Accepting the Boss's Proposal. NATASHA OAKLEY

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      Miles took a sip of wine and tried to recall exactly what he’d said about his temporary secretary to Alistair…and then he winced. Thank God he could trust Alistair not to land him in it when he realised they’d been speaking about the same Jemima.

      Damn. This couldn’t be happening to him.

      What was the probability of Jemima Chadwick being Rachel’s bridesmaid? It had to be zillions to one. Except, of course, she was Rachel’s friend and Amanda was Rachel’s elder sister. Damn it! It wasn’t so much improbable as extremely likely.

      Alistair poured out a glass of wine. ‘Miles was just saying he’s got a temporary secretary working for him at the moment who’s also called Jemima.’

      Miles felt his stomach drop. It was the same feeling as when your dinghy was about to capsize and there was absolutely nothing you could do to stop it. He was going over. It was inevitable.

      ‘That’s quite a coincidence. It’s not a particularly common name, is it?’ Alistair continued, sublimely oblivious to the missile he was hurling in their midst.

      ‘I heard.’ Jemima looked directly at Miles. Her green eyes were steady, like lasers. ‘She dresses like her mother.’

      Miles’s head jerked up.

      It was like receiving a swift left to his chin. So quick he hadn’t seen it coming. It hadn’t occurred to him that Jemima could have heard what he’d said about her. In his adult life there’d probably only been a handful of occasions when he’d wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole. This was one of those occasions. It was up there in number one slot along with the time his mother had given a television interview explaining that he’d been conceived in a moment of ‘peace and meditation’.

      Rachel reached out for her own wine. ‘Jemima’s just started temping. Perhaps she ought to work for you, Miles.’

      This was getting worse. Miles’s eyes searched out Jemima’s, a desperate apology in his own.

      He watched the indecision as it passed across her green eyes. Then she gave a half smile and held out her hand. ‘It’s lovely to meet you.’

      His sense of relief was overwhelming. ‘And you,’ he said, stretching out his own hand. ‘Jemima…?’

      ‘Chadwick.’

      It was fascinating to see the sudden spark of laughter light her eyes. What was it they said about still waters running deep?

      ‘Jemima Chadwick.’

      His hand closed round hers. On the whole he thought she’d made the right choice. It was far easier to pretend they didn’t know each other. He was more than happy to go along with that. And, at the first opportunity, he’d apologise.

      ‘The man she’s working for sounds worse than you, Miles,’ Rachel said. ‘Apparently he sent some woman a dandelion. Or rather he got Jemima to do it.’

      Miles watched a red stain appear on Jemima’s neck and gradually spread to her cheeks. It seemed that fate had struck a blow for equality. ‘Sounds fun,’ he said, releasing her hand.

      The flush became a little darker. ‘I’m told it works every time,’ she shot back quickly.

      ‘He sounds a jerk,’ was Alistair’s observation. ‘Shall we go out to the garden? We’ve set everything out there as it’s a nice evening.’

      Miles led the way outside, not sure how he was feeling any more. Honesty compelled him to admit that Jemima carried the advantage in the cringe stakes. The things he’d said about her to Alistair were completely out of order—regardless of whether she’d overheard them. His mother would have him flayed alive for comments like that. As long as Jemima did her job properly there was no reason why she should socialise or dress differently. No reason at all.

      Nevertheless it was a mystery to him why someone who could look as…downright sexy as Jemima, would go to work looking like everyone’s image of the worst kind of librarian. Why do it?

      Her work clothes were too safely conventional, but the difference was mainly due to her hair. How had a nondescript pony-tail become a riot of curls? She looked as if she’d stepped out of a pre-Raphaelite painting. All curves, cleavage and abandonment. Perhaps better not to allow his mind to go too far down that particular avenue. Single mums were absolutely out of bounds. Too much baggage. Far too many responsibilities.

      He took the seat opposite her, the little devil on his shoulder prompting him to ask, ‘So, you’re temping?’

      Jemima shot him a warning glance, but he didn’t care. With Rachel listening in, she’d have to answer him. Who knew what he might find out about her? If you were going to have an excruciatingly embarrassing evening, you might as well turn it to your advantage. Salvage whatever enjoyment you could.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘As a secretary?’ he continued blandly.

      It was worth it for the flick of those green eyes. ‘Yes.’

      ‘Are you enjoying it?

      Jemima reached out and took a breadstick. She snapped it in half. ‘No.’

      ‘Why’s that?’

      She looked at him and shook her head as though she were warning him off.

      ‘It’s because it’s her first job,’ Rachel chipped in.

      First job. Now that was interesting. Miles let his eyebrows raise a fraction and watched with complete enjoyment the blush that heated her face.

      Alistair picked up his wine and stood up. ‘I’m sure that’s right, Jemima. It’s a huge lifestyle change for you. Your hair looks great, by the way. I’ve not seen you leave it curly for months.’

      Jemima self-consciously touched her hair. Miles watched as she twisted one strand around her forefinger. She had no idea what that simple movement of one finger was doing to him. ‘I didn’t have time to straighten it. I had an argument with a paint pot and the paint pot won.’

      ‘It looks great,’ Alistair said as he headed back towards the kitchen.

      Rachel nodded. ‘I keep telling her.’ She looked at Miles. ‘She won’t listen. She thinks it looks more sophisticated straight.’

      He wasn’t about to enter that debate, but he was in no doubt which he preferred. ‘It’s a great colour,’ he said softly, willing her to look at him.

      She wasn’t having any of it. ‘It’s red,’ Jemima said, picking up her wineglass. ‘And the bane of my life.’

      Did she really think that? It was unbelievable. He watched as her fingers played with the stem of her wineglass. Nice fingers. Short, tidy nails with no polish on them. That was more in keeping with the Jemima Chadwick he knew.

      ‘So,’ he said after a short pause, ‘you’re in your first job…?’

      ‘After my divorce.’ She looked at him then and there was no mistaking the warning light in her green eyes. ‘It’s СКАЧАТЬ