by Jane Porter
“I can’t think when you’re doing that,” she said under her breath.
“And I can’t have you running off every time the questions get uncomfortable.” He moved his hand, sliding it from her wrist up over the flat of her hand so that they were palm to palm, his long fingers pressing against hers, parting them.
She shivered at the press of his hand to hers. It felt wildly indecent.
“I would say this is far more uncomfortable than any of your questions,” she whispered, trying to slip her hand out, but only succeeding in dragging her palm down his, sending sparks of sensation up her arm, through her breasts and into her belly below.
His fingers laced through hers, holding her still.
She looked down at their joined hands because there was no way she could look into his face right now. “I don’t think this is proper.”
“It’s a little late to worry about propriety, Poppy. So tell me what you did. You don’t need to tell me why. I think we both know the why.”
She closed her eyes, mortified, not sure if he was suggesting what she thought he was suggesting.
She prayed he wasn’t suggesting...
She prayed...
Just then the plane lurched and dropped, caught in a violent stream of turbulence, and Randall clamped his arm over her thighs, his hand locking around her knee, holding her steady. “I have you,” he said.
And he did, she thought wildly, eyes opening as heat and desire rushed through her.
He’d touched her before—a hand to her elbow as he assisted her across a gravel car park, or a touch to her shoulder when entering a crowded lift to nudge her forward—but never like this. Never anything like this, and she was suddenly riveted by the sight of his hand on her knee, his fingers as lean and strong and elegant as the rest of him.
She’d imagined this, though, hadn’t she?
Poppy smashed the little voice but it was too late, the little voice wouldn’t be silenced. It was beyond inappropriate to have feelings for him in the first place. Randall Grant was Sophie’s fiancé and her employer, and Poppy would rather cut off her right arm than embarrass Sophie, or Randall. But that didn’t mean the feelings weren’t there, suppressed. Buried.
She worked hard to keep them mashed down, too. And one of the ways she contained her feelings was by keeping a proper distance from him.
She didn’t let herself stand too close, or bend too low.
She didn’t look him in the eye more than was necessary.
She dressed conservatively, even frumpishly, so no one could accuse her of trying to play up her assets—not that there were too many of those.
And she called him Randall, not Dal like his other friends, because she wasn’t his friend. She was his secretary and on his payroll, and those were key distinctions.
She couldn’t ever risk forgetting herself.
She couldn’t risk dropping her guard, letting him see that beneath her professional demeanor was a real woman...a woman who wanted nothing more than to see him happy. Because Randall Grant was many things—brilliant, wealthy, strategic, successful—but he wasn’t happy. In fact, he didn’t seem to allow himself to feel emotions at all.
Perhaps that was what troubled her most. He would give the shirt off his back to someone in need, but he never asked for anything in return.
He never took anything from anyone, or wanted anything for himself.
He just existed in his space and sphere, brilliant and handsome and impossibly solitary.
Sophie had never seemed to notice. In her mind, Dal was just one of those introverts...a loner...and content to be alone, but Poppy didn’t agree. Of course she kept her opinion to herself. But instinct told her that Randall Grant hadn’t always been so alone, and that his isolation was perhaps the result of his being raised by a difficult father.
“I think you should let me go, Randall.” Her voice was soft, almost broken.
“Maybe, but I don’t think I shall. I quite like having you close. You have no defenses right now, making it impossible for you to lie.”
“You’re more of a gentleman than that.”
“Oh, Poppy, you don’t know me at all.”
“That’s not so. I know you quite well—”
“You’ve made me into someone I never was. Your impression of me is sweet, and flattering, but absurdly false. I am no gentleman, and am anything but chivalrous.”
“I’d like to return to my chair now.”
“Why? Isn’t this what you always wanted? Haven’t you wondered what it would be like to be Sophie, engaged to me?”
Poppy stiffened. She couldn’t move, or blink, or speak. She couldn’t do anything but sit frozen while shame suffused her heart. He knew? Dear God, did he really know? All these years she’d thought she’d been so good at hiding her feelings, hiding her attraction, and yet apparently she hadn’t hidden anything well at all.
But then she forced the thought back, not willing to go there, not willing to be stripped emotionally bare before him. “How much whiskey did you drink?” she flashed, praying he hadn’t heard the wobble in her voice.
“The one glass. I’m not drunk.” He leaned back against his leather seat, infuriatingly relaxed. “And you can play it cool, and pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, but we both know the truth. I’m not trying to shame you—”
“It certainly feels like it, and I don’t appreciate it. I was supposed to be going on holiday in the morning. I haven’t had a proper vacation in years and this should have been the start to a vacation and instead you have me trapped on your plane, listening to your insults.”
“It’s not an insult.”
“For you to imply that I’ve been dying for you to kiss me, yes, that’s an insult because until five hours ago you were marrying my best friend.”
“I never said Sophie knew. You were remarkably good at concealing your feelings when she was around.”
