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Authors: Cat Kelly

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BOOK: Falling for Sir
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He was her boss. It echoed around her aching
head.

Marianne had never been a very social creature.
Apparently missing out on the gene that made certain other people in her family
fit in wherever they went, she'd concentrated instead on her studies and now
her work. For companionship she had a goldfish, even if she simply inherited it
from the last renter of her apartment. Recently she'd named it Pebbles.
Considering she'd never owned a pet, never wanted one and knew almost nothing
about fish, this was a big stride for her. She was even thinking of getting
another. Maybe.

But with her aversion to socializing, the
opportunities for meeting anything datable that was obviously male, and had two
legs with no gills, were far between and few. Dating anyone from work was out
of the question. She couldn't risk merging those two worlds for Marianne wanted
nothing to get in the way of her career.

Now
look what you've done. Great job, Miller, you've only gone and slept with your
boss in your new job. You just dropped your panties for the CEO.
Congratulations.

As Marty wound down his speech, the man standing
behind Marianne suddenly cleared his throat quite loudly and then said, "I
hate to interrupt the meeting, but I can't stay long and I just wanted to
remind everyone about the employee Holiday party." Faces turned their way
like flowers seeking the sun. Marianne kept her gaze on her lap and, with one
hand, brushed invisible crumbs from her skirt. "As you know," he continued,
"this year on November 30th, Marchetti's will be celebrating it's
centennial. I know this is late notice, but I'd like to put together a party
planning committee with members from the floor and the admin offices. Let's get
input from everyone to make this Centennial a great party."

Around the table people fidgeted and murmured to
one another. The prospect of a party was always good news, of course.

"Perhaps Ms. Miller," he briefly laid
a hand on her shoulder and she jumped, swallowing her gum, "could
undertake the formation of a committee. Put a new spin on things, bring in some
fresh ideas."

Looking up she saw his words wiping smiles off a
few faces. Marianne was still a new girl and hadn't earned the right to be
singled out by the boss. There were people around that table who'd worked for
Marchetti's since before she was born. Now they looked at her not only as the
outspoken, young whippersnapper who insulted the office coffee, complained
about sticky splatters on the microwave door, and refused to dress down on
Fridays, but as a usurper, a sly sneak.

"When you get the chance, Ms. Miller, come
up to the 27th floor and see Mrs. Bracknell," he said to her. "She'll
fill you in with the details."

How the hell did he know her name anyway?

To her intense relief his hand was gone from her
shoulder. "Well, I'll leave you all to it. Keep up the good work."

 

* * * *

 

 
He
shouldn't have touched her.
 
The woman
jumped as if he'd stuck her with a needle. But he couldn't help himself; his
skin prickled with need to feel her again.

After he left the meeting, Jack took the
elevator down to the ground floor and made his usual promenade through the
store, making notes in his head, checking every corner, every shiny glass
surface, trying to keep his mind busy and off that curly-haired sexpot in the
buttoned-up blouse. He wondered if he'd made her nervous because he was the
boss, or because she recognized him from last night.

Of all the women to pick out at a sex auction,
he had to choose someone from his staff, he mused, shaking his head. One of the
best things about joining The Club was the anonymity. It was supposed to be a
fantasy and completely separate from real life. So now what? First, he'd have
to find out if she recognized him. If she did, he'd have to make sure she kept
it to herself. Hopefully she wasn't the sort to run to the tabloids. From what
Mrs. Bracknell had told him, she didn't appear to be the type of woman who
would want her name in the gossip rags. But one could never be sure.

Jack was a very private man and tried to keep
his face out of the papers, despite Alana Shepherd's attempts to get them
snapped about town together. As he'd said to Mrs. Bracknell, since his wife's
passing he'd left the business of romance to his younger brother. At
thirty-nine Jack had no plans to marry again. Living through the five shocking
months of Laura's sickness—watching her fade away from him—was something he
never wanted to go through again. Why set oneself up for more pain and
heartache?

He knew there were a lot of women looking to
land themselves a billionaire. Although his first impressions of Ms. Marianne
Miller, aka "Claudia the Brat" did not lead him to think she would be
the same, he couldn't be sure yet. Even as he tried to keep his thoughts turned
away from her, Jack realized it was a losing battle. When he saw Marianne
leaving the store at noon, he suddenly found his feet taking him through the
doors after her.

Why was he stalking her through a crowded square
and across a street in Manhattan traffic? She was a woman young enough—well,
almost, if he'd been a particularly precocious teen—to be his daughter. They
had both signed confidentiality agreements at The Club so mentioning it to her
would be a chancy business and in all likelihood she was there for the anonymity,
just as he was. She was his employee, on his payroll. There were countless
reasons why he shouldn't be following her around in the middle of his busy day.
This was something Charlie would do. Jack was the sensible one. Right?

He pinned his gaze to the figure ahead and
watched her throw coins for a violinist on the corner. In the crowd of people
surging back and forth she looked quite small and alone, walking with her head
down, an ugly woolen hat pulled down over her ears, and the collar of her coat
standing up against the brisk chill. Someone nudged her arm as they hurried by
in the other direction, causing her to step in a puddle and hunch her shoulders
even further. She was young to be in the city alone, he thought. People with
book-smarts weren't always the best at looking after themselves.

Jack's heartbeat seemed to be all over the place
today. One moment he was angry with himself and then all his thoughts were
taken up with being concerned about her. He lengthened his stride to cut down
on the number of people between them.

