The Boss's Forbidden Secretary. Lee Wilkinson
handsome face and his apparent depth of knowledge.
After a whirlwind courtship—although he had been a penniless student—at his insistence they had got married, and he had moved in with her.
He had been about to start his last year at college, and because he had had no family to help she had found herself struggling to pay off his debts and support him, as well as Carl.
Even so, he had complained about her brother living with them, until she had told him firmly that it was, and always had been, Carl’s home.
‘Oh, very well,’ he’d said sulkily. ‘I suppose it’ll only be until he can get a job and find a place of his own.’
Relieved that he had accepted the situation, she had done her best to make him happy.
It wasn’t until they were married that she had discovered how empty and shallow he really was, and that his cleverness and his handsomeness—like the ripples on a pool—were all on the surface.
But, even after such a brief acquaintance, Cathy was already sure that Ross Dalgowan, who was sitting so quietly, was anything but shallow.
Watching him surreptitiously, she noticed that in the heat from the fire his hair had dried to the colour of ripe corn, and it struck her as strange that such a very masculine man should be so fair.
Neil had been blond, but fair-skinned, with pale brows and lashes and almost girlish features.
Whereas this man was tough-looking, with brows and lashes several shades darker than his hair and the kind of skin that would tan easily.
Though Neil had proved to be greedy and selfish and vain—a narcissist to the core—he’d been a golden boy that the opposite sex had fawned over.
A woman’s darling.
Ross Dalgowan would be a woman’s darling, she had little doubt, but he would also be a man’s man, where Neil had had few, if any, male friends.
When she had first met Neil, he’d appeared to be charming and easygoing, willing to live and let live. But in reality—like some weak people—he had been spoilt and peevish, a bully at heart.
Her companion, she was oddly certain, would be neither spoilt nor peevish, and while he might be masterful, she couldn’t see him being a bully.
Watching him, she noticed that he ate with a healthy appetite, but neatly and noiselessly.
Unlike Neil, who, in spite of his somewhat effeminate good looks and his general air of delicacy, had tended to bolt his food. Rather like a greedy schoolboy who hadn’t yet learned either manners or self-control.
She had discovered, to her cost, that the same went for his sexual appetite.
They had been married only a matter of months when, after drinking too much wine, he’d tried to force himself on her.
Failing, he had lashed out at her, calling her a lot of things, amongst which ‘a frigid bitch’ was the kindest by far.
Sighing, she pushed thoughts of the unhappy past aside and, glancing up, found herself looking into eyes the grey of woodsmoke—fascinating eyes that tilted up a little at the outer edge.
Her head whirling, and a strange tingle running along her nerve ends, she tore her gaze away.
Sensitive to her mood, Ross asked, ‘Problems?’
‘No, not really.’
Though he obviously didn’t believe her, he let the matter drop, and they continued the meal in companionable silence.
‘More coffee?’ he queried when they had both finished eating.
‘No, thank you.’
‘Then I’ll get rid of this.’ He rose to his feet and put the trolley outside.
Returning to his seat, he suggested, ‘Suppose we have a “wee dram” before we turn in, as Mrs Low’s husband advised?’
Though normally she never drank spirits, wanting to keep him with her a little longer, she agreed, ‘Yes, why not?’
He opened the bottle and, having poured a finger of whisky into both glasses, handed her one.
Raising his own glass, he toasted, ‘Here’s to the future, and our better acquaintance.’
His words, and the look in his eyes, brought a surge of warmth and excitement, and she found herself yearning for something this man seemed to offer. Something poignant. Something magic. Something that would last a lifetime. True love, perhaps…?
Telling herself not to be foolish, she tore her gaze away with an effort and took an incautious sip of her drink. The strong spirit made her cough.
His lips twitched, but, hiding his amusement—if indeed it was amusement—he said, ‘Just to prove that I’ve lived in England for a long time, I’ll act like a Sassenach and ask if you’d prefer some water with it?’
‘Yes, I would,’ she answered gratefully, and started to rise to fetch it.
But Ross was already on his feet, and he pressed her gently back into the chair. ‘Stay where you are. I’ll get it.’
He disappeared into the bathroom and returned after a moment with glass of water. ‘Say when.’
When there was about twice as much water as whisky, she said, ‘That should be fine, thank you.’
‘Try it and see.’
She tried a sip and, breathing a sigh of relief, told him, ‘Much better.’
Putting the rest of the water by the whisky bottle, he smiled at her.
His teeth gleamed white and even, and his mouth, with its intriguing hint of controlled passion, made her feel strange inside.
Becoming aware that she had been staring at him, she looked back into the glowing fire. But the cosy familiarity had gone, leaving an awareness, a rising excitement, a sexual tension.
Needing to break the silence and return to the more mundane, she swallowed and, her normally clear voice decidedly husky, asked, ‘Are you up here for Christmas, Mr Dalgowan?’
‘Yes, and New Year. But won’t you call me Ross? It seems ridiculous to stand on ceremony.’
‘Of course, if you call me Cathy.’
‘How long are you in Scotland for, Cathy?’
Reminded of just why she was in Scotland, and flustered by the innocent question, she answered, ‘I’m not quite sure… Christmas and New Year…’
‘Do you have anyone important in your life? A partner, perhaps?’
Unwilling to talk about her brief and disastrous marriage and the subsequent divorce, she answered briefly, ‘No.’
Though they had only just met, and he knew scarcely anything about her, Ross felt a rush of gladness that shook him with its strength and vehemence.
After Lena, he had taken care to avoid any emotional entanglements, keeping the occasional liaison light, casual, a simple, straightforward exchange of pleasure, with no looking back and no regrets when they parted.
Now he found himself doubting that that would be enough with this woman.
He sat quietly watching her, and holding her breath, aware that somehow the answer mattered, she seized the opportunity to ask, ‘How about you?’
‘No, no one.’
She was breathing a sigh of relief when he added, ‘I did have plans to marry earlier this year, but they didn’t work out. Though Lena was born in Scotland, and in fact our families lived quite close, she loved the bright lights of London and refused to live anywhere else. Whereas I wanted to live in the country.
‘When she couldn’t bring me round to her way of thinking, she left