Much More Than a Mistress

“Welcome, Miss Monroe,” he said with a nod, glancing subtly at her legs, which in the spiked heels looked miles longer than they actually were. At five feet seven inches no one could accuse her of being short, but now she felt like an Amazon. “Can I see your badge, please?”

She unclipped it from her lapel and handed it to him. He inspected it, jotted something on his clipboard, then handed it back. “Keep this clearly displayed at all times. You won’t be allowed on the floor without it.”

Security sure was tight. Understandably so, considering the combined net worth of the men working on that floor.

“This way,” Mrs. Brown said, and as they walked through the double glass doors to the executive offices Jane could swear she felt the guard’s gaze settle on her behind. She wasn’t used to men looking at her butt, or any other part of her for that matter. Most men didn’t give her so much as a passing glance. It was as if she was invisible—so drab and boring she faded into the woodwork. In high school the other kids called her “Plain Jane.”

Not very original, but hurtful just the same. To finally be noticed was a little … exciting. Even if the woman people were noticing wasn’t really her. Out of this costume she was the same old uninteresting Jane Monroe.

They entered another lobby area and stopped at the reception desk.

“This is Miss Monroe, Mr. Everette’s temp,” Mrs. Brown told the woman sitting there, then she shot Jane a dismissive, borderline-hostile glance, and walked back out the door.

The woman behind the desk rolled her eyes and shook her head at Mrs. Brown’s retreating form and mumbled in a thick Texas drawl, “Thank you, Miss Congeniality.” She rose from her chair and smiled at Jane. She was short and cute, and on the plump side. “I’m Jen Walters. Welcome to the top floor, Miss Monroe.”

“Hi Jen.” Jane shook the hand she offered. “You can call me Jane.”

She looked Jane up and down, shook her head and said, “Oh honey, the other girls are going to hate you.”

Hate her? Her heart sank. “They hate all temps?”

“All temps who are as pretty as you are.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. She didn’t have a clue what to say. It was the first time in her life anyone accused her of being too pretty. And she had no idea why they would hate her for that.

Jen laughed and patted her arm. “I’m jokin’, hon! They won’t hate you. We’re a friendly bunch up here.”

That was a relief. She wasn’t here to make friends, but it wouldn’t be much fun working in a place where no one liked her.

“I’m really not that pretty,” she told Jen.

Jen laughed again. “Do you not own a mirror? You’re gorgeous. And I would kill for your figure. I’ll bet you’re one of those naturally skinny girls.”

“If by naturally skinny you mean no bust or hips.” And what breasts she did have hadn’t come in until her senior year of high school.

She lowered her voice and said, “Take it from me, big boobs are not all they’re cracked up to be.”

Jane smiled, and realized that although she had walked onto the floor trembling with nerves, Jen had put her completely at ease.

“Why don’t I show you around and get you settled. Mr. Everette is in a meeting, but he should be out soon.”

Jen showed her where the break room and restrooms were located, introduced her to the other secretaries on the floor—all of whom seemed very nice and did not seem to hate her—then showed her to her desk.

“Tiffany left you detailed instructions of your duties and how Mr. Everette likes things done,” Jen told her, gesturing to the typed pages on the blotter next to a top-of-the-line flat-panel computer monitor. “She was hoping to be here to break in the temp, but her water broke at work two days ago. She wasn’t due for another two weeks.”

Jane looked at the chair, then back up at Jen. “Her water broke here?’’

Jen laughed. “Not here in the office. She was walking from her car to the building.”

Well, that was good. “I guess babies can be unpredictable like that,” she said, not that she had any experience with them. Though both her brothers were married they hadn’t started families yet, and like Jane, her sister was too career-oriented to even think about marriage, much less a baby. And being the baby of the family, Jane had no younger siblings.

“Mr. Everette’s calls have been rerouted to my desk. I’ll give you a couple of hours to get settled then have them sent to you.”

“Thanks for showing me around,” she said.

“Sure thing, honey. Call me if you have any questions. My number is in the office directory.”

