The Secretary's Seduction

“That’s a gross exaggeration!”

Winnie took a step back as he stepped forward. “Maybe, but it’s still true. When have I needed you for anything?”

Her arch question was met by complete silence. Morgan’s dark blue eyes met hers, held, and she saw a flicker there, in the dark blue depths—a hot blue fire she’d never seen before.

Winnie felt a tiny thrill, followed by a surge of adrenaline. He was looking at her, really looking at her, and he liked what he saw. It wasn’t an external thing, it was something else, something deeper, more basic, and there was heat in his eyes, heat in the way he leaned a little closer and then a little closer.

Very slowly, very deliberately, Morgan placed his right hand on the wall next to her shoulders, and then his left hand, trapping her there between him and the wall.

“I think you have needs, Winnie.”

Jane Porter grew up on a diet of Harlequin Presents® romance novels, reading late at night under the covers so her mother wouldn’t see! She wrote her first book at age eight and spent many of her high school and college years living abroad, immersing herself in other cultures and continuing to read voraciously. Now, Jane has settled down in rugged Seattle, Washington, with her gorgeous husband and two sons.

Jane loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her at P.O. Box 524, Bellevue, WA 98009, U.S.A. Or visit her Web site at www.janeporter.com.

The Secretary’s Seduction

Jane Porter

MILLS & BOON

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For my great friend, Barb. It is a fairy tale, isn’t it?

CONTENTS

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

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS sweltering. No one, but no one, married in Manhattan in the middle of July. No one but Winnie Graham that is.

The organist paused and the packed congregation in St. Paul’s Cathedral seemed to rise in unison and all four hundred and fifty heads turned to stare at Winnie where she stood at the back of the church in her twenty-thousand-dollar silk bridal gown.

White silk gown.

Just like her white garter, white silk hose, white flowers, white carpet, white, white, white for a virgin bride.

For a twenty-five-year-old virgin bride who knew so little about life and men, that she was about to walk down the aisle without ever being kissed.

Well, she had been kissed once, badly kissed, back in seventh grade when Rufus Jones practically stuck his tongue down her throat at a junior high birthday party. She’d been so disgusted by the kiss that she’d nearly thrown up afterward, so that kiss didn’t count.

And now she was about to marry the love of her life except he didn’t love her and he’d never kissed her and she’d actually signed a contract agreeing to this horrible public society wedding which meant nothing to him.

What in God’s name was she thinking? What in God’s name was she doing?

How could she be a wife before she’d ever had a date?

Winnie closed her eyes, drew a deep breath and tried to calm herself but she was losing it, knew she was losing it. She was shaking so hard now she could barely keep her teeth from chattering. Funny how your teeth could chatter when you’re burning up. Perspiration covered her skin. Her heart raced. She couldn’t get enough air.

What a fool she was. What a perfect idiot.

Yes, she loved Morgan Grady. Yes, she was madly in love with Morgan Grady, but how could she sell herself like this? How could she sign away her life?

A contract.

She’d signed a contract to become his wife.

How could she love herself so little and him so much?

The organist struck the keys with fervor. Bars of music filled the cathedral, four hundred and fifty people seemed to inhale all at once, waiting for her to take the first step forward.

Winnie’s head swam. The people became a blur of white noise and heat. It was so hot in here. There were too many people and not enough air. She felt as though she were suffocating. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. And they were all waiting for her to move. To take that first step. Morgan was waiting for her to take that first step.

So she did. She took a step, she turned around, she ran.

Winnie dropped her bouquet of white lilies, roses and orchids in the cool foyer, dashed through the cathedral’s paneled doors, down the wide marble steps and jumped into a passing taxicab.

CHAPTER TWO

“WHERE to?” the cabdriver asked, sweating profusely and craning his head to get a look at her in the back seat, the stiff petticoats in her wedding gown making the white silk billow like huge sails on an eighteenth-century schooner.