“I don’t have feelings for you!”
His expression of amused disbelief made her want to throw up.
“Can we agree on soft spot?” he suggested with the same insufferable smile.
Poppy shuddered. She averted her face, trying to hide behind her shoulder. “I miss the old you, the nice you. Can you please bring Randall Grant back?”
“Randall Grant is dead.”
Her head jerked up and her gaze met his.
He nodded, expression almost sympathetic. “Yes, dead, because he never existed. I am Dal Grant, and have always been Dal. You made me into this Randall who was good and kind and considerate, but that’s not me. It never has been.”
“Fine. You’re Dal Grant. Congratulations.” She yanked on her hand, struggling to free herself, struggling with a new, feverish desperation. “Now, let me go.”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because we need to finish establishing a few things—”
“I think we’ve established quite a lot already. You’re Dal, not Randall. You’re not a nice man and you never have been. You think I betrayed you—”
“I know you betrayed me.”
“And you want me to betray Sophie.”
“But you don’t want to do that.”
“Of course I don’t. And I won’t.”
“Because she was your champion. She protected you from the time you were just a charity case at Haskell’s—”
“Stop, just stop.”
“I understand more than you think I do. I know more than you think I do, too. I know you grew up poor and insecure, and how you believed that you had to be perfect, or close to perfect, because one misstep and you could lose it all. Your scholarship at Haskell’s. Your friendship with Sophie. And then later, your job with me. Sophie once said that the reason you were so dependable was because you knew life was precarious and fraught with uncertai
nties. You’d told her that the best way to survive, and maybe the only way to survive, was by being necessary to those around you. So you became Sophie’s rock. And then my rock.”
“You were Sophie’s rock, too,” he continued, “but she’s gone now, and that leaves just you and me.”
She flushed deeply, even as her body throbbed with awareness. Randall’s arm still lay across her thighs, and his hand continued to cup her knee, and her pulse was beating so hard that her head felt woozy. “I don’t like the way you make that sound.”
“How am I making it sound?”
“As if there is something...illicit...between us. But there is nothing illicit. There is just a work relationship, and this—” she broke off, gesturing to the chair and the place she sat “—is not proper or professional and I’m asking you to let me go so that I can return to my chair.”
“Did you not invite Renzo to my wedding today?”
Her stomach rose and fell and she stared into Randall’s golden eyes, stricken. Had Renzo contacted Randall? Had there been communication of some sort between the two men?
But no, that couldn’t be. There was no way.
He was making wild guesses, trying to unsettle her, and it was unsettling, but he didn’t know anything and she could not, absolutely could not, give him details. Let him speculate all he wanted, but it would be disastrous if she confirmed her part in today’s debacle.
Stay calm, she told herself. Don’t panic.
And don’t feel, and don’t think about how warm Randall’s hand is, or how heat seemed to radiate from him to her, seeping into her skin, making her aware of how large his hands were, and how the pressure of his forearm across her thighs made her feel tingly, and tingly wasn’t good. Tingly was dangerous.
“It’s not disloyal to care for us both,” he added after a moment.
“I won’t say more. I’m done talking.”
“I could get you to say more. I could get you right now to tell me everything.” He must have seen her expression because his mouth eased and his eyes warmed. “One kiss—”
“For God’s sake, stop!” Tears filled her eyes and reached up to wipe them away before they could fall. “I know you’ve had a bad day. I know this has to be one of the worst days of your life, but why must you torture me? I love Sophie, and I love you—”
She broke off, horrified to have said so much, to have admitted the depth of her feelings. She closed her eyes, teeth biting into her lower lip to keep it from trembling, and yet she couldn’t stop the tears from falling, one after the other, but she gave up trying to catch them, or stop them.
It didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered anymore.
“I quit,” she whispered. “I’m done. Consider this my formal resignation. As of now, I no longer work for you and the moment we land, I’m gone.”
CHAPTER FOUR
DAL RELEASED HER, and Poppy returned to her chair, but Dal was fully aware that she didn’t eat anything, choosing to simply stare out the window, the very picture of martyred innocence.
But she wasn’t innocent. She was responsible today for his being on this plane, now, a single man, and he wasn’t just holding her accountable. He fully expected her to solve his problem, saving him from failing his father.
Dal had never been close to his father but he’d made a vow to his father when he was dying, and he fully intended to keep the promise.
Which meant, he needed a wife. Quickly.
Thank goodness Poppy was available. She wasn’t the wife his father had wanted for him, but she’d definitely do in a pinch.
Sadie, the flight attendant, appeared to check on them and when she saw that neither of them had eaten the risotto she asked if there was something else she could bring.
“The cheese plates,” Dal answered. “And whatever chocolates you might have. It’s an emergency.”
Poppy muttered something unflattering beneath her breath and Dal looked at her, eyebrow rising. “You once said chocolate helps everything.”
“Well, not this.”
