early Monday morning, standing in his office.
For a couple of weeks now there had been a strange vibe in the office. Something was just … off. He could only assume that the focus of the investigation into the explosion at the refinery had now moved from his employees to him.
After six years of loyal service, and three as Chief Operations Officer, he would have thought Adam Blair, Western Oil’s current CEO, would trust him by now. And if they had concerns, why not just ask him? Why this elaborate charade?
Because if they mistrusted him enough to think he could do this sort of thing—put his workers’ lives in jeopardy—they probably didn’t think he would tell the truth if confronted. So instead they hired someone to do what? Seduce it out of him? He couldn’t imagine another reason they would send a woman who looked as though she moonlighted as a runway model.
Did they really think he was that shallow?
They obviously thought a lot less of him than he did of them. He would have at least hoped that his brother Nathan, the Chief Brand Officer, would come clean and tell him the truth. If he even knew, that is. Hell, for all Jordan knew Adam could be investigating him too. Maybe even Emilio Suarez, the CFO.
The weight of the betrayal sat like a stone in his gut, but his options were limited. He could confront Adam and put an end to the investigation, but that might only make him appear as if he had something to hide. He couldn’t let anything, not even his pride, interfere with his chance at the coveted CEO position Adam would be vacating soon. His only choice was to cooperate with their investigation.
Of course, that didn’t mean he was going to make it easy for his new “secretary.” Knowing who she was and why she was there, he could manipulate the situation, control the information she obtained. Let her see only what he wanted her to see. Not that they were going to find anything incriminating, because he hadn’t done anything wrong. But there were certain aspects of his life—financial ones in particular—that he preferred to keep private.
“Here,” Jordan said, backing away from her chair. “Have a seat.”
Smiling nervously, Miss Monroe rounded the desk. “Can I get you a cup of coff—” The toe of one spike-heeled “do-me” shoe caught on the desk leg and she lurched forward. She grabbed the corner of the desk in her attempt to catch her fall, but the foam cup she was holding in the opposite hand went airborne. And hit him square in the chest.
Miss Monroe gasped in horror, slapping a hand over her crimson-painted mouth as coffee soaked not only his shirt, but the carpet where he was standing. “Oh my God. I can’t believe I just did that.”
She looked frantically around for something to clean up the mess and spotted a box of tissues on the desk. She lunged for it, ripping out a handful and shoving them at him. “Mr. Everette, I am so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said, wiping up the coffee dripping from his chin. Not the most graceful runway model, was she?
She gestured helplessly at his damp shirt. “Is there anything I can do?”
“I keep an extra shirt in the closet for emergencies. You could grab it for me while I clean up.”
“Of course,” she said, scrambling for the closet.
Jordan walked to the bathroom in his office, unbuttoning his shirt. Some of the coffee had hit his pants too, but as luck would have it, he’d worn his brown suit that morning.
He dropped his shirt on the bathroom floor, and peeled his coffee-soaked undershirt over his head. Maybe she wasn’t an agency operative after all. Or was this just all part of a clever disguise? A ruse to throw him off the trail?
“Mr. Everette?” she called from his office.
“In here.” He wet a washcloth in the sink and wiped the coffee from his face and chest.
“Here’s your …”
Jordan turned to see Miss Monroe in the bathroom doorway, eyes wide and fixed somewhere between his neck and his belt. She blinked and quickly looked away, a red hue creeping up from the neckline of her blouse. Why would an above-average-looking woman who practically oozed sexuality blush at the sight of a shirtless man?
Interesting.
Eyes averted, she held out the hanger with his clean shirt. “Here you go.”
He took it, brushing his fingers against hers as he did, and she jerked her hand away.
Very interesting.
“Are you going to fire me?” she asked.
Why bother? They would just send a new agency person in.
“Did you do it on purpose?” he asked.
She blinked in surprise and cut her eyes to him. “Of course not!”
He hooked the hanger on the towel rack, tugged the clean undershirt free and pulled it over his head. “Then why would I fire you?”
She pulled her lip between her teeth again, and it brought to mind nibbling on a plump red cherry. He wondered if she had the slightest clue how sexy she looked when she did that. The coy bit had to be an act.
He pulled on his shirt and buttoned it. “In answer to your question, yes.”
“My question?”
“I would love a cup of coffee. Although this time I’d rather not wear it.”
Her lips tilted into an embarrassed smile. “Of course.”
“My cup is on my desk.” He unfastened his belt and the button on his pants so he could tuck in his shirt, stifling a grin when she quickly looked away again.
“I—I’ll go get it now,” she said, tripping over her own foot in her haste to get away.
He had the feeling that, until she discovered that the evidence she was hoping to find didn’t exist and gave up, he could have an awful lot of fun at her expense.
The spike heels had been a really bad idea, Jane decided as she grabbed Mr. Everette’s World’s Best Boss cup from his desk and hurried to the break room, heart pounding from a combination of her own horrifying ineptitude and supreme lack of grace, and the sight of her new boss standing shamelessly bare-chested in her presence.
Not that he had anything to be ashamed of. His body—what she could see of it anyway—was a work of art. And she was betting that the bottom half was no less awe-inspiring. So much for her theory that he was middle-aged and fat. That’s what she got for drawing hasty conclusions.
Some vampy, sex goddess secretary she’d turned out to be. She couldn’t have made more of an ass out of herself if she’d dressed like a clown and donned a squeaky red nose. Proof that despite her physical transformation, deep down she was just as geeky and awkward as ever. Had she been completely fooling herself to believe that she could handle an undercover position?
She poured the coffee and added a teaspoon of creamer, mentally shaking away those negative thoughts. She could do this, damn it. She was good enough. She had been working up to this for months. Failure was not an option.