The cabbie needed a shower. The inside of the car stank of old sweat. Winnie cranked her window down, dangerously close to throwing up.

“Anywhere,” she choked, needing air, but the hot muggy air outside only made her more nauseous.

The driver shot her another glance. “I got to go somewhere, lady.”

Where to go, where to go after leaving her family, Morgan and four hundred and fifty people behind in the church?

She had to go someplace that no one would find her. Someplace where no one would be. “The Tower, on Wall Street,” she said, sinking against the seat, naming her office building.

It was Saturday, the office would be deserted, and not even Morgan would think to look for her there.

Closing her eyes, Winnie sagged against the sticky vinyl seat and tried to forget that she’d just run away from her own wedding, that she, Winnie Graham had left Morgan Grady, New York’s Sexiest Bachelor, standing at the altar.

But eyes closed, she saw it all, saw how it happened.

She even knew the day—the hour—the moment—that everything in her life had changed.

June sixteenth. His office. Her insecurity.

“Willa, I need copies of these immediately,” Morgan Grady said, thrusting a sheath of papers across the desk without looking up, “and the top two sets faxed to the client noted on the cover page.”

Winnie’s heart fell. Five and a half months she’d been working for him. Five and a half months and he still didn’t know her name.

“It’s Winnie,” she corrected faintly, growing warm as color crept into her cheeks.

“What’s that?”

She balled one hand and pressed her thumb across her knuckles. She’d never liked her name, never understood how her parents could look into her face as a newborn and think, Winnie, yes, you with the little puffy eyes and tiny mouth, you’re our Winnie. But if Winnie was bad, Willa was far worse.

She’d corrected him before, several times actually, but he’d always been on his way in or out, or in the middle of something important, so she forgave the slips, and made up excuses for him.

But after five and a half months, the excuses had worn thin. Her patience had worn down. And her outer skin had worn off. She couldn’t do this anymore, nor could she handle being invisible. It was definitely time to move on.

Winnie’s lungs ached and she exhaled, feeling the elastic of her panty hose pinch her waist. She’d gained some weight over the winter, her usual extra five or ten pounds and she’d been slow to lose the weight this year. “You called me Willa.”

He didn’t look up. His attention never wavered from his Palm Pilot where he was making copious notes. “Yes.”

Her panty hose was killing her. She couldn’t remember when she felt so frumpy or dull. And worst of all, it wounded her pride that Mr. Grady was completely oblivious to her existence, while she knew—and was expected to know—everything about him.

Morgan Louis Grady. Born August first, Boston, Massachusetts.

A Leo, he took four newspapers daily, but didn’t start reading until he’d hit his treadmill and weights for his morning workout.

He read all the important business sections of the paper between six and seven in the morning, during which he drank exactly two and a half cups of very strong, very black coffee. He had nothing until lunch—light salad and chicken from a caterer that delivered every day—and worked without interruption until three when she brought him a shot of espresso from the coffee cart downstairs.

Shirt size: sixteen and a half. Shoe size: eleven.

Height: six foot three. Weight: two hundred and five muscular pounds—he never varied in weight.

Impeccable dresser.

His hair was another matter. That couldn’t, wouldn’t be tamed. Thick, glossy and nearly black, he had a cowlick at his temple and he wore the back longer than the rest. He could cut it all short but he never did.

She knew all this, and more, and yet he didn’t even know her name. Drawing a deep breath she blurted, “Mr. Grady, my name is Winnie, not Willa. I’m Winnie Graham and I’ve worked here since January second.”

His dark head lifted. “Oh.”

She stood a bit straighter, pulled back her shoulder blades, trying to project that she was taller, more impressive than her five feet, five inch height. “I replaced Miss Dirkle. And Miss Dirkle replaced Miss Hunts. And Miss Hunts, I believe, took over for Mrs. Amadio.”

“Yes. Miss Dirkle, Miss Hunts, I remember.”

