Fortune's Secret Heir. Allison Leigh
party—that she’d imagined him now?
“Yes, me.” He lifted a hand, indicating the leather barrel chair in front of the massive desk. “Have a seat.”
The strap of her purse slipped off her shoulder and she grabbed her bag before it fell...and was reminded of the copy of her résumé she’d brought.
Shaking off her sense of surrealism, she entered the study, awkwardly pulling the sheet out of the protective folder she’d crammed inside her purse. The only items on top of his desk were a computer monitor and a small lamp. She set the résumé between them, then twisted her purse strap between her fists and sat in the chair.
He didn’t so much as glance at the paper. Instead, he continued watching her with the same blue-eyed intensity that had so unnerved her at the party three nights ago.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said for lack of anything better.
He had an ancient-looking clock hanging on the wall behind him. It reflected the same time as her watch. “You’re not late.”
“The woman who let me in—” definitely not his wife “—said I was late.”
“Mrs. Stone.”
Appropriate, Ella thought.
“My housekeeper. She thinks everyone is late unless they arrive fifteen minutes early.”
He was still watching her steadily and she had to work hard not to squirm. Instead, she crossed her ankles demurely and twisted the purse strap even tighter. “That explains it, then,” she murmured, feeling inane. “I, um, I suppose I’m the last person you expected to see from Spare Parts.”
“I specifically asked for you.”
She moved her lips, but nothing came out at first. She cleared her throat. “Well...here I am.” Warmth started climbing up her throat.
His lips twitched a little. “Yes. Here you are.”
She shifted, angling her ankles to the opposite side of the chair. “We barely said two words the other night. Why would you ask for me?”
“More than two words, I think.” He turned his chair to one side, but angled his dark head, keeping his gaze on hers. “You told me you’d done all sorts of things for your temp agency. And I need someone who can do all sorts of things.”
Ben Robinson was an intensely handsome man. She couldn’t be held responsible if her mind sort of short-circuited a little bit at that, could she?
She swallowed hard. “Like what?” She made herself envision walking his dog—if he had one—or picking up his dry cleaning. Simple, prosaic tasks, that even six-foot-plus men with wavy black-brown hair and laser-blue eyes needed.
“Being discreet, for starters.”
Her mouth went dry all over again. “About?”
“About what I want you to do for me.”
She realized her fingertips were turning blue from the tourniquet her purse strap had become around her hand. “I think maybe you need to be more specific,” she said faintly.
“What do you know about Kate Fortune?”
“That she had to have dropped a fortune on that party the other night.” She surreptitiously unwound the purse strap and flexed her stiff fingers. “Why?”
He turned his chair to face forward again. “You were there. You heard.”
“I heard you say you were Benjamin Fortune.”
“And?”
And when she’d gotten home that night, she’d looked up both Ben Robinson and Benjamin Fortune online.
She’d gotten a computer screen full of images of handsome Ben Robinson, either from the cover of some tech magazine or another, or from the gossip pages, of him escorting one beautiful woman after another to some fancy event. “And nothing.” Just because she’d wasted precious time fantasizing over those photographs when she should have been studying didn’t mean he had to know. “Benjamin Fortune was Kate Fortune’s husband and he died a long time ago.” The here-and-now Ben was clearly waiting for more, and she lifted a shoulder. “And I assume you’re related in some way,” she offered.
His lips twisted, this time without amusement. “Yes. In some way, I and my seven siblings are.”
“Seven!” She couldn’t help exclaiming a bit over that and quickly shook her head in apology. “Sorry.”
“We are a large family,” he admitted. “And, I believe, we are just the tip of the Fortune iceberg.”
She shifted again. “Mr. Robinson, I—”
“That’s as bad as ‘sir.’ Ben.”
She hesitated.
“If I’m paying your salary, I can tell you to check the ‘Mister’ at the door with Mrs. Stone.”
“And what on earth would I do to earn that salary?” She sounded as bewildered as she felt. “Mr....Ben.” His name felt oddly exciting on her lips. “I can’t imagine you’d go to a temporary agency like Spare Parts to hire an assistant when you have an entire human resources department at Robinson Computers at your disposal.”
“Robinson Tech, now.”
“Right,” she said faintly. The renaming of the company during the past year had seemed to be a major media event. Television commercials. Radio spots. Magazine ads. There had even been signs on the side of the city buses.
“And I’m looking for a personal assistant.”
“Whatever. I’m sure there’s a line a block long of eager minds willing to pick up your dry cleaning just so they can say they work for a genius like you.”
“My father’s the genius.” He rose from his chair, suddenly looking restless as he paced across the room to the tall window that overlooked the high-rises across the river. He peeled off the jacket of his charcoal suit and dropped it carelessly over the back of one of the four chairs that circled a small table.
The white shirt he wore beneath fit his broad shoulders like it had been made for him.
She dragged her eyes away, mentally rolling her eyes at herself. Well, duh. He undoubtedly had his shirts tailor-made.
“I’ve also come to learn that my father has been less than honest with us.” He clasped his hand behind his neck, which pulled the fine white fabric taut against his long, tapered back.
Safe in the knowledge that he was facing out the window and away from her, she puffed her cheeks and blew out a silent breath. The intense man gave the word gorgeous new meaning.
“Not only has he kept the fact that he’s a Fortune a secret, but I believe he’s kept the results of his past indiscretions a secret, too.”
He turned suddenly and she schooled her expression into what she hoped was polite interest.
“That’s where you come in.” He prowled—there just was no other word for the way he moved—back to his desk, but he didn’t take the chair. Instead, he hitched his thigh over the front corner of the desk and leaned over his folded arms toward her. “If you’re willing, I want you to help me find them.”
Dear heaven, he smelled amazing, too. “Find who?”
“Any illegitimate brothers and sisters I might have out there. Half brothers and half sisters, I suppose I should say. Products of my father’s frequent and irredeemable infidelities.”
His words were finally penetrating the fog caused by his sheer masculinity, and she sat up a little straighter. “I don’t understand what you think I can do,” she said. “I’ve done all sorts of things, Mr. Robinson, but I’m hardly equipped to find... I don’t know. Missing persons.”