A Very Personal Assistant. Portia Da Costa

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      “Thank God that’s over!”

      Miranda Austin tossed her leather document binder onto her blotter, threw herself down into her chair and kicked off her shoes beneath her broad leathertopped desk. How was it that sometimes after these high-level meetings, she felt as if she’d been put through a mangle when she returned from the boardroom? Closing her eyes, she tried to claw back her usual calm and poise and center herself.

      “Tough gig?” enquired her personal assistant, Patrick Dove, as he crossed the office toward her.

      “I’ll say…” She breathed in deep, finding it hard to settle. “But I got my way in the end, even though it took some doing with those idiots from Overseas Assets.”

      “You always get your way.” Patrick’s tone was smooth and quiet—not false praise, but a simple observation. “Would you like some coffee, boss?”

      Patrick made perfect coffee, but right now, Miranda felt too wired and too wound up to appreciate it. Eyes still closed, she shook her head.

      “Is there something else I can do for you?” He paused, and the room seemed unnaturally quiet, almost as if neither of them were even breathing. “Some other way I can help you instead?”

      Patrick said words like that a hundred times a week at least. Both to her and to the many clients and colleagues he had to deal with on her behalf. But this time Miranda knew he really meant them. Not that he didn’t mean them when he was answering her calls, of course. It was just that today his soft, suave, charming voice sounded different somehow, weighted and full of strange intent as if he were trying to manipulate her in a benign yet subtle manner.

      Miranda’s eyes snapped open. She frowned. Was she imagining things? Probably. She was just tired, a bit burnt out and weary of deals and wrangling. She loved that she was the highest-ranked woman in the company, and generally she relished even the most confrontational meetings, but sometimes, like now, it all drained her. What she needed was a lift, a boost, and seeing Patrick studying her so intently with those beautiful, sexy, compassionate eyes of his, she suddenly found herself saying, “I don’t know…. But I do need something…. Maybe you should whisk me off my feet and take me away from all this?”

      “Okay then. I will.” His voice sounded different in a new way now. Brisk. Decisive. In charge. His gentle eyes somehow weren’t quite as gentle anymore, either, but they twinkled with a light of daring and challenge. “You don’t have any meetings this afternoon. Let’s go for a drive, get out of town, play hooky for a few hours.”

      Heart shuddering inside her, she felt nervous, excited. As if something wonderful were about to happen, but she didn’t quite know what. Leaving the office for the afternoon was absurd, out of the question. She had little enough time to catch up these days. But something in Patrick’s smile, and the almost cocky way he was studying her, made her think of a box of chocolates or a heady, potent cocktail. A treat, indulgent but irresistible. And when he flicked his tongue over his lower lip, her body surged, rousing suddenly and hard.

      “I’ve got too much work to do.” Her voice sounded odd, too, light and feathery when usually she was so cool, contained and on top of everything.

      “Well, you said you wanted to get away from it all.” His eyes narrowed, still teasing, still tempting.

      “No, I didn’t, not really…you know I didn’t mean it.”

      “Ah, but I’m psychic. I can tell you really did mean it.”

      Was he arguing with her? He didn’t usually do that, but this time it seemed he was, and as his challenging smile broadened, the mad, insane, totally inappropriate fluttering in her nether regions intensified. She’d always mildly fancied Patrick in a rather disciplined, disconnected way, but her feelings never broken through or taken control like this.

      “No, you’re not psychic. There’re no such thing as psychic powers. You’re just an uncannily efficient personal assistant who mostly anticipates his boss’s needs, but who’s way off in this case.”

      “So you say.” He tilted his head to one side, his sandy blond hair glinting beneath the strip lighting. It was a bit curly and wayward, giving him the look of an angel from a painting or a fresco. A very naughty, playful angel, with all the earthy foibles of a man. “But I still think a few hours out of the office would do you good.” He winked at her, no angel now, but more like the very devil. “Give you what you need.”

      The fluttering turned to a pounding, and enveloped her entire body. Heart, brain, sex. She felt as if she were standing on a precipice, or before a secret door, or at the edge of some narrow rickety bridge, leading…leading somewhere.

      “All right then. But just an hour or so, no more. I’ll order the car.” Shoving her feet back into her shoes, she sat up and reached out toward the keypad on her phone. “Where shall we go?”

      Before she could actually depress the button, a warm hand fastened about her wrist, immobilizing her. Normally she would have shaken off the unsolicited grip of any man, even Patrick, but a delicious honeyed sensation made her yield. Dear God, he was actually making her feel weak!

      “No need for a car. I’ll drive.” His voice was quiet but powerful. “Just do what you need to do and then meet me down in the car park.”

      His hand tightened on her wrist, just for one moment, then he released her, winked again, and strode purposefully from the room.

      * * *

      This is crazy. I’m his boss and he’s my personal assistant, for heaven’s sake. We shouldn’t be doing this.

      Well, if that were the case, why had she primped and preened and fluttered in the cloakroom? Why was she smelling rather more than usual of Shalimar?

      Her rational self told her it was just an hour or two out of the office, a change of scene, maybe a drink or a coffee somewhere. Patrick was a good conversationalist, with smart opinions on politics, current affairs and the media. It was always fun and mentally stimulating to chat with him, however briefly.

      But her irrational self said this jaunt was all about sex.

      Score one for my irrational self.

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