Chapter 1

My New Boss

Abby

What will my new boss be like?

The question runs through my head as I drive to Harrison, twenty-five miles out from bustling Manhattan, my fingers tapping the steering wheel to the rhythm of “Seasons of Love” from Rent drifting from my four-year-old speakers at almost full volume.

Given the light traffic, I should get to Mr. Herbert’s address in less than fifteen minutes. Already, the sky-rise buildings are far behind me and the less imposing trees taking their place to give me a better view of blue skies and windswept clouds. I’m early, and that’s how I like to be. Better to have enough time to floss and clean my keyboard than to run late and risk leaving an important document behind. Or worse: go to work without brushing my teeth.

But what if Mr. Herbert doesn’t like me appearing ahead of schedule?

I try to remember what I’ve learned about him on the Internet.

Grant Ainsworth Herbert, aged thirty-one. American father; long deceased. British mother; died of cancer a year ago. Born in New York. Raised in his grandparents’ home in London. Went to MIT. Got his MBA from Oxford four years ago.

Well, there was nothing to indicate punctuality or a dislike for it. There wasn’t a lot of information regarding his preferences, in fact, except for one – women.

Grant Herbert likes women – a lot.

I even read that he slept with the British ambassador’s ex-wife and an actress, whose engagement to the lead singer of a band was called off as a result.

Are the rumors true? I don’t know. I don’t believe everything I read. But if they are, no problem. Thanks to my former employer, Nathan Landers, I’m an expert at dealing with egotistical playboys. Let them play, and don’t get in their way. And if Grant Herbert tries to make a move on me? I’ll leave my palm print on his cheek. Boss or no boss, I don’t take shit from any man.

Not that I’m expecting Mr. Herbert to make any move on me, of course. Based on what I’ve read, he goes after either the stunning ones or the wealthy ones. I’m neither. I’m plain, which is exactly how I choose to be. And while I have a bit saved up in my bank account thanks to Mr. Landers’ generosity, I’m by no means a millionaire. Well, I plan to be, but right now, I’m just an ordinary, hard-working glorified secretary.

So, no problem.

Unless…

I glance at the penny-sized face of my silver watch. What if I’m too early and he’s still in bed because he was with a woman all night? I don’t want to catch him in a bad mood.

Hmm. I lower the volume of the music so I can hear myself think.

Should I call ahead? No. Waking him up will put me in an even worse spot. Should I turn back? Stop my car at the side of the road and waste an hour?

In the end, I decide to just go to Mr. Herbert’s house as planned. If he’s asleep, then I’ll simply wait in the living room. And if I wake him up? Well, it’s his fault for asking me to come to his house. But just in case he’s grumpy, I’ll get him coffee.

I decide to make a quick stop at the next coffee shop I pass by and have an internal struggle over the type of coffee my new boss might prefer… or even if he prefers coffee at all. He is half-British, after all. Regardless, I head to the address feeling a little more confident. Some of that confidence evaporates, however, when I find myself in front of a huge, black, cast iron gate.

It looks just like the one in The Sound of Music . And, with a lump forming in my throat, I feel like Maria did when she first saw it.

How could Maria sing at a time like this?

A man appears behind the gate. Late forties by my estimate. Tall. Crew cut. Dimpled chin. Huge biceps. Ex-military or ex-con? I’m not sure. But right now, he sure makes an intimidating guard.

As I get out of my car and walk up to the gate, I wonder if Mr. Herbert has a bodyguard as well. Mr. Landers didn’t have one. Does this mean Mr. Herbert is richer? I read that he’s supposed to be descended from nobility. Or maybe he’s just more defenseless. Mr. Landers used to be in the military, after all, so he’s perfectly capable of defending himself.

Still, I’m not sure Mr. Landers can stand up to this guy.

“I’m Abigail Gomez,” I inform him, handing over the driver’s license from my purse. “Mr. Herbert’s expecting me.”

He looks at my ID then at me. Then he stares at my ID again.

I take a step forward, frowning. “Is something wrong?”

He touches his chin as a puzzled look spreads across his face. “Good question.”

Huh? I’m sure I look exactly like my picture on my license so that can’t be the problem. What then? Does he think I’m not like the women his boss usually expects? Well, I’m sorry if my nose isn’t sharp enough or my cheekbones aren’t well-defined, but I didn’t realize those were in the job qualifications.

“Look. I’m not here to sleep with Mr. Herbert, all right? I’m his personal assistant.”

“I see.”

“If he’s still asleep, I can wait…”

“Oh, he’s awake.” The man gives me back my ID. “You said he’s expecting you?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“Then I guess it’s all right.”

“Thanks.”

Mumbling, he walks away. I can’t hear the words so I just go back to my car. Seconds later, the gate opens and I enter.

The guard gives me a salute – yup, he’s probably a veteran. Then as I drive away, I get a glimpse of him smiling from my side view mirror.

No, not a smile. A grin. So he finds me amusing, does he?

As for me, I’m more than amused as I drive up to the house. I’m in awe.

