Trish Morey - Harlequin romance author

Chapter One

Maverick hated to be kept waiting. He prowled through the waiting room that separated his Gold Coast office from his PA's only to find her area still unattended, the computer monitor ominously dark and silent and the flicker of numbers on a digital clock the only flash of movement, and highlighting in brilliant red the full extent of his PA's transgressions. Nine-fifteen and still no sign of her!

Where was she? Still sulking after he'd refused her a week's leave? Or just taking it easy because she thought he was out of the country and he'd never know? Whatever, if this was the way she got it into her head to act when he wasn't around, then she was in for a big surprise. He didn't pay her the kind of megabucks he did so that she could sleep in whenever she thought she'd get away with it. She was a good operator, but nobody was that good.

With a growl he wheeled around and stormed back into his office, slamming his office door in irritation. The noise reverberated around the room, echoing his mood. Damn right, he thought, throwing himself into his chair and tugging on his tie, his fury mounting by the second.

Now that the European end of the deal was on hold indefinitely, it was more critical than ever that the Rogerson contract be shored up and fast. It couldn't wait. And neither could he!

So where the hell was that woman?

What a morning! Over the music playing on her iPod Tegan Fielding let fly an uncharacteristic string of curses aimed squarely at the universe in general and her sister in particular as the lift doors slid open, releasing her to the plush executive floor that would be her workaday home for the next week.

Without a break in her tirade, a sweep of her eyes took in her dimly lit surroundings - the skillfully screened open plan office just beyond the lifts with the rest of the entire floor devoted entirely the boss's office suite beyond. Everything was just as Morgan had described. Without checking, she already knew that to the left behind the lift well would be the fully stocked kitchen and wet bar, to the right the bathrooms. The public bathrooms at least. There was another executive en suite, Morgan had told her, attached to Maverick's private rooms beyond his office that he used when he worked late, but that was academic. She didn't plan on stepping anywhere near that hallowed turf in the next few days if she could help it.

Still muttering, she slapped at a bank of light switches on the wall, slammed down her bag on the desk and pulled out a new packet of stockings. Morgan had warned her to beware the old lady with the broken gate and two over-enthusiastic "bitser" puppies who lived near the bus stop, but she hadn't been expecting to run into them quite so soon or with such devastating consequences. By the time they'd lost interest and found a new victim to harass, Tegan's stockings had been laddered beyond repair and her navy skirt patterned in paw prints so badly that Mrs Garrett had insisted in sponging them off for her. It would have been quicker to walk home and get changed. As it was, she'd seen two buses arrive and depart while the old woman tried valiantly to work some kind of white spirits magic on her skirt. An emergency stop at a pharmacist around the corner from the office had taken care of replacement stockings. And finally she was here.

So much for Morgan's paranoia that she not be late. Tegan gave an ironic laugh. "A stickler for time" she'd called her boss, a total despot when it came to extracting his money's worth from his employees. Well, she'd tried to get here on time and look what had happened. Besides, what did it matter anyway? He wasn't even here.

She pulled the lace topped stockings from their packet and let their sheer silkiness slip over her hands. She'd been unable to find the same brand as the sensible support stockings filling an entire drawer of her twin's walk in robe, and the only reason she'd agreed to pay the outrageous price they were asking for these was the knowledge that Morgan was paying all her expenses for the week and a sizable bonus into the deal. Her sister's stockings were nice enough, but these were gossamer thin and silky sheer and after three years working in far flung refugee camps and no immediate job prospects on her return, if a decent pay cheque was a rare temptation, then the feel of silky stockings against her skin was downright decadence.

She suppressed another stab of guilt at the expense. It was a total indulgence, but then, given the morning she'd had, she'd more than earned them.

She dropped into her chair and spun around, angling herself away from the lift doors in the unlikely event someone alighted. Very unlikely event, apparently according to her sister. "Invitation only" was the way she'd described this floor and with the boss half a world away there was zero chance she'd be interrupted by anyone. Which was just the way Tegan wanted it.

She let one high heeled court drop on the carpet and lifted one knee high, curling her toes into the sheer fabric gathered between her fingers.

The stocking slipped over up her toes and calf like a shimmering second layer of skin. She hitched up Morgan's fitted pencil skirt and drew the stocking higher up her leg, to where the lace band ended at her thigh.

Not bad, she thought, alternately flexing and pointing her toes at the ceiling in time with the music playing in her ears, liking the way the barely-there stocking gave her skin a warm, golden glow, before dropping that leg down to start on the other. Maybe today wasn't going to be such a dead loss after all.

He shouldn't be watching. He hadn't intended to watch. He'd thought he'd heard the ping of the lift door and some vague utterances and he'd opened his door ready to utter a few terse words himself to his recalcitrant PA, until one glance at that impossibly long length of leg being sheathed in something silky and the heat intended for his words had made a sudden change of direction and headed south.

He watched, transfixed, as her second leg followed the first, angling upwards as she extended her knee and drew the almost invisible fabric slowly up her leg. All the long, long way up.

A heated breath hissed through his teeth. Who would have suspected Morgan Fielding had pins like those hidden under her "hands-off" business attire? Although maybe not quite as hands-off as usual, he wagered, with a glance at the rest of her. Today the buttons at her neck were undone, exposing a rare vee of surprisingly sun-kissed skin, and the nondescript colour hair that was usually bound into a tight do looked more casual and sunstreaked, coiling tendrils already escaping from the clips to fall around her face and neck. No doubt due to the action of her head bopping from side to side to whatever was pumping out of the device she had plugged into her ears.

A movement had his eyes right back on her hands, her fingers toying with the lace tops, straightening each one slightly. Lucky lace, he reflected , to be wrapped around such perfect thighs.

Then he watched her run the flat of her palms along the length of each leg, smoothing them from the ankle up. Not that there was any need. There wasn't so much as a wrinkle or crease to be seen from where he was standing.

They looked perfect. Legs you could slide your hand up, a smooth and silken journey northwards. Why was today so special that she'd dress her legs up in lace-topped luxury like that? Why was she suddenly flashing skin he'd never had so much of a glimpse of? It sure wasn't for his benefit.

Unless she was expecting someone in his absence.

Something ground his thoughts to a halt. Just the thought of someone else gliding their way north along that glistening two lane highway crunched like a bad gear change inside him.

He drew in one long breath but instead of the cooling effect he needed right now, the oxygen laden air merely fueled the fire pooling in his groin, further compounding the morning's aggravation.

Damn it!