Project: Runaway Heiress. Heidi Betts

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ would undoubtedly warn her against it, then likely try to convince her to let him handle it at—what?—one hundred…two hundred and fifty…five hundred dollars an hour.

      It would be so much easier for her to slip in and poke around herself. She knew the design world inside and out, so she would certainly fit in. And if she made herself sound smart and qualified enough, surely she would be a shoo-in.

      A tiny shiver of anxiety rolled down her spine. Okay, so it was dangerous. A lot could go wrong, and she probably stood to get herself into a heap of trouble if anyone—or the wrong someone, at any rate—found out.

      But it was too good an opportunity to pass up. Almost as though she was meant to go through with this, fate bending its bony finger to point the way. Otherwise, what were the chances this particular position would open up just when she most needed the inside scoop on Ashdown Abbey?

      No, she had to do this. She had to find out what was going on, how it had happened and get it to stop. And going to work for Ashdown Abbey seemed like a good way to do exactly that.

      Not just good—perfect.

      Because Nigel Statham needed a personal assistant, and she was just the right woman for the job.

      Two

      Nigel Statham muttered an unflattering curse, slapping the company’s quarterly financial report down on top of his father’s latest missive. The one that made him feel like a child in short trousers being scolded for some minor transgression or another.

      Handwritten on personal stationery and posted all the way from England—because that’s how his parents had always done it, and email was too commonplace for their refined breeding—the letter outlined the U.S. division’s disappointing returns and Nigel’s failure to make it yet another jewel in the Ashdown Abbey crown since he’d been appointed CEO eighteen months ago.

      Disappointment clung to the words as though his father was standing in the room, delivering them face-to-face: hands behind his back, bushy white brows drawn down in a frown of displeasure. Just like when he’d been a boy.

      His parents had always expected perfection—an aim he had fallen short of time and time again. But he hardly thought a year and a half was long enough to ascertain the success or failure of a new branch of the business in an entirely new country when it had taken nearly a century for Ashdown Abbey to reach its current level of success in the U.K. alone.

      He thought perhaps his father’s expectations for this new venture had been set a bit too high. But try telling the senior Statham that.

      With a sigh, Nigel leaned back and wondered how long he could put off responding to the letter before his father sent a second. Or worse yet, decided to fly all the way to Los Angeles to check in on his son in person.

      Another day, certainly. Especially since he was currently dreading the job of training a brand-new personal assistant.

      He’d been through three so far. Three attractive but very young ladies who had been competent enough but hardly dedicated.

      The problem with hiring personal assistants in the heart of Los Angeles, he decided, was that they tended to be either aspiring actresses who grew bored easily or quit as soon as they landed a part in a hand-lotion commercial; or they were aspiring fashion designers who grew bored when they didn’t make it to the top with their own line in under six months.

      And each time one of them moved on, he had to start all over training a new girl. It was enough to make him consider hiring an assistant to be on hand to train his next assistant.

      Human resources had hired the latest in his stead, then sent him a memo with her name and a bit of background information, both personal and professional. It probably wasn’t even worth remembering the woman’s name, but then he’d never been that kind of boss.

      Before he had the chance to review her résumé once more, there was a tap on his office door. Less than half a second later, it swung open and his new assistant—he deduced she was his new assistant, at any rate—strode across the carpeted floor.

      She was prettier than her photo depicted. Her hair teetered somewhere between light brown and dark blond, pulled back in a loose but smoothly twisted bun at the back of her head. Her face was lightly made up, the lines classic and delicate, almost Romanesque.

      A pair of dark-rimmed, oval-lensed glasses sat perched high on her nose. Small gold hoops graced her earlobes. She wore a simple white blouse tucked into the waistband of a black pencil skirt that hit midcalf, concealing three-quarters of what he suspected could prove to be extraordinary legs. And on her feet, a pair of patent-leather pumps, color-blocked in black and white with three-inch heels.

      Being in fashion, he took note more than he might have otherwise. But as a man, there were certain aspects of her appearance he would have noticed regardless.

      Like her alabaster skin or the way her breasts pressed against the front of her shirt. The bronze-kiss shade of her lips and rose-red tips of her perfectly manicured nails.

      “Mr. Statham,” she said in a voice that matched the rest of the package. “I’m Lillian, your new personal assistant. Here’s your coffee and this morning’s mail.”

      She set the steaming mug stamped with the Ashdown Abbey logo on the leather coaster on his desk. It looked as though she’d added a touch of cream, just the way he liked it.

      She placed the pile of envelopes directly in front of him, and he flipped through, noticing that it seemed to be all business correspondence, no fluff to waste his time sorting out.

      As first impressions went, she was making a rather positive one.

      “Is there anything else I can get you?”

      “No, thank you,” he replied slowly.

      With a nod, she turned on her heel and started back toward the door.

      “Lillian.” He stopped her just before she reached the doorway.

      Spine straight, she returned her attention to him. “Yes, sir?”

      “Are those Ashdown Abbey designs you’re wearing?” he asked. “The blouse and skirt?”

      She offered him a small smile. “Of course.”

      He considered that for a moment, almost afraid to believe that his luck in the personal-assistant department might actually be changing for the better.

      Clearing his throat, he said carefully, “You wouldn’t happen to be an actress, would you?” He resisted the urge to use the term aspiring, but only barely.

      A slight frown drew her light brows together. “No, sir.”

      “What about modeling? Any interest in that?”

      That question brought out a short chuckle. “Definitely not.”

      He thought back to some of the bullet points from her résumé. She hadn’t simply wandered in from the street, that was for certain. Her background was in both business and design, with a degree in the former and a few very strong courses in the latter.

      On paper she was rather ideal, СКАЧАТЬ