The front lawn is immaculate, dotted by large trees hedged by trimmed shrubs. There’s a fountain on one side and a gazebo on the other, both elegantly carved out of marble. And the house? Its stone façade and tiled roof make it seem like a remnant of a bygone age, but it’s by no means on the verge of collapse. Not even close. In fact, there isn’t a single vine crawling in between the French windows, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it lasted a hundred more years.

A grand mansion.

I’m beginning to think my new boss has class, in which case I’m glad I got the most expensive cappuccino blend. It’s either class or he’s just a snob.

Well, I’ll find out soon enough.

I park my silver Toyota Camry behind the red Ford Escape in the driveway, turn off the engine, and glance at the rearview mirror where my anxious black eyes stare back at me. I close them as I take a deep breath.

Relax, Abby. You’re going to be fine. Mr. Herbert would be a fool not to see how lucky he is to have you.

Grabbing the coffee, I step out of the car and walk up the front steps, my heels clacking against the stone. In front of the wooden double doors, I stop, searching for a doorbell. None. I guess the house is as old-fashioned as it looks.

I try the iron door knocker, half-expecting a middle-aged butler to come to the door in his crisp tailcoat and pristine, white gloves. No one comes, though, and so after a few more knocks, I try opening the door.

It opens with a creak, and I reluctantly step forward.

“Hello?”

No answer.

Strange. I thought Mr. Herbert would be here, and the guard did say he was awake. Then again, the house is huge so maybe he didn’t hear me. I guess I have no choice but to look for him.

The search proves to be slow as I find myself distracted at every turn, pausing to admire something – a painting, a sculpture, a vase, a piece of furniture – every other minute. The house is stocked with the best of the old and new – antique crafts and the most expensive appliances. It’s two worlds seamlessly merged into one, and the result is simply fascinating.

I almost forget what I’m there for but when I remember, I hurry, especially as I realize the cup of coffee in my hand is getting cold.

No one likes a cold cup of coffee.

Finally, I hear sounds coming from a room at the end of a hall. Mr. Herbert’s office, maybe? As I approach, I notice that the door is ajar. Even so, I decide to knock, only to stop with my raised fist an inch from the wood when I hear a whimper.

Or is it a moan?

Against my better judgment, I take a peek, my eyes growing wide as I see Mr. Herbert standing behind his desk or, more accurately, behind a brunette bent over his desk.

I should have known he’d be with a woman.

And I should leave. It’s the proper thing to do. I can’t, though. My body seems frozen and rooted to the spot, my heart the only part of me moving, beating wildly as heat courses through my veins.

I can’t see the woman’s face, her brown hair having come loose to form a curtain over her cheeks. I can see Mr. Herbert’s face clearly, though, and I can’t help but watch. Right now, his blue eyes are half lidded, his nostrils are flaring and his square jaw is tightly clenched. As he moves, rocking the body beneath him and the desk in turn, golden strands of hair dance above his eyebrows and a bead of sweat trickles down the side of his face to land on one flushed cheek.

I swallow. My throat, bra, and panties are all feeling suddenly uncomfortable.

What the…?

“Fuck!” The crisp curse escapes his thin lips just before his features grow taut, his eyelids falling shut as he throws his head back.

With every shudder that goes through him, a wave of delicious heat washes over me, leaving my palms, nape, breasts, and sex tingling. As he goes still, my heart comes to a stop as well, my breath stolen. It’s over, but the damage has already been done. My skin is flushed, my panties wet.

I didn’t just have an orgasm, did I?

Suddenly, he opens his blue eyes and gazes directly into mine.

Shit.

The spell broken, I step back quickly only to bump into the table against the wall, causing the vase on it to wobble. I manage to keep the vase from falling – whew! – but it’s too late. I’ve already made my presence known.

“Hey.” Mr. Herbert steps out of the room, a smile on his face. “You’re Abby, right?”

Impulsively, I look at his crotch, relieved to find his pants zipped.

Wait. Why am I looking at my boss’ crotch? And why is he grinning? Isn’t he mad at me?

“Mr. Herbert, I…”

He offers me his hand. “Please call me—”

“Call me, Grant,” the brunette interrupts as she appears behind Grant, touching his arm. Casting a spiteful glance in my direction, she gives Grant a lingering kiss on the cheek then leaves, her heels clacking down the hall.

“Like she said, call me Grant.” Mr. Herbert extends his hand further.

I look at it, blinking. Why is he pretending nothing happened?

“It’s clean, I promise.”

I blush, shaking his hand. “Grant, I’m sorry I—”

“Please come inside,” he cuts me off, heading back inside his office.

I follow, stopping in the middle of the room. He goes behind his desk, the same desk he was fucking that brunette on.

I shake off the image.

Focus, Abby.

“So, you like coffee?” he asks as he sits down on the black leather chair.

I look at the cup I still have in my hand. “Actually, I brought this for you. I thought you might—”

I take a step forward to hand him the coffee but my shoe gets caught on the edge of the rug. I stumble, the cup falling out of my hand and hitting the desk, splattering on its surface and onto Grant’s shirt.

