His Secretary Mistress. Chantelle Shaw

husband,’ she lied. ‘I assumed you knew I was married. It’s not a secret; my agency details state that I’m Mrs Deane.’

      ‘In that case, just what were you playing at in the park?’ He glared at her across the room, his eyes as dark and fathomless as pools of ink although his icy disdain was obvious. ‘Of course I didn’t know. I’m not in the habit of making a pass at my married staff.’

      Or any of his staff, for that matter, he added silently. He had always been scrupulous about keeping his work and private life separate, and was furious with himself for a serious lack of judgement. He was furious with her too, ostensibly for not being straight with him. But if he was being honest, he acknowledged grimly, he hated the idea that she had a husband.

      ‘I wasn’t playing at anything. I don’t know what you mean,’ she snapped, outrage and embarrassment stoking her temper.

      ‘Oh, come on. You were issuing me with a very definite invitation in the park. I’d love to be a fly on the wall when your husband asks you about your day,’ he continued sarcastically, ignoring her furious gasp of denial. ‘Will you mention that you want your boss? Or do you prefer to keep the poor sod in the dark about your extracurricular activities?’

      Jenna drummed her fingers on the desk and fought to keep a lid on her temper. ‘Naturally I won’t refer to an incident that I found to be frankly embarrassing.’

      ‘Embarrassing! Oh, I see—you’re suggesting that your boss placed you in an awkward situation? Why don’t you have done with it and report me for sexual harassment?’

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous; I’m just trying to say that you obviously read something into the situation that wasn’t there. You’re very nice,’ she said placatingly, ‘but I certainly wasn’t flirting with you. I’m a happily married woman.’

      ‘I suppose you’re now going to tell me that you’re intending to produce a brood of little Deanes too?’ he said through gritted teeth. Her description of him as ‘nice’ stung; he had never been called nice in his life, and his male pride was outraged at her implication that he was middle-aged and past it.

      ‘God, no.’ Jenna gave a brittle laugh and crossed her fingers behind her back. Somehow she had managed to insult him, and he was looking for a reason to dismiss her and demand that the agency send a replacement. If she admitted that she had a pre-school child she would be out of the job that was hopefully going to turn her life around. The agency would be distinctly unimpressed to learn that she had only survived one day with their most prestigious client, and would be in no hurry to find her other work, but everything depended on her ability to earn a high salary. ‘I’m a committed career woman,’ she informed him coolly. ‘Children don’t feature on my agenda.’

      Alex stared at her, his expression giving nothing away—certainly not his inexplicable feeling of disappointment at her words. What was the matter with him? Maybe he was having a mid-life crisis, he thought irritably as he banished the picture of a rosy-cheeked child with hair like spun gold from his mind. He didn’t even like children particularly, and it should have come as a great relief that his new secretary had no maternal urges.

      The silence in the room seemed to stretch interminably, and the tap on the door caused Jenna to jump. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at Katrin, some sixth sense warning her that the other woman had been listening in on the conversation.

      ‘The police have come for Mrs. Deane,’ Katrin announced with understated calm.

      ‘Excellent. On top of everything, I’ve employed the Boston Strangler.’

      That was it, Jenna decided. She would rather sell her body than work one more minute for Alex Morrell. But there was no time to inform him of the fact. Two burly police officers were already towering over her, and although she knew she was the victim of a crime rather than its perpetrator, she swallowed nervously.

      Despite their indomitable presence, the policemen were surprisingly gentle as they questioned her about the mugging she had witnessed, pointing out that it had been unwise to tackle the cyclist, who might have been carrying a weapon.

      ‘A knife, a gun—you just don’t know these days, Mrs Deane. It’s not worth risking your life for a few valuables.’

      ‘Absolutely,’ Alex concurred, and received a venomous glare for his pains.

      ‘I’d make an appointment with your GP to get that shoulder checked out,’ one officer suggested as they stood to leave, and Jenna gave her smiling assurance that she would do so, mentally adding the white lie to the various other untruths she had uttered that day. She prided herself on her honesty, yet one day of working for Alex Morrell and she had turned fibbing into an art form.

      Alex escorted the policemen out of the office and she sank into a chair feeling utterly drained. Her face was pale with misery when he returned. This latest disruption to his day was no doubt the last straw; he would never keep her on now.

      ‘I suppose you want me to leave,’ she murmured, and he spared her a brief glance before turning his attention to his computer screen.

      ‘Excellent idea. Go and collect your things.’

      As she struggled to push her aching arm into her jacket she debated going back into his office to admit the truth—that far from being happily married and childless she was a single mother, struggling to juggle a career and care for an almost four-year-old—but it all seemed too complicated and she just wanted to go home.

      ‘Goodbye.’

      The voice from the doorway was curiously deflated, and Alex felt compassion snag his heart as he studied the small, forlorn figure. ‘I’m coming with you,’ he said calmly, and something flared in her eyes.

      ‘You don’t need to see me off the premises. I feel humiliated enough that everyone knows I was interviewed by the police.’

      ‘Never mind what anyone else thinks,’ he replied cheerfully, and that just about summed him up, she decided. He was confident to the point of arrogance—but then he was the boss; he didn’t have to care what anyone else thought.

      She half expected him to frogmarch her out of the office block, but when the lift came to a halt she discovered that they were in an underground car park.

      ‘My car’s over there.’ He was already leading the way to a silver Bentley, and as they approached a uniformed chauffeur sprung out and held open the door.

      ‘There’s no need for all this. I’ve got a return train ticket,’ she said faintly as she sank into the supple leather upholstery. ‘Just drop me at the station.’

      Alex ignored her and leaned forward to speak into the intercom. ‘Harley Street, please, Barton.’