The One-Week Marriage

The One-Week Marriage
Renee Roszel

In love with her bossEfficient but decidedly drab. Not any longer. Isabel Peabody has repressed her true self for long enough, and her workaholic boss, Gabriel Parish, is about to get the shock of his life.Reluctantly agreeing to play the part of his "wife" for a week to secure a business deal, Izzy is about to transform herself from top executive assistant to a living, breathing&#151seductive–woman. Could she hope to persuade Gabriel to ease up on work and learn to have a little fun instead?

He thought he knew her (#u6473f085-76e3-5b7a-8f19-5af61baf3ed5)About the Author (#u49e2ca37-ad44-5051-86f3-52b2b32792eb)Praise (#u10f0d466-571b-538c-9d37-6f5ece87a2ce)Title Page (#u3dcc1d2a-6ce5-5f22-a6c9-217e67f1a34c)Dedication (#uec6751f5-b49f-529a-88a8-a3397da1ed9e)CHAPTER ONE (#uffba0224-d75b-5234-bcd8-c5bd6e259d28)CHAPTER TWO (#ue917691a-0624-5c43-b601-2553776d94ff)CHAPTER THREE (#u8852c30d-40f9-51ad-9dd6-0927bc11c4f5)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

He thought he knew her

Yet he hadn’t considered that she had a ripe figure under those boxy suits she’d always worn. Hadn’t guessed her laughter was so husky and stimulating, or that her smile could do things to...

A tightening in his gut caused his grin to fade. He gripped the metal rail. Peabody was not a woman to him. She was more than that. Women were replaceable. Peabody was essential She had a good, sharp mind and ran his office like a top sergeant.

“I will not mess up a perfect working relationship simply because her laugh.”

He turned around and propped a hip against the railing. The bed snagged his gaze He eyed the thing, concerned He’d had every intention of platonically sharing that puny mattress with Peabody The idea of anything physical going on between them had no more entered his head than if he’d planned to sleep beside his briefcase.

Until now.

Renee Roszel has been writing romance novels since 1983 and simply loves her job. She likes to keep her stories humorous and light, with her heroes gorgeous, sexy and larger than life. She says, “Why not spend your days and nights with the very best!” Luckily for Renee, her husband is gorgeous and sexy, too!

Praise for Renee Roszel.

“Renee Roszel creates wonderful characters who will walk off the page and into your heart.”

—Romantic Times

“She is delightful, eloquent and humorous all in one.”

—Rendezvous

The One-Week Marriage

Renee Roszel

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

To my aunts

Eva and Anna May,

women of humor and quiet strength

CHAPTER ONE

“MR. PARISH, you really must choose a wife, today.” Izzy Peabody dropped a leather-bound catalog on her boss’s desk. It landed on the polished walnut with a sharp crack. She wasn’t happy about his plan and she didn’t care if he knew it. After all, she was quitting, wasn’t she? Hadn’t she been carrying her resignation letter around in her purse for a month? All she had to do was work up her courage to hand it to him.

“What did you say, Peabody?” Gabriel Parish shouted from the private bathroom in his Manhattan office. He stuck his head out the door and Izzy sucked in an appreciative breath. It didn’t seem to matter how many times she’d seen him in exactly that pose—half shaved and shirtless, his upper torso and broad shoulders displaying delectable muscle—the sight always shook her to her core. Without fear of contradiction, Izzy knew that within the six-foot-three-inch hunk that was Gabriel Parish, any woman would find her fantasy man.

Black tousled hair fell across his forehead as his emerald gaze shifted to fix on her, full of professional curiosity and nothing more. It was agonizing for Izzy to be continually reminded that Mr. Parish didn’t think of her as anything but his faithful right arm—his “Peabody”—not a living, breathing woman who had foolishly fallen in love with her boss.

“I said, you really must take a minute to pick your wife,” she called, grateful she sounded composed.

“My what?” Those breathtaking eyes widened a fraction. She might have smiled at his dubious reaction, if it didn’t make her so miserable. Mr. Parish actually picking out a wife was a ludicrous notion. He had no desire to marry. And why should he, with a continual flow of gorgeous women simpering and wiggling through his life?