They were making progress. Eye contact had been established. He recognized some names. He appeared to be listening. Good.

Now was the time to mention Friday.

Friday, four days from now, she had a final interview with a company in Charleston for a position much like the one she held now, executive assistant to the CEO of a major Fortune 500 firm. The job responsibilities and salary were equitable with what she had now, except that the cost of living in Charleston was much more affordable than Manhattan, and she’d be working for a kind, grandfather-like gentleman in his sixties rather than Morgan Grady, Wall Street’s Most Eligible Bachelor. “About Friday, Mr. Grady—”

“What about Friday?”

“I sent you a memo.”

“I don’t recall.”

There were moments she wondered how he could possibly be New York’s youngest, shrewdest, most aggressive money manager. Everyone said he was brilliant. His firm received more press than any other investment firm on Wall Street, citing his leadership, insight and intuition, but he didn’t display a bit of that insight and intuition with his assistant.

Flushing, Winnie pressed the stack of paperwork to her chest. “I left you a memo two weeks ago about needing Friday off, and then a follow up e-mail last week—”

“Sorry.” He shook his head once, a short cryptic shake even as his gaze dropped to his desk and he reached for his phone. “Anyway, Friday’s bad. Can’t do. Wait until later in the summer, right?”

Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Not only had he said no, but she’d lost his attention.

Twenty seconds of conversation and he’d mentally checked out.

She glared at him, fighting tears, wondering just what went on inside that head.

He was heart-stoppingly beautiful. Women fell at his feet in droves.

Last year he’d even been voted Wall Street’s Most Eligible Bachelor, six months ago he’d been selected New York’s Sexiest Bachelor, and the florist deliveries continued to stream in. Long-stemmed red roses, potted palms, elegant orchids. Socialites, models, actresses, other men’s wives…they all wanted him.

Including her.

She tried to study him dispassionately but there was nothing dispassionate about her feelings for him.

He had a great nose, a strong nose, with the smallest hump at the bridge and serious dark blue eyes, matched by the best mouth and most perfect chin in all of New York. Correction, the most perfect face in all of New York.

Manhattan was the place of beautiful people and he was the most beautiful of all. But she couldn’t handle it anymore, couldn’t handle being a nothing, a nobody and so soon she’d be gone, off to another job, a slower pace of life, and an elderly white-haired, bespectacled boss.

“I can print off another memo, Mr. Grady. The original’s still saved on my hard drive.”

He shook his head, hung up the phone and began to place another call all without a glance in her direction. “Doesn’t matter. Friday’s not good.”

“But I asked you two weeks ago.” She heard her voice falter, and immediately strengthened it. “You didn’t say no then.”

“I didn’t say anything at all.”

“Exactly!”

“You can’t take a non-answer as a yes.”

“But, Mr. Grady—”

His dark head lifted abruptly. “Is this a family emergency?”

“No.”

“Death in the family?”

“No.”

“Death of a friend or former colleague?”

“No deaths. Personal leave.”

He was staring at her and he had beautiful eyes, not exactly sapphire, more indigo, and when he looked at her like that, she could swear he saw straight through her. Literally. Straight through her to the wall behind her with the big clock and the fancy framed Chagall. She’d lost him. He wasn’t even thinking about her request. He was thinking numbers, odds, research, stocks, options, you name it, anything and everything but what she needed.

“Personal leave,” he repeated softly, a crease between his brows.

“Yes, sir.”

He was still staring at her, eyes narrowed slightly. “On Friday.”

“Yes, sir.”

“During the shareholder’s meeting?”

She had his full attention now and she felt oddly warm, and very uncomfortable, feeling the weight of his scrutiny. “I’ve found a replacement,” she said, her voice cracking, her composure cracking. “She’s highly qualified, shorthand, word processing, data processing—”

“No. Sorry,” he cut her mercilessly off. “Reimburse yourself for the ticket from petty cash and leave me a copy of the ticket voucher.”

