Kitabı oxu: «In Love With The Boss»

Chapter One

If there was one thing Jordan Trent hated, it was being cooped up in the rain. It rained a lot in the Northwest. It was raining now—slanting sideways across the muddy Columbia river and almost obliterating the houses tucked between the fir trees on the hills. Normally, on a day like this, Jordan would either be at the office or taking off somewhere in his red Porsche. There was always somewhere better to be than the river on a wet day. Only this wasn’t a normal day. In fact, it was probably one of the worst days Jordan could remember in his thirty-nine years.

He shifted carefully on the couch and reached for the phone. The call had to be made and he wasn’t looking forward to making it. There was just no point in putting it off any longer. Scowling, he punched out the number, then jammed the receiver to his ear.

Across town the phone rang in the plush office of Gallagher Enterprises. The line clicked open, and the low, vibrant voice of his secretary answered.

Amber Richards had the kind of looks that belonged on the cover of a girlie magazine. She had rich, auburn hair, green eyes and a body that could turn a man’s head one hundred and eighty degrees. She was also happily married to a stockbroker and her dependability, common sense and intelligence far surpassed any of Jordan’s former secretaries.

He not only relied on Amber, he genuinely liked her. He felt safe with her, secure in the knowledge that she had no designs on his money or his body. The same couldn’t be said of his former secretaries.

He’d fired more women than he cared to count because of their determined efforts to seduce him. Being single and a successful architect, he’d discovered, instantly translated into highly desirable.

Women, it appeared, did not recognize the existence of a confirmed bachelor. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that as far as most of the women he met were concerned, his healthy bank account mattered more than his buns.

“It’s me,” he muttered in answer to Amber’s polite query. “I’m on the houseboat.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Yes, something is wrong.” Her concern was somewhat comforting. She was probably the only person in the world who genuinely cared what happened to him. He liked to think it wasn’t solely because of her considerable paycheck.

“You had a bad weekend?”

“You could say that.”

“I thought you were going skiing.”

“I did. That’s what’s wrong.”

He heard the little catch in her throat. “Jordan, you didn’t hurt yourself, did you?”

“Just a little.” He stared grimly at the padding of white plaster encasing his right foot. “Enough to put me out of action for a little while.”

This time the pause was more prolonged. “How long?”

“At least a month, give or take a week.”

“What in heaven’s name did you do?”

“I tried my damnedest to fly. Ended up with a broken ankle.”

“Oh, Jordan, no. How did you get to the houseboat?”

“Ambulance and cab.”

“Do you want me to drive you down to the house?”

“No, I need to be close to the office. I can’t take a whole month off and I don’t want to hobble around the office like this. I’ll need to work at home. Since I can’t drive and it would take too long to have someone drive all the way to the beach just to drop stuff off, this makes more sense. Anyway, in a small place, I won’t have to move around so much. Everything is much closer together in here.” Too close, he silently added. One cramped living area, a tiny kitchen, a bedroom that was smaller than his walk-in closet at the house, and a bathroom that made getting out of his clothes a unique and sometimes painful experience—he had to be out of his mind to think he could last a month in a house smaller than a bread box.

He’d bought the River Rat for a pittance, which was all it was worth considering its rapid state of decay. He’d planned on renovating it and selling it for a significant profit. Meanwhile, the houseboat had been somewhere to crash when he was too tired to drive to his house at the beach. Little did he imagine he’d be spending an entire month on the damn wreck.

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in a hotel suite?” Amber asked, her voice heavy with doubt.

“Definitely. But hotels are noisy, inconvenient and public. I don’t want anyone seeing me hobbling around like this.” He could just imagine some of his female acquaintances jumping at the chance to take advantage of his vulnerability.

Amber sighed into the phone. “All right. What do you want me to bring you?”

“A new ankle.”

“Jordan, be sensible. How are you going to manage? Will Mrs. Sherborne be able to help you?”

“Mrs. Sherborne comes to the house a couple of times a week to dust, vacuum, do the laundry and cook the only home-cooked meals I eat all week. She doesn’t know this place exists. She’d go into cardiac arrest if she saw it. Besides, I can’t see her driving an hour and a half into town.”

“How about a temporary housekeeper?”

He tried to hold down his irritation. “I don’t need someone to clean house, Amber. I’m going to be stuck here for at least four weeks. I suppose I’ll be able to work from here, but I’ll need someone close at hand... a gopher. Preferably someone who knows how to use a laptop. You’ll have your hands full keeping things under control there. You’d better get me a temp.”

