“I work for you, that’s all...” About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright
“I work for you, that’s all...”
“Perhaps I don’t want that to be all,” Hawk said silkily. Joanne’s eyes were locked with his. “What about you, Joanne?” His voice was warm and deep. “What do you want?”
She wanted to tell him she wasn’t interested, that he was the very last man she would get involved with, but somehow all she could do was stare at him.
“You are...tantalizing, do you know that?”
“I’ve always held the belief that work and play should be quite separate,” Joanne said, avoiding his eyes.
“So have I. But there always has to be one exception to the rule....”
HELEN BROOKS lives in Northamptonshire, England, and is married with three children. As she is a committed Christian, busy housewife and mother, her spare time is at a premium, but her hobbies include reading and walking her two energetic and very endearing young dogs. Her long-cherished aspiration to write became a reality when she put pen to paper on reaching the age of forty, and sent the result off to Harlequin.
Mistletoe Mistress
Helen Brooks
CHAPTER ONE
‘HEY, what’s with all the long faces? There hasn’t been a major disaster while I’ve been away, has there?’ Joanne’s bright smile dimmed and then faded altogether as her antennae picked up the waves radiating from her office staff.
‘You . . . you haven’t heard?’
‘Heard what?’ Joanne’s wide honey-brown eyes narrowed slightly as she repeated, ‘Heard what, Maggie?’
‘About what’s happened.’
‘Maggie.
‘About the takeover, and Mr Brigmore, and... everything.’ Maggie wriggled slightly in her typist’s chair and half turned in the seat to include the rest of the office of six, all of whom patently ignored the silent plea for help, their faces clearly stating that Maggie had started this and she could finish it.
‘The takeover? Maggie, I haven’t got a clue what you are talking about,’ Joanne said as patiently as she could. Brusqueness never helped with Maggie; she flustered very easily. ‘And where does Mr Brigmore come into all this?’
‘He doesn’t, not any more.’ Maggie’s plump plain face was very earnest, and Joanne knew she wasn’t deliberately trying to be obtuse, but something of the urge she felt to wring her junior’s neck must have shown on her face because Maggie added hastily, ‘Mr. Brigmore’s gone—early retirement or something. It all happened last Thursday, when the takeover was announced; he went the same day. I left a message on your answer machine—’
‘I haven’t been back to my flat yet; I stayed overnight with a friend...’ Joanne’s voice trailed away as the enormity of what Maggie was saying hit her. ‘Are you telling me Mr Brigmore was axed?’ she asked faintly. ‘Because if you are I can’t believe it. Who’s stepped into his shoes, then?’
‘A relation of the mogul who now owns the firm.’ Maggie’s voice was full of meaning and Joanne nodded silently to what remained unsaid. So, nepotism was alive and well at Concise Publications, was it? And all this had happened during the month she had been gaily backpacking round Europe on a reunion with old university friends?
She had heard about these savage ‘off with the old, on with the new’ mergers, where the new ruling directorate were merciless in their desire to sweep clean, but she had never actually experienced one first-hand in her eight years of working life. And Charles, of all people...
Suddenly the anger was there, hot and fierce. Charles was the fatherly figure who had given her the sort of chance, five years ago, that she had been craving since leaving university, choosing her above a host of other more qualified applicants who had been eager for the post of publishing assistant to the managing director of Concise Publications.
He had been her mentor, her champion, but most of all her friend—he and his wife, Clare, taking her under their parental wing and giving her her first real glimpse of family life. And he had been replaced? By some young upstart, no doubt, who probably didn’t know one end of a book from another.
‘Male or female?’ Her voice was quivering, but it was with sheer fury, not weakness.
‘Male.’ Maggie knew how much her superior thought of their ex-managing director, and she took a deep breath before she added, ‘His name is Mallen. Hawk Mallen.’
‘Hawk Mallen?’ Joanne’s voice was scathing, her emotion blinding her to the fact that Maggie had suddenly become very still and very quiet, her eyes no longer focused on Joanne’s angry face. ‘What sort of name is that?’
‘My sort of name, Ms...?’
The deep male voice was not loud, but the timbre was such that Joanne felt liquid ice run over her nerves. She didn’t turn for a good thirty seconds from her position just a few inches into the room, and when she did move it was with the knowledge that she had blown it—good and proper, as Charles would have said. And she cared. Oh, not because of her job, precious and important as it had been to her up to this minute in time, she told herself bitterly, but because she had wanted to fling her resignation into the lap of this faceless bureaucrat and walk away with her head held high—not be caught out like a child telling tales out of school.
‘Crawford.’ Her chin was high, her golden eyes shooting sparks as she looked up into the hard dark face of the big man standing in the doorway behind her. ‘And it’s Miss.’
‘Ah
