The second message began. It was from Jake, one of the party she was travelling with. Morgan was out of surgery, he said, and wanted her to know she’d come through with flying colours. But she’d had multiple fractures which had required pinning, and she wouldn’t be travelling for several weeks at least. And Morgan had especially wanted her to know that she was really sorry.
Tegan collapsed into a chair. Her sister was okay, thank God, but she so wished she’d been home to take the call and talk to Morgan herself before she’d had to go under the anaesthetic. But she hadn’t been home. Instead of being here to take her twin’s call, she’d been out making love all night with her twin’s boss.
Tegan dropped her head into her hands. Oh hell, what a mess! Morgan wasn’t travelling anywhere for weeks. Which meant Morgan wouldn’t magically be reappearing to take over her job come Monday. What the hell was Tegan supposed to do now—pretend to be Morgan and try to work with Maverick for another how ever many weeks?
Oh, dear God, no!
Oh, sure, she’d managed to convince him she was Morgan so far, but she could hardly consider her efforts a victory, more like survival. And so far, apart from a night of memories that would stay with her for ever, she’d escaped from it all with nothing.
Least of all her self-respect.
She couldn’t continue with the farce. Her deal with Morgan had been for one week only, and that had been with Maverick half a world away. Already she’d gone above and beyond the call of duty.
Already the lie was too big, too damaging, the repercussions and consequences growing nastier by the day.
She had no choice but to come clean. Morgan would probably lose her job because if it, but Maverick was bound to find out the truth sooner or later. Better it came from Tegan now.
All she had to do was work out a way to tell him.
He’d spent all weekend stewing. He wasn’t going to call her. There was no point. If she could walk out on him after a night like they’d shared together, then she wasn’t worth the effort. He was over it.
He looked at his watch and growled. So where was she?
Then he heard the lift doors ping, and his gut pulled tighter than a drum.
One infinitely long minute later and she was there, knocking lightly at the open door.
He barely flicked his eyes in her direction. ‘You’re late.’ She took a step in, and out of the corner of his eye he detected her heels waver shakily on the carpet.
‘Maverick, I need to talk to you.’ It gave him a fair chunk of satisfaction that her grip on the earth wasn’t the only thing that was wobbly. He leant back in his chair and put his hands behind his neck. This was going to be good.
‘Have a nice weekend with your sister?’
Her lips compressed into a tight line as she crossed her arms low over her chest. Her whole face seemed pinched, and even her hazel eyes looked clouded. Yet still he couldn’t chase away the vision of her, warm and receptive, and clad in nothing more than a pair of sheer silken stockings to guide him home.
‘She didn’t make it. She got held up.’
He grunted. That was no surprise. It had just been an excuse to get away from him.
She took another shaky step into his office, winding a loose tendril of hair back around her ear, and contemplating the floor as though any moment she wanted it to swallow her up. He couldn’t help but bristle. Was she really so cut up because she’d spent a night in the boss’s bed? From what he remembered, it sure hadn’t seemed that it’d been an episode in endurance for her. Surely there were worse things in the world?
‘I almost didn’t come in at all today,’ she started. ‘I was going to call, but I figured you deserved to hear what I have to say face to face.’
‘You don’t have an option about whether or not you come in. You have a contract to work here, remember?’
But she just smiled strangely and shook her head. ‘No. I’m sorry to let you down—to let everyone down. But I just can’t do this any more.’
He launched himself out of his chair and rounded the desk towards her. ‘What do you mean, “can’t do this any more”? Just because of what happened Friday night? Don’t you think you’re overreacting? “Consenting adults” and all that.’ He spat her own words back at her—words that had been eating into his gut all weekend like an acid burn. She had consented—that was the point—so why had she cut and run?
She flinched at his words and his tone, jerking her chin up as she swallowed, and her eyes sparked icicles as for once they sought him out as he circled her like a shark.
‘It’s not just about what happened Friday.’