Trying to keep on track, she hefted the black catalog. “For the Yum-Yum account. Remember?”

From his quick, disgruntled frown, it was clear that he did. “Oh, right.” Disappearing into his bathroom, he shouted, “In a minute.”

She turned to go.

“Peabody, I forgot a shirt. Would you bring me a fresh one?”

She halted, wincing. That’s all she needed. To be forced into close proximity with the man’s chest. “Right away, Mr. Parish,” she said thinly, pivoting toward the quarters he used for his home away from home. When business—or social—engagements went too late for him to return to his Long Island estate, he slept in his office apartment.

Evidently last night had been one of those late nights. Entering the expensively appointed bedroom, she couldn’t help but notice that his bed was rumpled. She tried not to visualize possible reasons he stayed here last night—or arrived very early—since she knew he hadn’t been entertaining advertising clients. Besides, she reminded herself sternly, it’s none of your business what Mr. Parish does after hours!

Grabbing a fresh shirt from the dresser, she returned through his office to the bathroom. The door stood ajar, but she knocked, hoping not to have to face him until he was fully clothed. “I have the shirt.”

“Well, bring it in.”

She eyed heaven. What had she done to deserve this? “Yes, sir.”

He patted his face dry with a thick, white towel. Izzy inhaled and was struck broadside with his scent, so stirringly male. She swallowed hard, making herself breathe in shallow sniffs to keep his essence out of her head.

The bathroom was large with white marble on walls, countertops, even the floor. Golden faucets, handles and towel racks gleamed as only real gold could.

On the wall above the sink, a large mirror reflected her and her boss in unrelenting brightness. Unfortunately his image was not compromised in the slightest by light that should have exposed every flaw. The stark brilliance emphasized the firm sensuality of his mouth, the glossy blackness of his hair, those devilishly thick lashes and the gemlike quality of his green eyes. Her glance trailed down. When she discovered where her wanderings had taken her, she focused on his chin, warning herself not to stare at his chest. Her heart could only stand so much.

He flung the towel over a nearby rack, the act setting off a bothersome play of muscle in shoulder and arm. He grasped the shirt she held. She hardly noticed until he gave it a little jerk. “Peabody?” he asked. “Are you with me?”

She blinked and let go. “Why don’t you bring in that catalog? We can go over the candidates now and get it done before my eight o’clock meeting with Baxter Sports Equipment.”

Izzy nodded, her glance fastened on the golden faucet for safety’s sake. “Yes, sir,” she murmured, turning away. She had no more desire to idle in the bathroom with Mr. Parish than she did to watch him nuzzle the neck of some svelte socialite. With a sudden thought, she faced him. “Unless you’d rather do it at lunch when you have more time to—”

“No,” he cut in. “Let’s get my wife firmed up.”

As she headed for his desk she almost smiled at the irony. “I don’t imagine any wife you’d choose would need much firming up,” she mumbled, grabbing the Celestial Companion and Chaperon catalog, containing employee photographs and vital statistics.

Celestial was a highly regarded New York firm, providing purely respectable escorts. Even so, the idea of her employer hiring somebody to pretend to be his wife—for a trip to a private, tropical island—didn’t sound all that pure or respectable. Where Mr. Parish was concerned, not many women who spent time in his company seemed concerned about keeping a relationship with him particularly pure or respectable.

She winced at the visions that barged into her mind. “I have to quit this job!” she muttered.

Upon reentering the bathroom, she was only slightly relieved to see that he’d slid on the shirt. It wasn’t buttoned. With a curt nod, he indicated the marble counter. “Lay it there so I can look while I finish dressing.”

She did so, her jaws clamped tight. Keep your eyes on the pictures, she admonished silently, but her wayward gaze drifted to his reflection—and his chest.

“Nothing interesting there. Turn the page.”

She jumped and did as he commanded, relieved to notice the next time her errant glance traveled to his reflection he was buttoning the shirt.