Much More Than a Mistress. Michelle Celmer
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“Maybe I just don’t like you,”
she said, hoping he didn’t hear the quiver in her voice, or feel her hands trembling.
He shook his head. “Nah, that can’t be it. I mean, look at me. I’m handsome, and rich.”
“And modest.”
He grinned. “Exactly. What’s not to like.”
She had the feeling he wasn’t nearly as arrogant and shallow as he wanted her to believe, that maybe it was some sort of … defence mechanism. And boy did she know about those.
“Admit it,” he said. “You like me.”
“You’re my boss,” she said, but it came out all soft and breathy.
His eyes locked on hers. “Not after we walked out of the building.”
Dear Reader,
Welcome to the fourth and final Black Gold Billionaire! I can hardly believe it’s over already. In my eight years as a published author I’ve never had so much fun writing a set of books. These guys—and gals—have really challenged me, and I just loved telling their individual stories. And I must admit that, while I find Adam, Emilio and Nathan exceptional in their own ways, Jordan holds a special place in my heart. He’s a little arrogant, but he doesn’t take himself too seriously and he has a wicked sense of humor. He also manages to draw Plain Jane Monroe out of her shell. I think you’ll enjoy their love story, and also find a few interesting surprises along the way.
As I write this, I’m already plotting out my next series, which might take place in Chicago, and may involve babies. But you’ll just have to wait and see …
Best,
Michelle
About the Author
Bestselling author MICHELLE CELMER lives in southeastern Michigan with her husband, their three children, two dogs and two cats. When she’s not writing or busy being a mom, you can find her in the garden or curled up with a romance novel. And if you twist her arm really hard, you can usually persuade her into a day of power shopping.
Michelle loves to hear from readers. Visit her website, www.michellecelmer.com, or write her at PO Box 300, Clawson, MI 48017.
Much More
than a Mistress
Michelle Celmer
To my Pumpkin Cookies
One
You can do this.
Jane Monroe walked from the parking lot to the front entrance of Western Oil’s corporate headquarters, a legion of mutant butterflies doing the conga on her insides. She stopped just shy of the double glass doors and sucked in a breath of cool January air, flexing the jitters from her fingers.
In her first six months at Edwin Associates Investigation Services, she had logged hundreds of computer hours conducting background checks, tracking down deadbeat dads and finding assets hidden by cheating ex-husbands. When anyone needed legal advice, she was the woman to ask. And it had all been leading up to this very moment.
Her first undercover assignment.
Shivering from a combination of nerves and the brisk wind against her sheer nylons, she huddled down into her coat collar and wobbled into the lobby on four-inch heels. She passed through the metal detectors, flashing the ID badge that would allow her to move freely throughout the building, even in areas reserved for the highest ranking employees.
She passed a bustling coffee shop on her way to the elevator, joining the flow of bodies as she stepped on, pressing the button for the third floor where she would report to Human Resources.
Some people, her parents and siblings in particular, would have considered her position at Edwin Associates a waste of her law degree. Which was why she hadn’t exactly been honest about where she was working. They thought she was employed in the law department of a local corporation. It saved her a whole lot of headache that way. But when she cracked this case, and was made a full-fledged investigator, she could finally come clean.
How could they be anything but impressed to learn that she had been working undercover in the office of billionaire Jordan Everette, Chief Operations Officer of Western Oil, a man suspected of taking bribes and sabotage.
She won this case by default. The secretary she was replacing went into labor early, and the investigator who was supposed to be assigned to the case was stuck in another undercover position. It was her one and only chance to prove herself. She simply could not screw this up.
The agency was putting together a profile on Jane’s target, but it wouldn’t be messaged to her apartment until that evening. Until then, she would be flying blind. She’d never even seen a photo of her new “boss,” much less met the man, but considering his position in the company she had already formed a mental picture. Late forties to early fifties, probably balding and thick around the middle from many too rich foods and malt scotch. A golf playing, cigar smoking man’s man.
Jane tugged at the hem of the body-hugging, thigh-high skirt that was a complete departure from the conservative suits she normally wore. It had been assumed that a man like Mr. Everette, a confirmed bachelor who supposedly subscribed to the girl-of-the-month club, would be much more receptive to short skirts and spike heels than trousers and leather loafers. So she, the socially challenged geek who hadn’t gone on her first real date until her second year of college, would be playing the role of the sexy temp secretary.
Even she hadn’t been sure if she could pull it off, but after a weekend makeover that included a day in the stylist’s chair, a crash course with a makeup artist, trading her glasses for contact lenses, and a trip to Macy’s for a new work wardrobe, she was a little stunned to realize that she actually looked … sexy. When she’d stopped into work on her way to Western Oil to pick up her security badge, the girl at the front desk hadn’t even recognized her, and heads had literally turned as she’d walked through the building to her boss’s office.
She had driven to Western Oil feeling a confidence that was completely foreign to her. Right up until the second she stepped out of the car and let herself consider just how important this assignment could be.
Cracking this case would finally make her superiors take her seriously, and hopefully bring her that much closer to a corner office and an eventual partnership in what was a primarily male-dominated firm. Not only did she intend to be the first woman ever to make partner, but the youngest associate to climb the ranks as well.
More like claw her way up, she thought wryly, which would be so much easier now with her new, siren-red acrylic nails.
The elevator stopped at the third floor and Jane walked down the hall to the HR office. She checked in at the desk and was told to take a seat. She took off her coat and sat in one of the hard plastic chairs. Only a few minutes passed before a sharply dressed, stern-looking older woman stepped into the waiting room. “Miss Monroe?”
Jane shot to her feet. Though undercover work often meant using an assumed name, for this particular position it was decided that she would stick as closely as possible to the actual details of her life. Not that she anticipated having deep and meaningful conversations with her new boss. But the fewer fabrications, the fewer she had to remember.
The woman gave Jane a quick once-over, one brow slightly raised, then shook her hand. “Welcome to Western Oil. I’m Mrs. Brown. I’ll be showing you around. Would you follow me, please?”
Jane grabbed her coat and followed