The Tycoon's Bought Fiancée (14 page)

Read The Tycoon's Bought Fiancée Online

Authors: Sandra Marton

BOOK: The Tycoon's Bought Fiancée
11.03Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Go back
, the voice within her whispered.
He turned and looked at her. “Well?” His tone was brusque, almost impatient. “Are you coming?”
Steffie, don't do this…
Stephanie nodded. “Yes,” she said, and followed him.
CHAPTER NINE
T
HE arrangement wasn't going to work.
Once again, David sat in his office, his back to his desk and his gaze fixed blankly on the cherry trees that lined the walk. The pink blossoms were falling almost as fast as his disposition, but then, it wasn't often a man had to admit defeat.
What had ever possessed him to think his crazy scheme had any chance at success?
Poverty was the curse that had been passed from one generation of Chamberses to the next, not insanity. And yet, he'd behaved like a certifiable lunatic. What else could you call a man who saw a woman he knew he shouldn't want, wanted her anyway, and told himself it wouldn't be any kind of problem to bring her into his life? Into his office? Hell, into his home?
David muttered a word that would have curled Miss Murchison's hair, if she'd been around to hear it. But, mercifully, Murchison was gone—and Stephanie was all too torturously here. After six days—five and a half, if you wanted to be exact—he was ready to admit that he'd made one huge mistake.
It had seemed so simple. Install Stephanie in the small apartment in his town house. Hire her as his secretary. See her in the office, where she'd at least make no more a mess of things than the memorable Miss Murchison, not see her at all at home, because the apartment had its own private entrance, as well as an entrance just off the kitchen…
“Great plan,” David said to the cherry trees…except, something had gone wrong between the planning and the execution.
On the surface, things were going fine. Much to his surprise, Stephanie was as good a secretary as she'd claimed. His office had been transformed. His files were all up to date, his appointment calendar was accurate, the notes he scribbled during meetings or court proceedings were typed and organized so quickly it made his head spin. He'd even given up brewing his own coffee. Why wouldn't he, when Stephanie's was so much better?
She was pleasant to have around, too. Everybody said so, from the kid in the mail room straight up to the partners. Even Jack Russell, whose shocked expression made it clear he'd swallowed a mouthful of objections on learning the identity of David's new secretary, had admitted that much.
“Great improvement over the Grump,” Jack had commented, “but—”
“I know all the ‘buts,”' David had said, with the easy air of a man who was convinced he'd thought a problem through and solved it. “Not to worry, Jack. It's temporary.”
“Temporary,” Jack had replied thoughtfully, and David had nodded.
“Temporary, and practical.”
“In that case,” Jack had said with a smile, “I'll save my comments until you ask to hear them.”
David scowled and turned his chair away from the window.
He could only imagine what Jack's comments would be if he knew that Stephanie wasn't only working for him but that she was living with him. Living under his roof, anyway. He hadn't lied about that part of it, he simply hadn't mentioned it because he'd known how that bit of information would have been received.
“There's no need to talk about our living arrangements,” he'd told her gruffly, when they'd reached his home in Georgetown last Saturday.
“I'm not a fool, David,” she'd said coolly. “People will talk, as it is. You many find this difficult to believe, but my reputation is as important to me as yours is to you.”
“It isn't that. It's just—I wouldn't want it to seem as if—”
“No. Neither would L”
“Dammit,” David said, and rose to his feet.
All he'd done was give a job and a place to live to a woman who needed them. The loan of some money, too, so she could show up at work in something other than a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. He'd have done as much for anybody else in the same situation…
Who was he kidding? He'd come within inches of compromising his professional ethics. You didn't give a woman legal advice, employ her, take her into your home and all the time, every damn minute of every night and every day, want to take her in your arms and make love to her, without knowing you were walking a painfully fine line between what was right and what was wrong.
He never saw her, except in the office. Stephanie left before he did each morning, because she insisted on taking public transportation to work.
“Don't be stupid,” he'd said brusquely. “I'll drive you.”
“And do what? Drop me off a block away?”
“Well,” he'd said, “well…”
“I can manage on my own, thank you. And I'll be punctual.”
She was that She was at her desk, ready to work the second he came through the door.
“Good morning, Mr. Chambers,” she'd say, and she never so much as smiled or paused to say a word that wasn't business-related after that, even though he—even though he…
David mouthed another oath, jammed his hands into his trouser pockets and paced the length of his office.
She left at the end of the day, meaning she left only when he finally said, “Go home, Mrs. Willingham.”
“Yes, sir,” she'd say, and he'd sit in his office with the door partly open, watching as she straightened up her desk, collected her purse and perhaps a light sweater, then went out into the twilight. He had to force himself to sit still and not follow after her. There was no point. He'd tried that, the other evening after they'd worked an hour late.
“I'll drive you home,” he'd said briskly, but Stephanie had shaken her head.
“Thank you, but I prefer going home alone.”
The way she'd phrased it had been like a slap in the face. He'd felt a thrum of anger deep in his bones. For one crazy second, he'd thought of pulling her into his arms, kissing her until that cool smile left her mouth and her heart raced against his.
The windshield wipers had been right. He'd been crazy to do this, crazier still if he went on doing it.