“Oh, shit.” I clasp a hand over my gaping mouth as I look at the disaster I’ve caused then quickly take the box of tissues out of my purse to undo it, straightening the cup and wiping the growing puddle on the desk. “I’m so sorry.”

What have I done? What’s wrong with me? I’ve never made mistakes like this before.

“It’s fine,” Grant tells me, standing up. “No harm done.”

No harm done? How can he say that when this desk is probably decades old? Not to mention I’ve stained his expensive shirt. I grab another tissue to wipe it.

He grabs my wrist. “Really, you don’t have to worry about it.”

I look into his eyes. Now that they’re not half-lidded, I can see just how blue they are – dark blue like the Atlantic. He is far more handsome than his pictures on the Internet, the combination of his eyes with his straight-edged nose and chiseled cheekbones enough to make my heart skip a beat.

“At least the coffee wasn’t hot,” he adds.

No. But you sure are.

Wait. What?

I jerk my wrist away and continue wiping the desk. “Not a good thing, I’m afraid. I’ve never heard of a secretary serving cold coffee.”

“Nathan’s right,” he says as he takes off his shirt. “You are a perfectionist.”

“I like getting things done as well as I can,” I correct, trying not to look at his sculpted upper body, at those broad shoulders leading down to toned arms, one of them marked with a tattoo... Trying so very hard to not look at his hardened pectorals glistening with a thin layer of sweat, bulging out over well-defined rows of abdominals that dip and curve in all the right places – trying and failing. “Any job worth doing is worth doing well, right?”

He wipes his chest with his shirt, and my throat goes dry as my eyes inadvertently follow the fabric gliding over those rippling muscles, wishing it was my hand instead. “And you like to keep things neat and orderly.”

“It’s p-part of my job,” I inform him, swallowing as I look away, continuing to wipe the desk.

I don’t know what’s harder – gathering every drop of spilled coffee or picking up the pieces of my composure.

“Is that a problem?” I ask him.

“No.” He tosses his shirt away and sits down.

I glance at him. “Aren’t you going to put on a shirt?”

“Later, maybe. Is that a problem?”

It is, but I don’t say so. I focus my attention on finishing my task. “So, what else did Mr. Landers tell you?”

“Oh, quite a bit.” He leans on his arm. “He didn’t say you were attractive, though.”

I pause. Plain old me? Attractive? There must be something wrong with his eyes.

“I’m not sure how that would matter in my job,” I tell him as I pick up the soaked pieces of tissue.

“Ah, but it matters to me.” He places his elbows on the desk. “After all, I’ll be seeing a lot of you, won’t I?”

He means he’ll be seeing you often, Abby. Stop jumping to conclusions – or delusions.

I shrug. “Well, I’m your personal assistant starting today, after all.”

“About that, have you given some thought to my request?”

“You mean about me staying here?” I carry the used pieces of tissue and the empty cup to the garbage can in the corner and drop them inside.

“I’ve read most personal assistants stay at their bosses’ homes.”

So, he’s done some reading, too, huh?

“Besides, I’ve decided to conduct my business from here at home,” Grant adds. “And sometimes, I’ll have to do it in the evenings so I think it’s best if you stay here.”

I turn to look at him. “You’re not asking me, are you?”

He sits back and taps his fingers on his desk. “It’s a part of the job, I’m afraid.”

I frown. Well, if he puts it that way, I can’t really refuse. He is my boss, after all, and he is paying me a lot, more than Mr. Landers paid me.

Actually, I’m not completely against the arrangement. I’ve already brought my things from my apartment, in fact. But given what just happened, I can’t help but have second thoughts. Should I live in the same house with the only man who’s managed to arouse and rattle me so far?

“Well?”

“All right,” I say. Regardless of what just transpired, Grant is still my boss, and I have no choice. “But on two conditions.”

“Name them.”

“One: My room shouldn’t be too close to yours. That way, I’ll have some personal space. And two: You should promise never to enter it.”

“Unless invited, of course,” Grant says.

Invited? I suddenly have an image of him and me in a bedroom, but I shake that off. I ignore the suggestion as well.

“Do you accept my conditions?” I ask, squaring my shoulders.

“Yes.”

“All right.” I take a deep breath. “If you’ll excuse me, then, I’ll go get my things.”

“I’d ask someone to help you but I’m afraid I haven’t hired maids,” Grant says. “I just moved in here a week ago.”

“That’s fine,” I tell him. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying my things. Also, I can help you hire the maids if you’d like.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

I turn on my heel.

“Oh, and Abby?”

I glance back.

He leans forward on his desk. “I look forward to having you around.”

For a moment, I think I see a spark of lust in his eyes but then it vanishes so I must have imagined it. There’s no way a man as hot and powerful as him could want someone like me. The sooner I firmly engrave that in my mind and stop imagining things, the better.

Outside the office, I heave a sigh of relief. Well, at least my new boss likes me. Still, something tells me that being Grant’s personal assistant isn’t going to be as easy as I thought.