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November Harlequin Presents 2(4)

By:Susan Stephens


‘But what?’

The words sounded like bullets while his gaze froze her protest solid. Her hand was paralysed, still on his arm. Because what could she say—‘I’m not who you think I am’? How could she admit that, other than a couple of hours of coaching as to the whys and wherefores of the job so she could at least manage the filing, she didn’t really have a clue what she would be expected to do?

It took but a second to consider her options. She couldn’t admit the truth. She had to try to do her best to save her sister’s job, not consign it to the dustbin, which was exactly where it would go if he discovered they had switched.

And he obviously believed she was Morgan. Which was kind of amusing—Mr Hotshot-Corporate-Cowboy Maverick actually believed she was her sister! So why shouldn’t he keep right on believing it—at least until she could call Morgan and get her to hightail it back here as fast as she could?

After all, she’d worked in an office before. She could type, she could operate a computer and a printer, and what Morgan hadn’t filled her in on she’d learn. She dragged air into her lungs, air that came richly spiced with the heady tang of male—angry male—and she realised she had no choice but to do whatever it took to placate him.

She could do this for a day or two. She would do whatever it took to protect Morgan’s job. And she could deal with the boss from hell in the process.

And once Morgan was home they could have a good old laugh about it.

She let go her hold on his arm and brushed a loose tendril of her hair behind her ear, doing her best to school herself into the model of efficiency he would expect. ‘Of course. I’ll be right there.’





CHAPTER TWO




‘AND get on to Rogerson and see if you can set up a meeting for tomorrow morning at his offices.’ Maverick was pacing non-stop alongside the full-length windows that overlooked the Gold Coast coastline, his hands in his pockets as he dictated his requirements. Tegan frantically scribbled, trying to keep up and make sense of his instructions.

‘That’s Phil Rogerson, the CEO,’ she muttered half to herself, busy scratching down notes.

Maverick nodded tersely over his shoulder before continuing. ‘And make sure George Huntley can be there. We’ll need to work up some sort of heads of agreement.’

‘From Huntley and Jacques solicitors,’ she added to herself. The two minutes she’d spent frantically scanning the file before she’d joined Maverick in his office was paying far better dividends than she’d expected. It wasn’t so bad. The communications to date had all been clear and succinct, and Tegan was never more grateful for Morgan’s neat streak. She’d obviously had all her filing up to date before she’d finished up last week.

‘And, when you’ve done that, I need you to arrange flowers to be sent to Giuseppe.’

‘Giuseppe?’ She looked up. She couldn’t remember that name from the file, and yet it seemed oddly familiar.

‘Giuseppe Zeppa,’ he filled in. ‘Find out what hospital he’s in and send him the biggest and the best.’

Of course, she realised—the Italian connection who’d had the heart attack and landed her in this mess. Not that it was Giuseppe’s fault. It had more to do with her sister and her crazy plans.

What had Morgan promised her? An entire week of swanning around in a plush office with nothing more to do than sort the mail and file her nails.

Tegan had known that she’d have been much more comfortable distributing food packages to queues of women and children than playing corporate PA to this guy any day—and that was before the nightmare discovery that Maverick was going to be in residence.

Only when she’d finished writing did she realise he’d stopped firing instructions at her. She raised her eyes to find him framed against the backdrop of the endless shoreline and glittering azure sea, a frown jamming his dark brows tight together.

‘What’s got into you today?’

She jumped. ‘Nothing,’ she blustered, immediately cursing the defensiveness in her tone.

He just kept on scowling at her, like he was scratching away, searching for the truth, trying to peel back the layers. She tucked a renegade strand of hair behind her ear and cocked up her chin. Attack had to be the best form of defence. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because you’ve been repeating everything I’ve said. Are you sure you’re not coming down with something? Your voice sounds a little strange.’

‘No! At least, not that I know of.’

‘Then what the hell’s wrong with you?’

‘Nothing’s wrong with me!’