When she was gone, Jane peeked into her boss’s office. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined two of the four sides, and overlooked the skyline of El Paso.

A corner office. Nice.

She hung her purse and coat in the closet then sat at her desk, setting her cell phone in the top drawer. She booted up the computer and unclipped the list Tiffany had typed up. It was pretty basic stuff—how Mr. Everette liked the phone answered, what he took in his coffee, who he took calls from on the spot and who was an auto callback—one being his mother, she noticed. Nothing she couldn’t handle easily. There was also a list of numbers that included his housecleaning service, his laundry service and reservation lines for a dozen of the finest restaurants in the greater El Paso area. Clearly she would be handling some of the personal aspects of his life as well as the professional, which could only work in her favor.

She considered going through the files on the computer, on the very rare possibility that there might be something there to incriminate him, but as she ran her tongue across her upper lip, she realized that in her nervousness, she’d chewed off all of her lipstick. It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to freshen up before her boss came in.

She grabbed her purse and headed down the hall to the ladies’ room. As she suspected, her lipstick was pretty much gone, so she drew on a fresh layer then gave her face a light dusting with the mineral powder the makeup artist swore by. It did give her skin a smooth, almost ethereal look. Although at twenty-eight—make that twenty-nine tomorrow—she wasn’t exactly covered in wrinkles. But it did cover the freckles that had been the bane of her existence since middle school. It had been hard enough being two years younger than her classmates, and even worse looking it. She never imagined makeup could make such a difference in the way she looked. She had tried it once before. She was an awkward and geeky twelve-year-old, and had gotten into the makeup case her sister had left in the bathroom that they shared. Thinking she had done a pretty good job, she showed her sister, who had dissolved into hysterics at how ridiculous she looked. Then she had dragged Jane in front of their brothers who also laughed at her. She ran sobbing to her mother, who, instead of offering comfort, told Jane she had to toughen up, and face the fact that some girls just didn’t look good wearing makeup. And as a former Miss Texas, her mother knew a thing or two about fashion and beauty.

It was the first and last time Jane ever tried that.

She didn’t doubt that she’d probably looked a bit like a clown, but instead of pulling her aside and trying to teach her the right way, her sister had felt the need to boost her own ego—which was as overinflated then as it was today—and ridicule Jane instead.

She finished her face, studied her reflection, and smiled. She did look really nice. But she wouldn’t get much work done if she spent the day gazing at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

She stopped in the break room to grab a cup of coffee, then headed back to her desk. When she walked through the door and realized someone was already sitting there, she stopped so abruptly she sloshed coffee onto her fingers.

Thinking she must have walked into the wrong office by mistake, she shot a quick glance to the the name on the door, but this was definitely the right place. So who was the man sitting at her desk?

He was lounging back in her chair, his designer shoe–clad feet propped on the desk surface, reading the list Tiffany had left. He wore typical office attire, sans the jacket, and the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled to his elbows. His hair was dark blond and stylishly short, and he had the sort of boyish good looks that made a girl swoon. Which was exactly what she felt like doing.

The question was, who was he and why he was in her office?

“Can I help you?” she asked.

The man looked up at her with a pair of deep-set, soul-warming hazel eyes and a grin that could stop traffic, and her heart actually flipped over in her chest. Who was this guy and where could she get one?

“I certainly hope so,” he said, dropping his feet to the carpet and rising from the chair. She was at least 5’11” in her heels and she had to look up to meet his eyes. He was tall and lean and work-out-in-the-gym-every-morning fit.

“You must be the new temp,” he said, reaching across the desk to shake her hand, which was still gripping the cup of coffee and damp from the sloshing. She quickly switched the cup to the opposite hand, wiped the damp one on her skirt and took his hand. It was big and warm and surprisingly rough for such a polished-looking guy.

His grip was firm and confident and she could swear she felt the effects all the way to her knees. She also didn’t miss the way he gave her a quick once-over, one brow slightly raised.

“I’m Jane Monroe,” she said.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jane Monroe.”

No, the pleasure was definitely hers, though she still didn’t have clue who he was.

“By the way,” he said. “Someone named Mary called.”