Mr. Grady picked up the phone again and rapidly dialed a new number. Clearly he was done talking. “And those faxes, Winnie, you’ll see to those immediately?”

Morgan Grady watched the rigid lines of Winnie Graham’s back as she marched from his office, her sensible one-inch black heels clicking across his floor, her dark glasses sliding low on her nose.

“Shut the door, if you would,” he added pleasantly, picking up the phone again.

She reached for the doorknob and her brown tweedy blazer gaped, exposing her severe cream blouse with the wing collar. The tweedy blazer wasn’t appropriate for the heavy heat of June, and the cream blouse didn’t flatter her complexion, but then, nothing she wore was fashionable and that suited him just fine. Work was work. Pleasure was pleasure. The lines never crossed.

Yet he couldn’t help noting a faint tremor in her hand and he’d have to be a moron to not recognize that she was upset.

Well, that made two of them.

He knew exactly why she wanted the day off Friday and it made him madder than hell.

Miss Graham, his quiet unassuming Miss Graham had an interview scheduled on Friday in South Carolina.

His assistant was looking for another job when she was needed here. When he needed her here.

The press were digging into his past, looking for tidbits as if it were King Tut’s tomb. They were making calls, investigating leads, trying to find out if Morgan Grady was really the fairy-tale story he appeared to be.

Morgan smiled grimly. Fairy-tale life? Hardly. But the details of his past belonged to him and even now, twenty-five years after being adopted, he still knew the stigma that came with being from Roxbury instead of Beacon Hill.

The Gradys were saints, he thought, swallowing hard. They’d known from the beginning who he was, where he came from, and they’d taken him in anyway. They’d made him one of them. Gave him their name, their love, their security, and it had been wonderful, but now the spotlight was intensifying and the heat was becoming unbearable. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of his past, but he didn’t want Big Mike to take any credit, or get the attention, or savor his son’s success.

The only way to juggle the pressure of personal and professional was to keep a tight rein on his emotions, to remain focused, to stay on schedule.

And no one but no one was better than Winnie Graham at keeping him on task.

She knew her job. She was the best damn secretary he’d had in years, and after going through a half dozen in less than a year, he’d like to keep her, thank you very much.

Morgan stared at the closed door for a moment, remembering the pinched expression at Miss Graham’s mouth and briefly considered calling her back in.

But what would he say then? I know you’re job hunting and I don’t want you to leave? Absolutely not.

He was the boss. She was the executive assistant. He made the decisions. She implemented them.

Impatiently he reached for the phone, placed another call, feeling the intense pressure he’d been under for months. In the last year his business had skyrocketed. Work was nothing short of insane. The sheer volume, and value of the deals, staggered him.

Winnie Graham couldn’t leave. He needed her. Depended on her. Give Miss Graham Friday off? Not a chance.

Back at her desk, face still burning, Winnie numbly copied and faxed the documents Mr. Grady gave her before swiftly sorting through the afternoon’s e-mails accumulating in her in-box.

She worked on automatic pilot, answering the most urgent e-mails, forwarding what was necessary and printing out the spreadsheets required even as her mind raced.

She couldn’t, wouldn’t, miss the job interview.

She could go back in and argue about leave time again, or she could just not show up Friday morning. It wasn’t as if Mr. Grady didn’t have other secretaries on the staff able to cover for her. Grady Investments was made up of a team of seventeen, which included the two assistants for the research analysts and the two assistants for the traders.

She was not essential on Friday. Any one of the other assistants could take notes, pour coffee, and smile grimly. Although the other secretaries would probably be delighted to assist Mr. Grady, she reflected, gritting her teeth in disgust. Everybody loved Mr. Grady.

Including her.

There, the truth. She’d admitted it at last. The reason she couldn’t stay: Winnie couldn’t bear having her heart stepped on anymore. It was time to get smart. Time to think about self-preservation.

