The Boss's Forbidden Secretary

by Lee Wilkinson

  With another sigh, she looked at the clock and was shocked to see what time it was. Almost half past nine, and she was still naked and in his bed.

  No doubt he had been up and working for an hour or more, and she should be working, too.

  Scrambling out of bed, she hurried into the bathroom. The clean, fresh scent of shower gel and a fine spattering of water droplets on the glass confirmed that Ross had already showered and gone on his way.

  Standing beneath the flow of hot water, she thought of the night before last, when she had done the same. Then, though he had dried her naked body, his touch, indeed his whole manner, had been as impersonal, as free from any trace of sexual awareness, as it was possible to be.

  So what had sparked off the difference?

  Once again she found herself struggling with the inexplicable.

  When she had dried herself and borrowed a spare tooth¬brush to clean her teeth, with a towel wrapped around her sarong-like, the loose end tucked between her breasts, she went to look for her clothes.

  They had been picked up and folded neatly over a bedroom chair. Though she disliked the thought of wearing undies she had worn the previous day, having little choice, she started to pull them on.

  Only to find they weren’t yesterday’s undies, but fresh ones that must have been taken from her drawer. The blouse, too, was fresh, as were the stockings, and the skirt had been replaced by slimline trousers and a matching jerkin.

  Looking at them blankly, she wondered how they had got there. Had Ross asked a maid to fetch them? Or had he fetched them himself?

  It would be very embarrassing if he’d left it to one of the maids…

  But it would be even worse if he’d fetched them himself. If he had, he would know that she and Carl slept in separate bedrooms.

  She tried to tell herself that a lot of married couples must sleep apart, but she couldn’t for a moment see Ross swallowing that.

  Having dressed as quickly as possible, she had turned to look for the clasp that held her coil of hair in place, when the door between the bedroom and the living room suddenly opened, and Ross appeared in the doorway.

  Newly shaven, his clear blue-grey eyes sparkling, his thick corn-coloured hair parted on the left and neatly brushed, he looked fresh and virile and dangerously handsome.

  He was dressed with throwaway elegance in dark trousers and a blue silk shirt, open at the neck. The sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows, exposing muscular arms lightly sprinkled with golden hairs. A clean tea towel was knotted casually around his lean hips.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said easily. ‘Lost something?’

  Completely thrown by his sudden appearance, she stammered, ‘I—I was just looking for my clip so I could put my hair up.’

  ‘Leave it as it is,’ he ordered crisply. ‘I like it better loose. It makes you look innocently seductive—as if you’re just about to make love.’

  Those few words, and the lazily appreciative glance that travelled over her from head to toe, caused heat to run through her veins and her face to fill with burning colour.

  Though he couldn’t possibly have missed that fiery blush he made no comment about it, nor about her change of clothing, and, scared of rocking the boat, she said nothing.

  ‘I was rather hoping you’d be awake by now,’ he went on. ‘Breakfast is ready and waiting, and scrambled eggs are best eaten fresh from the pan.’

  Both his voice and his manner were relaxed, laid-back, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, as if it were the norm for her to wake up in his bed and for them to have breakfast together.

  But beneath that civilized veneer ran a current of triumph, the almost savage satisfaction of a conqueror who had fought and won a victory—who had achieved his goal.

  He held open the door for her, and, after the briefest of hesitations, she followed him through the living room and into the white-walled, black-beamed kitchen. It lay at the rear of the house, and three long, leaded windows looked out onto a snow- covered landscape.

  Though it appeared to be equipped with every modern convenience, the kitchen was attractive and homely, with old oak furniture and an inglenook fireplace, in which a log fire blazed.

  Onions had settled himself in front of the fire, white paws curled neatly inwards, and was blinking sleepily at the flames.

  Having lifted his head to identify the newcomer, he came over to greet her, chirruping contentedly when she stooped to pet him.

  As soon as she was seated at the table, he jumped up and settled himself on her lap.

  ‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ Ross said. ‘You know perfectly well you’re not allowed at the table.’

  His dignity ruffled, Onions stalked away and jumped onto one of the wide windowsills, where he sat with his back half turned towards them.

  With a slight grin, Ross observed, ‘Because you were here he thought he could get away with it.’

  Having poured freshly squeezed orange juice into two glasses, he dished up breakfast—crispy curls of bacon, tiny button mushrooms and light, fluffy scrambled eggs.

  Though Cathy could have sworn she wouldn’t be able to eat a thing, after the first mouthful she found she was enjoying it.

  For his part, Ross seemed contented with the silence, and, as she could think of nothing to say, they ate without a word being spoken.

  When their plates were empty, he dropped them into the dishwasher before asking, ‘Would you care for some toast and marmalade?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’ Then, like a polite guest, she said, ‘That was most enjoyable.’

  ‘It’s nice of you to say so,’ he told her with mock gravity, adding, ‘Coffee or tea?’

  ‘Coffee, please.’

  Reaching for the cafetière, he indicated two comfortable-looking chairs standing on a colourful, country-style pegged rug and suggested, ‘Let’s have it by the fire, shall we?’

  As she moved past the windows to sit where he’d indicated, a row of icicles hanging from the eaves caught her eye, and she paused to look out over a snow-covered garden to a lacy coppice.

  Somehow, in contrast to the cosy warmth of the room and the leaping fire, the picture-postcard scene appeared even more like a winter wonderland.

  The sun shone from a sky of Mediterranean blue, making the icicles sparkle like diamonds and putting a dazzling sugar-frosting on the trees and bushes. In the distance a backdrop of snowy foothills ringed by taller mountains completed a scene so beautiful that it almost brought tears to her eyes.

  Onions, who was still sitting on the windowsill, the low sunshine gilding him and turning his luxuriant whiskers into gold wires, looked up at her and, when she rubbed behind his ears, jumped down and followed her back to the fire.

  When they were drinking their coffee, Ross, who had been watching her as she looked at the view, asked, ‘I take it you like it here?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ she said sincerely. ‘It’s absolutely beautiful.’

  ‘But you would prefer to live in London?’

  ‘No, not at all. Though London is a wonderfully exciting city, I’d much sooner live in the country. After our parents died we considered moving back to the small country market town where we’d been born.

  ‘But I needed a job that paid well, and the opportunities there were a lot less. Added to that, C—’ She broke off abruptly, then, trying not to appear flustered, went on, ‘My brother was still at school and hoping to train as a physiotherapist, so it wasn’t a good time to be uprooting him.’

  ‘What’s your brother’s name?’ Ross asked casually.

  Starting to know how quick he was at picking things up, she was half prepared for the question and, without any perceptible hesitation, answered, ‘Cadell.’

  ‘An unusual name,’ Ross said smoothly.

  It was Carl’s middle name, and, feeling on reasonably firm ground, she said truthfully, ‘He was named after our paternal grandfather.’

  ‘I see. Tell me, what’s your brother like? Does he
resemble you in any way?’

  Anxious not to tell him too much, she answered, ‘No, not really. He takes after our father in looks, while I’m more like our mother.’

  ‘You once told me that you and your brother had been living in the flat your parents had rented.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What happened after you got married?’

  ‘W-what happened?’

  ‘Yes. Where did you live?’

  ‘In the same flat.’

  ‘You and your husband and your brother?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered levelly.

  ‘You told me you let the flat go when you and Carl came up here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what happened to your brother?’

  ‘He moved out.’

  ‘Where is he living now?’

  ‘He…he’s living with a friend.’

  Then intent on escaping any further questions, she rose to her feet. ‘It’s about time I went downstairs and started work.’

  Taking her by surprise, he announced, ‘As it’s Christmas Eve, I wasn’t planning on working today.’

  With a feeling of relief, she said, ‘Oh… Well, as I know there’s a lot to be done, I’m quite happy to carry on alone.’

