In Bed with the Boss's Daughter

Jack’s gaze fixed on her face, watching for some chink in that classic semibored expression favored by the born rich, something to show she’d adopted the look to fit tonight’s occasion, not because she’d changed. But nothing shifted. Not a flicker of her carefully arched brows nor a waver of her glossy half smile.

And he realized the tightness in his gut had changed from heated awareness to disappointment. No. Disappointment came nowhere near describing this acid gnawing.

What had he expected?

Simple.

He’d expected a grown-up version of the Paris he remembered, the one whose smile filled the room, whose widely spaced smoky eyes mirrored her every emotion. The one who dared wear a tiny leather skirt to a Grantham’s Christmas party, who swigged Bollinger straight from the bottle and danced like she’d swallowed the music with it.

The girl-woman who’d rocked his foundations with her clear, honest proposition and then, before he could grasp the concept of the boss’s daughter all grown-up and suddenly wanting him, had run away to London to live with her mother.

He’d expected to see that Paris and to declare, without reservation, the rumors false.

But this Paris looked like the kind of woman who would dump her fiancе when his money ran out. She looked like the kind of woman who would come running home to the comforting arms of Daddy’s billions.

Jack drained his glass and wished he’d swallowed something harsh like tequila to match his mood. He fought the urge to wade through the sea of dinner suits and designer dresses, to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. To remind her how he’d told her to grow up, not grow into a Grantham!

Carefully he loosened his clenched fingers from the delicate stem of crystal in his hand. What did he know about Paris Grantham, anyway? For years she’d been the gangly limbed kid hanging about the edges of her father’s weekend house parties, parties that were no more than business summits in casual dress with drinks. He’d noticed her, he’d felt sorry for her, he’d encouraged her to talk to him. When she went away to boarding school, he didn’t see her for two years, not until that night six years ago when she’d made her feelings for him extravagantly clear.

Feelings or intentions?

It didn’t matter. At twenty-six his goal of snagging Grantham’s top project-management job was so close he could taste it. At eighteen she’d been too young and too wild and too much the boss’s daughter to be anything but trouble.

Six years on, she was still the boss’s daughter, although everything else about her had changed. Jack unclenched his jaw and told himself the changes should please him. This woman wouldn’t mess with his head at a time when he needed it clear and focused.

But pleasure was not part of the volatile cocktail of emotions curdling his gut. He recognized intense disappointment, a sense of loss and, seething through it, an irritation bordering on anger. And he knew he couldn’t leave well enough alone. He had to know why she’d left so suddenly…and why she’d come back.

Paris shook her head slightly to stop her eyes crossing, not from boredom so much as sleep deprivation. If only she could summon up a dash of the anticipation that had kept her awake through most of yesterday’s twenty-four-hour flight, a skerrick of the excitement that had kept her flying sky-high long after the plane touched down.

It seemed as if her head had barely touched the pillow when K.G. pulled the curtains wide on a bright October morning. Caroline, her latest wannabe-stepmother, couldn’t wait to meet her. Caroline then insisted they shop and do lunch and that Paris mustn’t sleep or her whole body clock would be out of whack.

At this moment she longed for “out of whack.” It sounded a vast improvement over her current state of totally whacked. She needed to perk up before she nodded off on the lord mayor’s shoulder. The thought of her mother’s reaction to such a breach of etiquette brought a wry half smile to her mind if not her lips.

Lady Pamela definitely would not approve!

Up until now she’d done her mother proud. The Collette Dinnigan cocktail dress might be a tad revealing for her mother’s taste, but she had accessorized perfectly…and the upswept hair was consummate Lady Pamela. Paris couldn’t wait to shake it loose, but in the meantime it served a purpose. Its weight prompted her to hold her head high, which reminded her to keep her smile in check and to answer every welcome-home platitude with polite good grace. And whenever her smile slipped a smidgen, she restored it with a quick reminder of why she was here.