“All right, I’ll take care of it right away.”

He gave her a list of projects he wanted her to bring over, then hung up. He wished he could have stipulated that she send a male temp. He knew what she’d say to that. He could just hear her voice rising.

Jordan, dear, it’s very difficult to find a male temp. In any case, that’s discrimination, and a federal offense. We don’t want to be in trouble with the law now, do we?

Sometimes, Jordan thought irritably, Amber could sound very much like a mothering hen. He shifted the lump of concrete that used to be his foot to a more comfortable position. Well, he’d just have to be on his guard even more than usual. One hint that the temp wanted to get personal and she’d be off his boat so fast she wouldn’t have time to blink.

Jordan shook his head in disbelief. Four miserable weeks stuck inside this peanut shell on floats. It didn’t bear thinking about. He hoped his potential gopher had a sense of humor and the temperament of a saint. He had a nasty feeling he wasn’t going to be very good company for a while.

Sadie Milligan peered through the rain-washed windshield and wished she’d had new wipers put on the car. Actually, she’d promised herself she wouldn’t spend another penny on the old clunker. Instead, she was saving frantically to buy a reliable used model with good mileage.

She’d never been down to this part of the river, and the road was difficult to follow. It was more like a mountain trail than a road. She could hear the crunch of the tires on the gravel and winced. That would probably take care of what little tread she had left on them.

The branches of a willow brushed along her window, making her jump. Although it was late March, the heavy clouds made the day as dark as the middle of December. Ahead of her rain slanted across the road, obscuring whatever lay in her path. She had to be close to the water, she thought worriedly. She only hoped she wouldn’t drive smack into the river.

A splash of blue up front alerted her. She’d been told to watch for a bright blue mailbox, and there it was, adding a dash of color to the drooping shrubs and wet grass. She parked gingerly beside the mailbox, then peered through the windows in the direction of the river.

A dark shape loomed up out of the gloom. She couldn’t help a little spasm of excitement. She’d never been on a houseboat before. Actually, she thought, it all sounded rather romantic. She could just imagine herself lying in bed at night, gently rocking, listening to the river lap against the hull. Not that she was likely to spend a night on this one, she hastily reminded herself.

Climbing out of the car, she winced as rain dripped down inside the collar of her windbreaker. Mrs. Simpson, the dour, no-nonsense supervisor at the Helping Hands Agency, had given her terse instructions about her assignment.

A month’s contract, involving general office work, most of it on computer, and running errands for someone called Jordan Trent. That was all. Do not work overtime, do not volunteer to do extra work. Keep careful check of her hours, and send in her reports every Wednesday.

Sadie was told nothing about Mr. Trent, other than he had broken his ankle and needed assistance with his office work. She was not a nurse, Mrs. Simpson had unnecessarily reminded her, neither was she a housekeeper. She was to accept only those assignments that fell into the category of general office work or essential errands.

Sadie found the woman a little intimidating. She hoped Jordan Trent turned out to be a little more agreeable. Hooking her purse over her shoulder, she turned her jacket collar up over her ears and tramped down the path toward the murky river.

She found the houseboat somewhat of a disappointment. Not at all what she’d fondly had in mind. Badly in need of a coat of paint, it looked little more than a rundown shack on a raft. A rickety veranda ran around the corner in each direction, and a faded checkered curtain covered the one window she could see.

The whole place creaked and groaned like an exhausted old man on his deathbed. Shivering at the macabre thought, Sadie stepped along the wide ramp that led to the doorway. Look on the bright side, she told herself. The job promised to be interesting, and a welcome change from the last assignment in a crowded, stuffy office in the heart of downtown Portland.

Behind her, the wind rustled the pine needles and slapped little rivulets of water among the swirling grasses at the river’s edge. The mist was so thick she could barely make out the sullen hills beyond the opposite shore. Strange how different the river could look in the rain, she thought. It had seemed so tranquil and pretty in the sunlight.

The door of the houseboat appeared to have no bell. She pounded on the worn woodwork, listening to the wind whistling around the dilapidated walls. There was another, more modern-looking houseboat moored farther down. The bend in the river and the overhanging shrubbery hid anything else from view.

In the opposite direction lay the city, but it was too dark and hazy to see more than vague shapes in the mist. For a second or two Sadie felt a little apprehensive. She banished her qualms by pounding on the door again.

In the eerie silence that followed, she heard ducks quacking somewhere in the distance. The damp wind found its way down her neck and she shivered. Once more she hammered on the door, wondering if she had the right house. This time she heard a faint bellow from within.