Okay, then. He'd keep her on as his secretary. For a while, anyway. But he'd find her a different place to live. Someplace where he didn't have to lie awake nights, thinking of her sleeping just a few doors away. Where he didn't have to step into the hall in the morning and catch the faint whiff of her perfume. Where he didn't have to be strained to the limit by her presence.
“To the freaking limit,” he said under his breath.
It had been fine, that first evening. Things had been brisk. Businesslike. He'd handed her the keys, pointed her toward the apartment, told her she was free to change things around as she liked and not to hesitate to let him know if she needed anything, and then he'd turned his back and walked away.
“No problem,” he'd told himself smugly.
And there hadn't been. Not until somewhere around three or four o'clock, when he'd awakened from a dream hot enough to have left his heart pounding and his mouth dry…a dream in which Stephanie had starred.
It hadn't helped when he'd been shaving the next morning and he'd heard the faint hiss of water in the pipes. What was that? he'd wondered—and then he'd known. It was the shower running in her apartment.
“So what?” he'd said out loud.
The answer, to his chagrin, had come at once, in the mental image of Stephanie, wrapped in a towel, her skin dewy, her hair wet and curling around her face.
The swiftness of his physical reaction had both stunned and angered him. Hell, what was this crap? He wasn't some half-baked kid, operating at the mercy of runaway hormones. He was an adult male, fully in control of his own life. Rational. Intelligent. Pragmatic.
David rubbed his hand over his forehead. If he'd been any of those things, he'd never have gotten into such a mess. He'd have gone to Seven Oaks, delivered his message, and headed home. Okay, maybe he'd have offered to check out the subtleties of inheritance law or suggested an attorney she might contact…
“David?”
“What?” he snarled, swinging toward the door. Jack Russell stood in the opening, eyebrows lifted in inquiry.
“I knocked, David, but there was no answer. Are you all right?”
David blew out his breath. “I'm fine.”
“Are you sure? If this isn't a good time, I can come back later.”
“No, it's fine.” He smiled, or hoped he did. “Come on in.”
Russell shut the door behind him. “I just wanted to touch bases. let you know that the UPT deal went through, as you'd said it would.” Jack shook his head as he looked around David's office. “Amazing. I just can't get over it. Your Mrs. Willingham. Such a remarkable find. She's been here only a week and look at what she's accomplished.”
“A great deal. But she's not
my
Mrs. Willingham.”
“Ah. Simply a figure of speech, I assure you. It is amazing, though. Five short days, to have done so much. Such efficiency. And so unexpected, in such an attractive package. Altogether, quite a remarkable find.”
David leaned back against his desk, arms folded. “So you already said.”
“And so I'm saying again. Truly, David, this is, well, it's—”
“Amazing.”
“Yes.”
“And remarkable.”
“Yes, that, too. And—”
“Unexpected. Where are we going with this?”
Jack's brows rose again. “With what? I merely said—”
“You said it all a minute ago.”
“So? Can't I repeat myself? As my ol' granpappy used to say…”
“Uh-huh.”
“Anythin' worth sayin' is worth sayin' twice. Well, I'm saying it twice. The lady's talents are outstanding.”
“Are you forming a chapter of the Stephanie Willingham Fan Club?”
Jack laughed, walked to one of the leather love seats, and sat down.
“My, oh, my, counselor. We are testy today, aren't we?” He undid the buttons on his vest, sighed and folded his hands in his lap. “In that case, perhaps I should follow granpappy's advice and cut to the chase.”
David smiled tightly. “Granpappy and I agree, for once. Please do.”
“Here it is, then. There's talk. And please, David, do us both the courtesy of not asking, talk about what?”
David's eyes narrowed. “I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Jack. I
do
have to ask. Talk about what?”
“About her. Stephanie.”
“What is there to talk about? I thought the consensus was that she's doing a good job.”
“An excellent job.” Russell lifted his hand and exam. ined his fingernails. “The talk isn't about her work, David.”
David leaned away from the desk. “Talk is cheap, Jack. You should know that.”
“Yes, but is it true?” Russell looked up, the air of affability gone. “Is she living in your house?”
“Yes,” David said coldly. “She is.”
“My God, David…”
“Did whomever's busy spreading gossip bother adding that she's living in a separate apartment?”
Russell shook his head in dismay. “I don't believe this! How could you put yourself in such an untenable position? I didn't say anything when you brought her to the office, but—”
“I hired her to do a job.”
“But taking her to live with you—”
“She isn't living with me! She's living in an apartment that happens to be located in my house.”
“Surely, you must realize how this looks.” Russell got to his feet. “For heaven's sake, man—”
“And even if she were living with me, the day I have to ask you or anybody else to vote on what in hell I do with my personal life is the day—”
“Whoa. Calm down. I'm not questioning your personal life. I'm questioning your sanity, and please don't tell me you don't see any problem with people thinking that you're sleeping with your secretary—a secretary whose reputation has preceded her.”
“Listen, here, Jack…” David glared at the older man—and then he groaned, sank into the chair behind his desk and buried his head in his hands. “I've made a total screwup of this thing.”
“Yes,” Russell said gently, “you have, indeed.”
David looked up. “I'm not sleeping with Stephanie,” he said quietly. “You, of all people, should have known I wouldn't muddy the waters that way.”
“I never thought you were, but not everyone in this office is so clear-minded about these things. Apparently, somebody noticed that the home address she gave on the employment forms is the same as yours, and…well, you know. People talk.”

Other books

Cash: The Autobiography by Johnny Cash, Jonny Cash, Patrick Carr
Just Killing Time by Julianne Holmes
Boundary by Heather Terrell
Those Who Walk Away by Patricia Highsmith
My Dates With The Dom by Eden Elgabri
Resurrection Blues by Arthur Miller
Third Girl from the Left by Martha Southgate