  ‘I wasn’t intending you to work either.’

  ‘In that case I’ll go back to the flat and—’

  He shook his head decidedly and, his voice becoming intimate, charged with innuendo, he told her softly, ‘But I was hoping to make use of your services.’

  Agitation making her voice sound shrill, she burst out, ‘If you mean what I think you mean—’

  Raising a mocking brow, he queried, ‘What do you think I mean?’

  ‘You know perfectly well.’

  When he merely looked at her, she said hoarsely, ‘If you expect me to go to bed with you whenever it suits you…’

  ‘That’s exactly what I expect.’

  She couldn’t bear the thought of just being used and knew she should hate Ross for treating her that way. But though she felt angry and hurt and resentful, she couldn’t bring herself to hate him.

  Biting her lip until she tasted blood, she cried, ‘No, I won’t do it. I’ll see you in hell before I’ll let you use me like that.’

  ‘Bold words,’ he said. ‘But if you want your husband to keep his job you don’t have any choice, my sweet wanton. And it’s not as if I’m asking you to do anything you haven’t willingly done before…

  ‘However, as it happens, at the moment you’re getting all worked up for nothing. What I had in mind for today doesn’t involve taking off your clothes.’

  ‘What does it involve?’ she demanded shakily.

  His head tilted slightly to one side, he pretended to consider. ‘A little friendly co-operation… I think the worst thing that could happen to you might be a kiss under the mistletoe.’

  Knowing he was playing with her, she said sharply, ‘Will you please come to the point?’

  He rose lithely to his feet. ‘The point is, as tonight is the Christmas Eve Ball, I thought we might put the finishing touches to the hall and decorate the tree…’

  Annoyed that he had deliberately trailed his coat, but at the same time relieved that she had jumped to the wrong conclusion, she bit her lip.

  ‘Mathersons, the catering firm I’ve hired, would have seen to it all,’ he went on, ‘but it’s more fun to do a part of it ourselves, wouldn’t you agree?’

  If she said she didn’t want to help, would he just let her go back to the flat and leave her alone?

  She very much doubted it.

  And if for a short time she could put all the worries and problems that beset her out of her mind and help to decorate the hall of ‘her’ house, it was a pleasure she didn’t want to forego.

  But, after all that had happened between them, would co-operating with him on a friendly basis work?

  Perhaps it was up to her to make it…

  Watching her face, he said, ‘Of course, if you really don’t want to help…’

  Making up her mind, she said, ‘I’d like to. I’ve always loved Christmas and putting up decorations.’

  He smiled at her, the coldness and hardness sloughing off like a shed skin, to be replaced with warmth and enthusiasm. ‘Come on, then.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  TAKING her hand, he pulled her to her feet. ‘Mathersons were due to make a start at eight o’clock this morning, so shall we see how far they’ve got?’

  Responding to the change in him, her spirits soared, and for the first time since arriving at Dunbar she felt almost light-hearted as they made their way downstairs.

  The big hall was a hive of activity and already looking festive. A roaring fire had been lit in the big stone hearth, and the high mantel had been decorated with red-berried holly and trails of ivy.

  Streamers had been strung across the ceiling, and swags of bright evergreens had been arranged over doorways and in every convenient corner.

  A group of workmen with ladders had just finished putting up glittering gold streamers and spruce branches interspersed with waterfalls of tiny blinking lights that looked like falling snowflakes. In one corner stood a tall Christmas tree, as yet without ornament.

  As Ross and Cathy reached the bottom of the stairs, one of the men came over and, with a respectful nod, said, ‘Morning, Mr Dalgowan.’

  ‘Morning, Will. It seems to be going well.’

  ‘Aye, that it is, sir. Apart from the one or two things you asked us to leave, we’ve just about finished in here.’

  ‘In that case we’ll take over, and you can get on with the supper room.’

  ‘We’ll do that, right enough. It’ll be all ready for the catering side to move in by mid-afternoon.’