“It’s open, dammit. Come on in.”

With a guilty start, Sadie turned the handle. She’d forgotten about the broken ankle. The poor man was probably bedridden.

The door opened onto a small kitchen, with a door leading off to the right It wasn’t much warmer inside the houseboat. A damp, musty odor, blending with the smell of burned food, wrinkled her nose.

Dishes and glasses filled the sink, and packages of all shapes and sizes covered every available space on the narrow counter. A saucepan half filled with muddy-looking soup sat on the stove, and a slice of burned toast rested on a chipped plate against the remains of scorched scrambled eggs.

Shuddering, Sadie felt her spirits sag. Wondering what she was walking into, she stepped over a pile of old newspapers and carefully pushed open the door.

A man, propped up by sagging pillows, sat bolt upright on an ancient, beaten-up couch. One foot, heavily encased in plaster, was propped up on a torn leather ottoman. He wore a shabby tartan robe with a blanket tucked over his lap, and he stared expectantly at her as she ventured into the cluttered room.

“Who’re you?” he demanded, slurring his words in a deep, grating voice. “The temp, I hope? About damn time, that’s all I can say.”

Sadie cast an uneasy glance at the half-empty brandy bottle waving about in his hand. She hoped he hadn’t consumed the other half at that hour in the morning. Mrs. Simpson would be shocked if she knew her latest client was a drunk.

“It’s only a little after nine,” she said briskly. “I had a little trouble finding the place. You are Mr. Trent, I presume?”

“Damn right I am.” He narrowed silver-blue eyes at her. “Can you type?”

“A hundred words a minute with ninety-nine percent accuracy.”

“Know your way around a computer?”

“Both Windows and DOS.”

“Hummph.”

He studied her a moment longer, making her feel extremely self-conscious. Judging from the amount of bare chest she could see behind the gaping folds of his robe, it appeared that Mr. Trent had not yet dressed for the day.

He certainly hadn’t shaved, since a dark stubble covered his chin, and his thick, black hair tumbled in an unruly mess over his forehead. She wondered if he could shower with a cast on his foot. Probably not. He would have to use the tub.

“How are you at rubbing backs?” he demanded, startling her out of her thoughts. Before she could answer, however, his expression suddenly changed, becoming mournful. “I can’t find my damn painkillers.” He waved the bottle at her, sloshing the contents violently around in it. “Been drinking brandy to kill the pain.”

“So I can see.” Deciding to take the initiative, Sadie stepped forward and took the bottle out of his unresisting hand. It wouldn’t hurt to lay down some ground rules, she thought. “It’s very bad for you to be drinking on an empty stomach,” she announced, remembering the scorched eggs.

Jordan Trent nodded his agreement. “Very bad to be in pain, too. Damn bad, as a matter of fact. I just wish I could find my pills.”

“I’ll find them for you. Where’s the bathroom?”

“Over there.” Her client waved an arm vaguely in the direction of a door on the other side of the room. “Through the bedroom.”

Deciding to get rid of the brandy first, Sadie took the bottle out into the kitchen and found a spot on the counter for it.

“You’re going the wrong way!” Jordan Trent bellowed.

Sadie winced. Returning to the living room, she fixed the invalid with a baleful glare. “I’m not deaf, Mr. Trent. I was simply putting the brandy away. When you address me in future, I’d appreciate it if you’d do so in a reasonable tone of voice.”

He blinked, then leaned unsteadily forward, squinting his eyes at her. “You know, you’re a damn good-looking woman.”

That settled it, Sadie thought. The man was definitely drunk. She had no illusions whatsoever about her looks. Her nose was too big, and her eyes, a nondescript brown, did nothing for her pale complexion.

As for her dark brown hair, no matter what miracle products she was tempted to use she could manage nothing better than a limp, lifeless chin-length bob. The one time she’d attempted a perm she’d spent six miserable months waiting for the frizz to grow out.

Even if she’d been able to ignore her brothers’ teasing about being the ugly duckling in a family of beauties, her mirror revealed the inescapable truth. Sadie Milligan was plain, a little overweight and would always walk in her glamorous sisters’ shadows.

Nevertheless, she blushed at Jordan Trent’s compliment. She didn’t get that many. “Thank you,” she murmured, doing her best to avoid looking at the gaping opening in his robe.

“Too bad you have such a prissy voice. What are you, a schoolteacher?”

Sadie’s cheeks burned. “My name is Sadie Milligan, and I am the temp you requested, here to assist you with your office work.”

“Well—” He tipped forward and almost fell off the couch.

