Wanted by the Boss - Maureen Child Mills & Boon Spotlight

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Is he on wife number five by now?’’

      ‘‘Awfully curious, aren’t you?’’

      ‘‘It’s a tragic flaw.’’

      Maggie’s mouth twitched. ‘‘One ex-wife, no children. Apparently the woman was just a barracuda.’’

      ‘‘Hey, even a barracuda doesn’t stand a chance against a great white.’’ She hated to admit that she felt even the slightest pang of sympathy for a guy she hadn’t seen in years, but divorces were never pretty. Not that she would know from personal experience, of course. You had to actually get married to be able to experience divorce. And her one and only engagement had ended—thank heaven—before she’d actually taken the vows.

      ‘‘Honestly, Eileen,’’ her grandmother said. ‘‘You’re making the man sound awful.’’

      ‘‘Well…’’

      Maggie frowned at her. ‘‘Rick is the grandson of my very dear friend.’’

      The solid steel guilt trap was swinging closed. Eileen could actually feel its cold, sharp jaws pinching at her flesh. Yet still she struggled. ‘‘Rick never liked me much either, you know.’’

      ‘‘Don’t be silly.’’

      ‘‘He probably wouldn’t want me to help him.’’

      ‘‘Loretta says he’s grateful for your offer.’’

      Eileen’s eyes bugged out. She wouldn’t have been surprised to feel them pop right out of her head. ‘‘He knows already?’’ So much for free will.

      ‘‘Well, I had to say something, didn’t I?’’

      ‘‘And volunteering me was the first thing that came to mind?’’ Her only family, turning on her like a snake.

      ‘‘You’re a good girl, Eileen. I didn’t think you’d mind.’’

      ‘‘Rick Hawkins,’’ she muttered, shaking her head. She hadn’t seen him in six years. He’d come to her grandfather’s funeral. Six years was a long time. And that was okay by her. The one brief glimpse of him in a business suit didn’t wipe away her real memories of him. The way she remembered it, he was a bully who’d picked on an eleven-year-old kid who’d kinda, sorta, had a crush on him. There’s a guy she wanted to work for. Nope. No way. Uh-uh. ‘‘I’m so not gonna do this.’’

      Maggie Ryan rested her elbows on the arms of the floral tapestry chair and steepled her fingers. Tipping her head to one side, she studied her granddaughter and said softly, ‘‘When you were ten years old, you broke Great Grandmother O’Hara’s china cup.’’

      ‘‘Oh, God…’’ Run, Eileen, she told herself. Run and keep on running.

      ‘‘I seem to remember you saying something along the lines of, ‘I’m so sorry, Gran. I’ll do anything to make it up to you. Anything.’’’

      ‘‘I was ten,’’ Eileen protested, desperately looking for a loophole. ‘‘That was seventeen years ago.’’

      Maggie sighed dramatically and laid one hand across what she was pretending to be a broken heart. ‘‘So, there’s a time limit on promises in this house, is there?’’

      ‘‘No, but…’’ The trap tightened a notch or two. It was getting harder to breathe.

      ‘‘That was the last cup in the set my grandmother carried over from the old country.’’

      ‘‘Gran…’’ The cold, cold steel of guilt wrapped around her, the jaws of the trap nearly closed around her now. She winced.

      The older woman rolled her eyes toward heaven. ‘‘Her grandmother gave her the set as a wedding gift. So she could bring it with her from County Mayo—a piece of her old world. And she took it with love, knowing they’d never meet again in this life.’’

      If she started talking about the steerage section of the boat again, it was all over. ‘‘I know, but—’’

      ‘‘She kept those cups safe on the boat. It wasn’t easy. She was in steerage, you know and—’’

      Snap.

      ‘‘I surrender,’’ Eileen said, lifting both hands in the traditional pose. No matter how much she wanted to avoid working for Rick, she was caught and she knew it. ‘‘I’ll do it. I’ll work for Rick. But it’s two weeks only. Not a day longer.’’

      ‘‘Wonderful, dear.’’ Gran reached for the shamrock-dusted teacup on the table beside her. ‘‘Be at the office at eight tomorrow morning. I told Rick to expect you.’’

      ‘‘You knew I’d do it all along, didn’t you?’’

      Gran smiled.

      ‘‘Just so you know, I still haven’t forgiven you for the whole Barbie episode.’’

      Rick Hawkins just stared at the tall, elegant-looking redhead standing in his outer office. Her features were wary, but couldn’t disguise her beauty. Irish green eyes narrowed, but not enough to hide the gleam in their depths. Her mouth was full and lush, her eyebrows finely arched. Her hair fell in red-gold waves to her shoulders. She wore a white dress shirt tucked into sleek black slacks and shiny black boots peeked out from beneath the hem. Small silver hoops dangled from her ears and a serviceable silver watch encircled her left wrist. Her hands were bare but for a coat of clear nail polish. She looked businesslike. Dignified and too damn good.

      He never should have listened to his grandmother.

      This could be a long two weeks.

      ‘‘You were eleven,’’ he reminded her at last.

      ‘‘And you were almost sixteen,’’ she countered.

      ‘‘You were a pest.’’ Looking at her now, though, he couldn’t imagine being bothered by having her around. Which worried him a little. He’d been taken in by a gorgeous face before. He’d trusted her. Believed in her. And then she’d left. Just like every other woman in his life—except the grandmother who’d raised him after his mother decided she’d rather be a free spirit than be tied to a child.

      She nodded, allowing his point. ‘‘True. But you didn’t have to decapitate Barbie.’’

      He smiled despite the memories crowding his brain. ‘‘Maybe not, but you left me alone after that.’’

      ‘‘Well yeah.’’ She folded her arms across her chest and tapped the toe of one shoe against the steel-blue carpet. ‘‘That’s a sure sign of a serial killer in the making.’’

      ‘‘Sorry to disappoint you. No grisly past here. Just a businessman.’’

      She shrugged. ‘‘Same difference.’’

      Rick shook his head. She had the same temperament she’d had as a kid. Always ready for war. Must be the red hair. And with a personality like that, this might just work. ‘‘Is the office going to be a war zone for the next two weeks, because if it is…’’

      ‘‘No,’’ she said, tossing her black leather purse onto the desk that would be hers as long as she was there. ‘‘I’m just being pissy. It’s not even your fault.’’

      ‘‘For which I’m grateful.’’

      ‘‘Cute.’’

      ‘‘Peace, okay? I appreciate you helping me out, Eileen.’’ He did. He needed the help. He just didn’t need the kind of distraction she was no doubt going to be.

      Her eyebrows went high on her forehead. ‘‘Hey,’’ she said smiling, ‘‘that’s an improvement. At least you didn’t call me Eyeball.’’

      ‘‘No,’’

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