  ‘Right, thanks, Will. You’ll be coming tonight?’

  ‘Aye, that we will, sir. It’s a bonny sight, and the missus wouldn’t miss it for anything.’

  With another smiling nod, he went back to his men, and a moment later they began to move their ladders and tools into the adjoining room.

  Turning to Cathy, Ross asked, ‘About ready to make a start?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was eagerness in her voice.

  In the corner, over by the tree, was a long trestle table piled high with bunches of mistletoe waiting to be hung up, and three large cardboard boxes tied up with string.

  ‘Tree decorations,’ he told her, as he untied the boxes and lifted the lids. ‘They’re stored in one of the attics and brought down every Christmas. But shall we hang the mistletoe first?’

  Between them they decided where the various bunches should go, and Ross used a stepladder that was standing by, to hang them.

  They were about to start unpacking the boxes when Cathy brushed a strand of loose hair away from her cheek, inadvertently drawing Ross’s attention to the wedding ring on her slim finger.

  ‘Better let me take care of that,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to lose it again.’

  Before she could protest, he had slipped it off and dropped it into his pocket.

  Finding a loose rubber band in the top of the first box, Cathy fastened her troublesome hair into a ponytail. Then between them they unpacked gleaming baubles of every shape and size, long glass icicles and sparkling snowflakes, sledges and lanterns, glittering tinsel and strings of fairy lights, all the precious paraphernalia of childhood Christmases long gone.

  For the very top of the tree there was a choice of a magnificent silver star or a fat fairy with gauzy wings, a magic wand and a simpering expression.

  For the next hour or so they worked as a team, laughing and talking like old friends, while they decorated the lower branches.

  When they reached the higher ones, Cathy selected what should go where, and Ross mounted the stepladder to do her bidding.

  The time flew by, and it was almost one-thirty before Ross called a halt and rang for a tray of coffee and sandwiches.

  While Cathy washed her hands in one of the cloakrooms just off th
e hall, Ross pulled an old settle nearer to the hearth. Then, when he, too, had washed his hands, they ate picnic-fashion in front of the fire.

  As she ate she thought longingly, If only this warmth and friendliness, this pleasure in being together—that he, too, seemed to feel—could go on.

  Then, perhaps, when she was finally able to admit the truth, Ross might realize that she really hadn’t done anything wrong that night at Ilithgow. She wasn’t married, and she hadn’t deliberately set out to deceive him.

  Once he believed that, perhaps, against every expectation, the magic they had found together that first night might be rekindled.

  Suddenly, along with all the troubles that had been released to beset their relationship—as though Pandora’s box had been opened for a second time—was the shining gift of hope.

  It might be the triumph of hope over reason, but once there it refused to be dismissed.

  Lunch over, they resumed their task, and the tree started to look as festive as a Christmas tree should, while the boxes gradually emptied.

  When only the very top remained to be decorated, surveying the star and the fairy, Ross said, ‘Now, then, as a woman of discerning taste, which shall it be? Do you want a moment to think about it?’

  ‘I don’t need to think about it. I already know.’

  ‘Oh?’ He cocked an eyebrow at her.

  ‘The fairy,’ she said.

  He groaned. ‘When it was Marley’s turn to choose she always picked the fairy. I never knew what it was that gave the repulsive thing such appeal.’

  Cathy giggled. ‘I just love her expression.’

  As Ross examined the fairy’s smirk, on a mischievous impulse she suggested, ‘Or perhaps you could use them both?’

  She saw his lips twitch. ‘I see what you mean.’

  He wired the star into place and arranged the fairy so that she appeared to be peering coyly around it. ‘What do you think?’ he asked gravely.

  It looked quite ridiculous, and Cathy, who was laughing helplessly, said, ‘I suggest you come down and see for yourself.’

  He descended the stepladder and came to stand by her side. ‘Perfect,’ he approved softly. But he was looking at her laughing face rather than the tree. ‘You should laugh more often.’