Sadie took an involuntary step forward, but he managed to check his downward momentum and struggled to an upright position again.

With an obvious effort at maintaining some dignity, he said carefully, “Well, Sadie Milligan, I suggest you lose that schoolmarm dis... dis... disposition....” He stopped, frowning in a bewildered way. “What was I going to say?”

Sadie tightened her mouth. “I’ll look for your painkillers. Please don’t move until I get back. I don’t think I could lift you back onto that couch if you fell off it.”

Jordan Trent stared at her, then burst into a fit of uproarious laughter. “That’s rich,” he spluttered as she picked her way through the debris of books, papers and files that littered the floor. “‘Don’t move,’ she says. I wish to hell I could move.”

Ignoring him, Sadie opened the door and peered inside. A double bed, covered partway by a colorful, rumpled patchwork quilt, took up most of the room. The window, draped in matching fabric, looked out across the mist-enshrouded river to the opposite shore. Clothes lay scattered all over the tumbled sheets.

Apparently Mr. Trent managed to get himself in and out of bed, Sadie reflected as she edged past the foot to what she assumed was the door to the bathroom. Upon opening it, however, she was in doubt as to whether anyone could call the space inside an actual room. It was more like a broom cupboard with a tub, sink and toilet jammed together inside.

A pile of clothes topped with a pair of boots covered most of the floor space. Sadie shook her head. How anyone managed to live in such messy, confined surroundings she had no idea. She was fast losing her fantasies about owning a houseboat.

A loud bellow from the living room made her jump. Hastily she looked around the minuscule bathroom. The medicine cabinet had a cracked mirror, and two narrow glass shelves, both of which were empty. There were no pill bottles lying on the sink, or on the toilet tank, and there was nowhere else to hide them.

Sadie bent over and started picking up clothes. They felt damp to the touch, and she dropped them into the grimy tub with a shudder. Underneath a pair of jeans, she discovered the bottle of prescribed painkillers.

At least she’d found them, she thought as she closed the door on the bathroom. The problem was, she probably shouldn’t give the medication to the patient—not with all that booze in him. He’d just have to wait a few hours. She wasn’t looking forward to explaining that to him.

A loud snore greeted her as she walked back into the living room. Her client still sat where she’d left him, except now his chin was resting on his chest, and he was tipped forward at an alarming angle.

Hurrying forward, Sadie decided that sleep would be the best thing for him, until the effects of the alcohol wore off. If she could just get him into a more comfortable position, he might stay that way for an hour or two, and give her time to clean up the deplorable mess around the house.

Mrs. Simpson’s explicit instructions echoed in her mind. Ignoring the little voice that warned her she was breaking all the rules, Sadie took hold of Jordan Trent’s broad shoulders and eased him sideways until his head lay flat on the seat.

Now that he was sleeping, she couldn’t help noticing that her new employer was a good-looking man. Thin straight nose, angular jaw, and what she liked to call a poetic mouth—sensitive and sensual. Embarrassed by her unexpected appraisal, she turned her attention back to the task at hand.

Gingerly, she lifted the bandaged foot and propped it over the arm of the couch. Then, taking care to keep his lap covered with the blanket, she pulled his other leg up to join the injured one, rolling him onto his back. So far, so good. Except he looked kind of scrunched up in the middle, and his head needed to be raised.

Reaching behind the sleeping man, she tugged at the cushions jammed behind his back. She let out a startled shriek when without warning he clamped his arms around her back and pulled her down on top of him.

“Cold,” he mumbled. “Come down here and keep me warm.”

“Mr. Trent!” Sadie’s attempt at sounding outraged was embarrassingly muffled by his bare chest pressing against her face. A soft dark fuzz tickled her nose as she struggled to free herself from the tight embrace.

Mindful of his injured foot, she pried his arms open and wriggled out of his hold. Glaring down at him, she said stiffly, “I’ll get the comforter from the bed.”

His only answer was to drop one eyelid in a roguish wink.

Feeling more than a little flustered, Sadie marched into the bedroom, dragged the quilt off the bed and carried it back to the couch. Jordan Trent, judging by the closed eyes and loud snoring, appeared to be fast asleep this time.

Even so, she kept a wary eye on him while she tucked the comforter around his body. He didn’t move, and after a moment’s hesitation, she rested the back of her hand against his forehead. His skin felt cool and dry.

Satisfied, she left him sleeping and went back into the kitchen to tackle the cluttered mess in there.