“I think you’re wrong. I think once you eat some proper food and then have some excellent chocolate you’ll calm down and realize you don’t want to walk away from me in Mehkar, at the Gila airport—”
“Why not? It’s supposed to be a gorgeous country.”
“Without a passport, or money, or bra. Mehkar is not as conservative as some of our neighbors but it’s still an Arab country with a traditional culture.”
“I can’t believe you felt the need to mention the bra.”
“Men are men.”
“Well then, once we land, and you get out, send me back to England in your plane. That way I won’t be stranded and my lack of undergarments won’t create alarm.”
“And what will you do once you’re back in London?”
“Go on the holiday. Sleep in. Enjoy the freedom of being unemployed.”
“And then when you’re properly rested you’ll begin looking for a new job.”
“Yes.”
He studied her thoughtfully. “But won’t it be hard to get a decent position without references? I’d think you’d need me to put in a good word for you. You did work for me for four years after all.”
“That’s not fair.”
“What happened today in the chapel wasn’t fair, either.”
“Sophie always did say she knew you better than I thought. Clearly, she was right.”
His secretary was so disillusioned that he almost felt sorry for her. “It will be better tomorrow.”
“What will be?”
“The disappointment. You’ll realize it’s just a temporary setback, and life goes on.”
Poppy glared at him, her brown eyes flashing. “Thank you for that extremely deep and insightful philosophy lecture.”
Sadie returned with two cheese plates, each plate filled with cheeses, crackers and fruit, along with a bowl of chocolates. She set the plates down, centered the bowl of chocolate and disappeared.
Dal watched Poppy try to ignore the chocolates and cheese plate. It was almost comical because he knew how much she loved both things. “You really will feel better if you eat something.”
She refused to look at him, her smooth jaw set, lips pursed, expression mutinous. He’d never seen this side of her. She had a temper. He was pleased to see it, too. He’d worried that she had no backbone. He’d worried that Sophie had taken advantage of her generous nature.
“There is no reason to continue the starvation diet,” he said. “The wedding is over. No one is going to compare you to Sophie’s stick friends.”
Poppy gave him an indignant look. “They’re not sticks. They’re models.”
“They’re annoying.”
“You really think so?”
“You’ve never noticed that they live on their phones? For them, social media is more important than real human interaction.”
“It’s because they get paid for their Instagram posts. The more likes they get, the bigger the bonuses.”
He rolled his eyes. “I find that very hard to believe.”
“It’s true. I didn’t know it until one of them explained that modeling has changed. Lots of their jobs are pictures for their Instagram accounts.”
“I’m still not impressed.”
“Are you being serious? You really didn’t like them?”
“Did you?” he retorted.
He seemed to have caught Poppy off guard and she paused to think about her answer. After a moment her shoulders shrugged. “They were nice enough to me.”
“But?”
“I wasn’t one of them.”
“Of course not. You weren’t an actress or a model—”
“Some of them are just horsey girls. They live for polo.”
“You mean, rich men who play polo.”
“I knew I was marrying Sophie, not her social scene.”
Poppy regarded him for another long moment, her wide brown eyes solemn, her full mouth compressed, and he was glad she was nothing like Sophie’s other friends. He was glad she was short and curvy and fresh-faced and real. She was Poppy. And she was maybe the only person in his life who could make him smile.
“But maybe that was part of the problem,” she said now, picking her words with care. “Maybe you needed to like her world better. Sophie is quite social. She likes going out and doing things. She was never going to be happy sitting around Langston House with you every weekend.”
“It’s a wonderful house.”
“For you. It’s your house. But what was she supposed to do there all day?” When he didn’t answer she pressed on. “Have you ever looked at her? Really looked at her? Sophie is one of the most beautiful, stylish women in all of England. Tatler adores her—”
He made a dismissive noise.
Poppy ignored him. “Everyone in the fashion world adores her. Sophie is smart and glamorous and she is very much admired, but you...you only saw her as the woman who would beget your heirs.”
* * *
When Dal’s mocking smile disappeared Poppy felt a stab of pleasure, delighted that she knocked his smug, arrogant smile off his smug, arrogant, albeit handsome, face, but then when he rose and walked away, the pleasure abruptly faded.
Chewing the inside of her lip, she watched him walk to the back, heading for his private cabin in the rear of the jet. After he disappeared into the cabin, the door closing soundlessly behind him, she sank back into her seat, deflated, as if all the energy had been sucked from the cabin.
So much had just happened that she couldn’t process it all.
Poppy didn’t even know where to begin taking apart the conversations and the revelations, never mind examining the intense emotions buffeting her.
Randall—Dal—knew about her infatuation, and had implied that Sophie probably knew, too. And then Poppy, in a burst of uncharacteristic temper, had quit.
Poppy sighed and rubbed her brow, gently kneading the ache. Was she really going to leave him, after four years of working for him? After four years of trying to deny her feelings?
