right?”
Staring? No. Bottomless brown bedroom eyes practically swallowed her whole.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, striking a neutral chord in her voice despite the way her limbs turned heavy.
“Make it easy on me, Anna, and come to London.”
Oh. Oh. “Make what easy?”
“The work. You know so much about my work and you’re so incredible… incredibly organized. I can only rationalize this much time away from the office if I’m productive. And with you, I’m productive.”
The work. Of course. Why else would he want her to go to London? And why else would she even consider it?
“You can have comp vacation days to make up for the lost weekend,” he added, as though she were actually worried about that. He had no way of knowing that her hesitation had nothing to do with losing a weekend, and everything to do with losing her mind. Proximity to the object of her steamiest nightly fantasies could drive her crazy.
“That’s no problem,” she said slowly. “I don’t mind working the weekend.”
“Then you’ll go.” He smiled, a genuine grin that he saved for when he won a small victory in business. Something he did about a million times a day. “Perfect. You’ll need something very formal. That ball at Guildhall is over the top.”
“The ball?” He couldn’t be serious. “You want me to go to the ball?”
He laughed lightly. “That’s the idea, Cinderella. Why would I dig up a date when you’ll already be there?”
Like he’d have to dig far. “Because…” She couldn’t think of a reason. Except that one.
He’s your boss, dummy.
Unless what he’d seen in the bathroom made him think of her differently.
“Mr. Garrison, uh, Parker,” she said, standing just so she could gain the minor advantage of height for once. “I’m sorry about this morning. I—”
He pointed toward the bathroom door. “That?” He waved away her concern as if it were no more than a flea. “Totally forgotten, I assure you.” Tapping the call sheet, he added, “Better get that charter booked and get all the files in order, and I’ll get to these seventeen calls.”
Done. Decision made. No arguing or second-guessing or trying to explain that she couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t go to London with him. Because she could, and she would.
Leaving his office, Anna found Sheila McKay in the act of depositing more handwritten messages.
“These came to the front desk while you were in with Mr. Garrison,” the receptionist said. “The phones absolutely haven’t stopped since that meeting ended.”
“I just gave him seventeen others,” Anna said with a sigh. “Looks like it’s going to be a busy day.”
Sheila wrinkled a picture-perfect nose, which fit her picture-perfect face and body. Anna hadn’t been surprised to learn the stunning woman was a former Playmate who’d probably filled her bunny suit very nicely. She’d always been very friendly with Anna, especially since Anna had received the promotion to work for the CEO. But Anna remained distant with all her coworkers.
Friends wanted to know your past.
“So,” Sheila said, sliding a well-toned hip on the corner of Anna’s desk. “What went down in Garrison land? Did the old man drop a bomb from the grave or something?”
The words DNA test and contest the will rang in Anna’s ears.
“I wouldn’t know,” she said coolly. Even if she did, she wouldn’t tell the receptionist.
“There’s buzz, you know,” Sheila whispered, undaunted. “Mario in the mail room told me La Grande Madame left the conference room muttering obscenities, and is rumored to have had a bottle open before the limo door closed.”
No wonder Mario had been in the mailroom since the day John Garrison had started the company. Gossips didn’t get promoted. Anna flipped through the messages, deciding the best way to deflect the conversation.
“I’m really in the weeds, Sheila, trying to get Mr. Garrison ready for a trip to London.”
Sheila levered off the desk with a sigh of resignation. “London, huh? Ah, the lucky lifestyles of the rich and famous. Must be nice.” With a wave, she disappeared around the corner and left Anna with her mountain of messages.
Was it nice? She was about to find out. She knew she should be honored, excited and delighted for the opportunity to spend a weekend working in London.
But she had so much to hide, starting with the fact that she had a killer crush on her boss. But, honestly, that was the least of her secrets. And, if she wasn’t careful, Parker Garrison could find out something far worse than the fact that he was the object of a few daydreams.
And that would be a nightmare.
Two
“We’ve reached our cruising altitude, Mr. Garrison. Would you care for the usual?” The lone flight attendant on the G5 that the Garrison family routinely rented for business travel smiled benevolently at him. Her prematurely gray hair was, as always, pulled back into an elegant bun, her simple dark suit unmarred by even a fleck of lint.
“Thank you, Christine, I would. Anna?”
Across the small expanse that separated the two widest leather recliners on the plane, Anna had already lined a granite-topped table with a sea of manila folders and papers, and she had a laptop open and fired up for work.
“It depends,” she said. “What is the usual?”
“Tomato juice and Tabasco.”
She made a face. “Coffee, please.”
“Come on, Anna,” he urged. “Live dangerously.”
He hoped for a clever quip, an easy smile, but got only a shake of her head.
“Just coffee, thank you.” When the attendant nodded and moved toward the galley, Anna lifted a paper and held it toward him. “I’ve compiled a list of pending open items for your attention, Mr. Garrison.”
He didn’t remind her to call him Parker. Anna Cross was back to business in a big way. It was as though she’d been wearing a sign that said This Is Work, Not Fun ever since she’d arrived at the executive airport and climbed out of her little Saturn wearing her most staid suit selected from a wardrobe that couldn’t be called anything but ultraconservative. Navy jacket, shapeless trousers, flat shoes.
Where was the girl who felt pretty in pink underwear?
Parker took the list, and reminded himself that he was the one who’d suggested she accompany him to work. He’d made that clear. At least, that was how he rationalized what was, at the moment, an impulsive idea brought on by the not-so-semi