Because you will soon be part of the Grantham team.

Years after she’d given up trying to convince her father she had capabilities beyond the ornamental, K.G. had asked her to come home and help with a special project.

With her smile suitably restored, she allowed K.G. to steer her toward another group.

“Princess, I’d like you to meet…”

She exchanged greetings with Hugh and Miffy and Miranda and Bob—or was that Bill? Her weary brain whirled with names and faces and titles. Was there anyone here she hadn’t met? In response, the crowd split as if cleaved in two and she found herself looking directly into a pair of deep, dark, angry eyes.

Of course, she’d known he was there, somewhere across the crowded reception room.

About one nanosecond after arriving, as though they had some Jack-Manning-sensing radar capabilities, her eyes had zeroed in on his broad shoulders, the narrow band of white collar above his jacket and the thicker band of very tanned neck. The changes had sizzled through her body—he’s cut his hair; he’s wearing a suit—before she snapped herself back to reality.

Did you think he’d go six years without a haircut? Did you think Grantham’s manager of construction projects would turn up to a project launch in jeans and hard hat?

Now she could see he’d changed in other ways. He didn’t wink or grin crookedly or lift his glass in greeting, and she neither recognized nor understood the fierce anger burning in his eyes. He handed his glass to someone on his left and started toward her with steady purpose.

Oh, help!

For all her anticipation when choosing a dress to knock his socks off, despite her practice of witty opening lines, she wasn’t ready to face him. Not now. Not tired and fuzzy-headed.

She turned and excused her way through the crowd, but her skirt was too slim and her heels too high for a rapid escape. Finally she fell out the door into the wide and refreshingly empty lobby, but she paused only long enough to recall the resolve on Jack’s face. Then she headed straight for the Ladies sign. When she pushed through the door into the anteroom, the air rushed from her lungs in a heartfelt whoosh.

Sanctuary with a plump suede lounge setting.

She slumped into the nearest chair, took off her shoes, propped her bare feet on the occasional-table, and closed her eyes.

“Hiding, princess?”

Paris jolted upright. Only one person ever applied such mocking emphasis to K.G.’s pet name for her…and he was helping himself to the seat directly opposite. Had she really thought a Ladies sign would give him pause?

“Not hiding, resting,” she corrected. “My feet.”

His gaze dropped to her feet, and she stared in horrified fascination as his long, dark fingers circled her ankle. She stopped breathing when his thumb traced a strap mark across the bridge of her foot. A languorous warmth stole up her leg, past her knees, into her thighs….

“No wonder your feet hurt,” he growled. “Your shoes are too tight.”

Abruptly he let her go, and somehow Paris managed to slide both feet from the table. She jammed them solidly on the floor and pressed her knees together, as if that might prevent the spread of traitorous heat.

“My feet are swollen from the flight,” she said archly. And it felt as if her tongue might be, too. “Which is why I’m sitting here resting them.”

His eyes narrowed a fraction, but they didn’t leave hers, not even for a heartbeat. “Funny. I had the impression you were running away from me.”

“And why would I do that?”

He shrugged. “Beats me. Maybe running away has become a habit with you.”

His mocking tone needled, but she didn’t allow herself to respond. Instead she ran through her mother’s checklist. Posture straight. Head up. Smile in place. Cool retort. Except she couldn’t think of a cool retort. Her brain felt as foggy as a London morning.

“Nothing to say, princess? Don’t you want to talk about running away?”

“I thought we’d established I was resting my feet.”

“I didn’t mean tonight.”

Paris wished he would lean back in his chair. From this close she could feel his irritation whipping across the table and snapping at the edges of her composure. Stay cool, she intoned silently. Then, as if his meaning had only just gelled, she allowed her eyes to widen. “Surely you don’t mean I ran away to London. I’d been thinking of going for ages.”

“K.G. never mentioned it.”

“I hadn’t told him.”