An hour later she had the counters cleared, the dishes washed and stacked, and the floor picked up and wiped over as best she could with the frayed string mop she’d found propped up outside on the veranda.

The only source of heat she could find was a small electric fan heater, which turned out to be quite effective in the cramped confines of the living room. In fact, she opened the door to the bedroom and the bathroom while she worked in there, and by the time she had restored some order to the house, the whole place felt quite toasty.

Sneaking back into the living room, she peeked at the man still asleep on the couch, then began the task of picking up all the files and papers from the floor. A pair of crutches lay behind the couch. She picked them up and propped them against the wall within reach of the injured man.

After a few minutes she unearthed an expensive laptop computer from under a pile of blueprints. Obviously on loan from Jordan Trent’s office, she assumed. Casting a reproachful glance at her client, she wondered what his boss would say if he knew that an expensive piece of office equipment had been thrown on the floor and could easily have been stepped on.

She was disconcerted, to say the least, to discover Jordan Trent’s ice-blue eyes open and watching her with mild curiosity.

“Am I still dreaming,” he asked pleasantly, “or did some kind friend arrange for an angel of mercy to visit me?”

Clutching the computer to her chest, Sadie scrambled to her feet. “I hope you’re feeling better, Mr. Trent.”

“Jordan. And thank you for your concern. Apart from a dull hammering in my head and an agonizing burning sensation in my ankle, I imagine I’ll live. Now, who are you?”

Sadie put the computer down on the corner of the only table in the room. “Sadie Milligan. I’m the temp you hired. I did introduce myself earlier, but you were...not feeling very well. You probably don’t remember.”

She stood in awkward silence while Jordan Trent studied her face with narrowed eyes. “I guess I wasn’t dreaming then,” he said at last.

“Actually, you were rather drunk. Trying to replace your painkillers with brandy.”

He managed a grim smile. “That I do remember. Things got rather vague. I seem to—” He stopped short, and sent her another penetrating look. “Did I make a pass at you?”

“Not exactly. I believe you were simply trying to get warm.”

He nodded, obviously relieved. “I wouldn’t want to start off on the wrong foot.”

“Neither would I,” Sadie said emphatically.

Jordan closed his eyes as a spasm of pain crossed his face. “Seeing as I only have one good foot, that is,” he muttered.

“Oh, wait, I found your painkillers.” She hurried into the kitchen and grabbed the bottle off the counter. After running some cold water into a mug, she carried it back into the living room. “I guess it’s okay to take them now. I mean, after drinking all that alcohol...”

“I didn’t drink that much,” Jordan Trent said, taking the bottle from her. He shook two of the capsules into his hand and tossed them in his mouth.

Sadie handed him the mug and waited for him to swallow the pills. He looked a little pale, and she wondered if it was the pain in his ankle or the headache from the alcohol affecting him. “When did you last eat?” she asked abruptly.

He looked startled by the question. “Sometime last night, I guess. I tried scrambling some eggs this morning, but I had to sit down again and left them on too long. Where did you find the pills?”

“In the bathroom, underneath a pile of damp clothes.”

“Oh, those.” A look of embarrassment flitted across his face. “I threw them down there when I got home from the hospital yesterday. I apologize for the state of the place. I know it’s a mess but...” His voice trailed off as he looked around the room. “Well, I can see you’ve been busy. Did you perform the same miracle in the kitchen?”

“And the bedroom and bathroom,” Sadie said with a note of satisfaction in her voice. “Now all we have to do is get you clean and fed and—”

“Wait a minute.” He raised his hand as if to ward off any attempt by her to touch him. “Hold on one cotton-picking minute. I’m not moving off this couch. Not for you, not even for the president of the United States. I tried that this morning and I can tell you with absolute authority that the slightest movement of this ankle can cause unbearable, debilitating agony.”

Sadie lifted her chin and fixed him with the same stare she’d used on all five of her younger brothers and sisters when they’d balked at her commands. “You have to go to the bathroom sooner or later,” she said smugly.

Jordan’s dark brows raised a half inch. Before he could answer, she added, “Since your ankle is going to hurt then, you might as well get it all over in one go. You’ll be surprised how much better you’ll feel once you are showered, shaved and dressed.”

He seemed to be having trouble answering her. After a moment or two of spluttering, he muttered, “I asked for an office temp, not a nurse.”

Sadie shrugged. “I’m not a nurse. Not qualified, that is, but I’ve had lots of experience in taking care of injuries. My youngest brother broke his arm three times, and one of my sisters dislocated her shoulder, then there was the time Jason fell out of a tree and broke his wrist...”