Why had she gone to a sex club? Why would a
good-looking, bright, vibrant young woman join a club for anonymous sex? Jack
had his reasons, but what could hers possibly be? He shook his head, suddenly
angry again. Her parents and her brothers couldn't know what she was getting up
to in the city. Someone ought to be looking out for her, before she made some
awful mistake.

As she walked into the corner coffee shop he
followed, soothing his nerves by deciding he could buy a coffee while he was
there and it wouldn't look odd—wouldn't look as if he'd just stalked her down
the block. This little place had the finest coffee, fluffiest donuts and most
delicious toasted bagels in Manhattan. He used to think it was his little
secret, but Ms. Miller knew about it and she liked breakfast at any hour of the
day too, it seemed.

Having ordered an egg and cheese bagel and a
large cappuccino, she was rootling around in her over-sized shoulder bag for
her money, when Jack decided to speak. Until that moment he couldn't really be
sure he was going to say anything, but suddenly, standing behind her in the
line, getting another soft drift of her perfume, it felt necessary that he
acknowledge her. Make her see him. And find out if she knew he was her "Sir"
from last night.

"So you're a bookworm from Maple syrup
country, huh?" He cringed inwardly at this strange gauche opening. That
was what happened, of course, when one was out of circulation for so many
years. Should have got some tips from Charlie, he thought glumly.

She paused her rummaging and looked up. Surprise
flicked across her face, but it didn't take many seconds for her to reply.
"So you're the boss who likes springing things on his employees."

He hadn't expected her to come back at him with
an accusation, but clearly she wasn't awestruck by the big boss showing her
some attention. Jack stared at her pert lips. "Springing?"

"Showing up unexpectedly and walking into a
staff meeting unannounced."

Well, she wasn't shy with her opinions, Jack
mused, and apparently she was cross about something. Again. So irate that she
forgot to be polite to her boss. Of course his, "showing up
unexpectedly" at work must have startled her in more ways than one. He
smiled. "It keeps people on their toes."

"And making the new girl from the sticks
head-up a party planning committee. Out of the blue. With a few weeks to make a
Centennial party happen."

"Hey, if you can't handle it, I'll
find—"

Oh, that just made more bristles stand to
attention. "I didn't say that."

"Ok, then—"

"But I don't appreciate you inferring that
because I'm from Vermont I might not be sophisticated enough to plan a
party."

Had he, in his rustiness, accidentally inferred
that? He thought she was the one doubting her abilities, not him? Oh yeah, he
forgot. Women liked to spin things around and it was often better to just go
with it and apologize, even when it wasn't his fault. Jack scratched his head,
but before he could reply she added a terse, "Vermont produces more than
maple syrup, you know."

"Right. Of course, it does." Shit,
he'd forgotten how conversation with a woman could occasionally make him feel
as if they were on two different planes of consciousness.

Her shoulders relaxed as she finally found her
purse inside that enormous shoulder bag. "So don't assume you know about
me."

All this was because of his stupid opening line?
Christ, he
was
out of practice. Or
she was just incredibly jumpy. Was she like that with all men, or just him? He
tipped his head to one side. "And maybe you shouldn't assume you know
about me."

She shrugged and handed her money over the
counter. "I'm fairly perceptive and that's something men often lack."

He was amused. At her age, what did she know
about men? "Oh, really?"

"Yep. I already know that you like
upsetting the apple cart. It's your management style. Clearly you're of the
prefers to be feared rather than liked
variety. It makes you feel good to waltz into the office with everyone on the
back foot. And by making an appearance so rarely, no one expects you to actually
do anything while you're here. They're all accustomed to managing without you,
but you get to look important for a few hours and you have them fooled into
believing the hype."
 
She dropped
some coins on the counter and they spun all over the place, some falling to the
floor. Then he realized she was nervous and flustered; that was why she talked
so fast.

"I guess you got me." Jack crouched to
help her retrieve the coins before they rolled out of sight. "I don't know
many people brave enough to give their boss such a brutal performance
evaluation. Especially this early in the relationship. But then a girl who
tells the President how to do his job probably thinks she knows how I should do
mine too."

"This early in the relationship?" The
green flecks in her eyes seemed very bright as the winter's sun shone through
the storefront window and lit her face from the side. "What
relationship?" she demanded, snatching two quarters out of his hand.
"I've never met you before."

Oh, right. He wasn't supposed to recognize her.
Rules of The Club. "Maybe we should get to know one another then."
What the fuck? Why did he say that?

Apparently her reaction was similar. Her eyes
widened and a dash of pink colored her face. "For what?"

He hesitated. "You're new in the city. I
could show you around." This was not supposed to be happening. He didn't
want any deeper involvement with this girl. She was barely out of her teens for
pity's sake.

"I don't need a tour guide."

"Take you to dinner then." His tongue
was working rogue, ignoring his mind completely.

"No, thank you. I don't date my
employers."

Jack stared at her lips. "You're all
prickles, Ms Miller. What's your problem?"

"My problem is people telling me I have a
problem, when I merely want to get through my work day without getting
hurt."

"Hurt?" What could
she
possibly know about hurt?

"People who don't think the rules apply to
them generally end up causing hurt for those with the misfortune to stand too
close. I follow rules Mr. Marchetti."

Was she referring to The Club rules of no
contact outside the place? Or simply of her own rules about dating and
work?
 
She spoke very determinedly,
warning him off. As if he was a young man sixteen years
her
junior, instead of the other way around.

"Rules are made to be broken," he said.

"See, that annoys the heck out of me. Rules
are made to be followed. If they were made to be broken there would be no point
in making them. It's illogical."

BOOK: Falling for Sir
12.66Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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