Winnie’s head began to pound and her stomach chose that moment to rumble. She’d just started a new diet—her third attempt this summer—and she still hadn’t gotten used to working from lunch to dinner without the midafternoon cookie or candy bar. What she needed was some fresh air and something cold to drink.

Winnie reached into her top right desk drawer and scooped out her wallet before taking the elevator to the forty-second floor, and changed to the express elevator that whisked her to lobby level in less than ten seconds. It was a drastic free-for-all in her tummy and she swallowed hard when the elevators slid open a second time.

Life with Morgan Grady was a bit like riding the Tower elevators: a giddy ride up and down but nothing solid in between.

Yet after six months of wild rides, she was ready to get off.

She wanted a job with decent hours, solid benefits, and an elderly boring boss so she could sleep again at night.

Outside, Winnie drew a short breath, momentarily blindsided by the heat and noise. As she walked to the hot dog vendor on the corner, a truck roared past, followed by a dozen streaking yellow cabs, half leaning on their horns.

Winnie bought a can of icy soda and popped the top on her way back to the Tower’s entrance. It was midafternoon and Manhattan’s skyscrapers had already reduced the light into little grids of sun and shadow on the sidewalk.

When she announced she was moving to New York to work, her family had predicted she wouldn’t survive a month. Instead she’d lasted over four years.

She didn’t particularly want to leave Manhattan now, but she needed distance from Morgan and all her impossible, outrageous fantasies. At night she dreamed of him over and over and it only made reality worse.

Morgan Grady would never go for her. He dated socialites, models and actresses. Not pudgy secretaries who stuttered when nervous.

The Tower’s revolving glass door turned and a woman Winnie only knew as Tiffany, joined her on the sidewalk in front of the building.

“It’s that time of day,” Tiffany said, tapping out a cigarette and lighting up. She was tall, slender, with lots of blond highlights in her hair. She looked like the type that had tried to model in high school. “Just three more hours.”

Winnie felt a stab of envy. “You go home at five?”

“Most of the time. If I’m lucky.” Tiffany dragged on the cigarette and exhaled. She cast Winnie a bored glance. “Where do you work?”

“On the seventy-eighth floor.”

“The seventy-eighth?” Tiffany’s eyebrows arched, her interest piqued. “Then you must work for Grady Investments.”

Suddenly Winnie didn’t feel like talking anymore. Women always wanted to be friends with her if they thought it’d get them closer to Morgan Grady. “Yes,” she answered, voice clipped.

“So what’s he like?” Tiffany persisted.

Winnie pushed her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose. “Who?”

Tiffany let out a little laugh, her pink-painted lips parted. “Very funny. Morgan Grady, silly. You work in his office. You must have met him. What’s he like…I mean, really, what’s he like?”

“Busy.”

“Of course. He’s huge. He completely dominates the investment world. Everyone pays attention to his market forecasts.”

Winnie forced a small, tight smile. “Isn’t that nice?”

“But the part I find most amazing, is that he’s not just this brilliant brain in a glass jar—he’s gorgeous, too.” Tiffany sounded positively giddy. “No wonder he’s been named New York’s Sexiest Bachelor twice in a row. He’s sexier than sin. I’d kill for a moment alone with him.”

“And I should just kill myself,” Winnie muttered beneath her breath, feeling painfully inadequate. Living on the periphery of Morgan Grady’s world was about as excruciating a thing as Winnie had ever experienced.

Thank God she’d soon be working somewhere else. Maybe then she’d get some self-esteem back.

Tiffany had a one-track mind. “What’s he like as a boss?”

“Let me loan you my book, Never Work for a Jerk, and then you tell me what you think.”

Tiffany giggled. “Is there really such a book?”

“Yes.”

Tiffany laughed even harder. “And you have a copy?”

“No, not yet. But I plan on buying it soon.”

Tiffany was laughing so hard she had to wipe her eyes. “I had no idea you were so funny,” she cried, tapping her cigarette. “Who would have thought?”