LITMIR.BIZ

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be presented neatly and properly. Printed, bound, no factual errors and no typos.

      In the six months she’d worked there, only two people had made the mistake of handing imperfect work to Mr. Duncan. They were no longer employed at the prestigious firm of Duncan Construction, Inc. Personally, she thought that was a bit over the top. Matthew Duncan might be hot sin walking, but he didn’t have to act like the Devil incarnate.

      Not that Mr. Duncan was interested in her opinion. Nor would she ever dare voice it. She liked her job and would very much like to keep it. Especially in this economy. A fabulous job she enjoyed was a bonus she didn’t intend to waste by bandying about her opinions about.

      She’d worked too hard, for too long to get where she was.

      Neatly bound report in hand, she rushed out of her office. Sally, the first friend Grace had made at work, looked up from her desk and sent her a sympathetic smile as she held up two fingers crossed for luck. Grace blew out a breath and grinned.

      The click-clack of her modest black pumps followed her down the tiled hallway. The rich cinnamon scent permeating the hall was supposed to be calming. She inhaled deeply.

      Mr. Duncan wouldn’t fly off the handle just because he requested this report be in his hands at 9:30 and it was now—she glanced at her watch and swallowed—9:44. Her stomach tightened and she started relaxation breathing.

      “Better hurry, Grace,” a masculine voice whispered in her ear.

      Without thinking, she spun around and lightly whacked Luke in the gut. “Not funny.”

      Hitting her co-worker. Nice. Very professional. She winced. Too much time spent around too many boys growing up and too much…everything this morning.

      Luke doubled over, groaning like she’d punched him. Lips twitching, Grace kept walking.

      “Oh, man.” He caught up and clapped a hand over his mouth. His cheeks bulged. “Ooh…” One hand pressed to his stomach, he staggered across her path and collapsed against the wall.

      “Good grief, Luke.” Grace rolled her eyes. “Get over yourself already.”

      He straightened, grinning. “Hey, just trying to keep your spirits up. Facing old man Duncan would terrify anyone. Especially with mediocre, late work in hand.”

      “Hey!”

      Luke trotted off down the hall with a jaunty wave. The nerve. She did good work, no, excellent work, for this company. Mr. Duncan wouldn’t can her because of one late report. He was a reasonable man. Well, sort of reasonable. In an anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive kind of way.

      She smiled at Nancy, Mr. Duncan’s secretary. Outside Mr. Duncan’s door, she took another deep breath. The stupid cinnamon was so not doing its job.

      Grace stared at the dark mahogany door, straightened the hem of her short, fitted blazer, smoothed the back of her knee-length matching tweed skirt and, in general, procrastinated as only a terrified employee could. She’d just about, kind of, almost, worked up the nerve to knock.

      “Fortifying yourself to beard the lion?” said a deep voice behind her.

      She jumped and almost dropped the precious report. She squeezed her eyes shut and resisted the urge to bang her head against the door. Great. Caught dawdling like a student called into the principal’s office. By her boss, nonetheless. Reminding herself to breathe, she turned.

      “Why, yes.” She forced a smile.

      Mr. Duncan’s bland expression betrayed none of the soft mockery she could have sworn his voice contained. Did his lips quirk, or was it a trick of the light? He was infamous for his non-existent sense of humor.

      “Well, let’s not delay a second longer.” Reaching past her, he turned the knob and pushed open the door. “After you.”

      His nearness and masculine scent curled around her with wanton invitation. Imagined invitation, she sternly reminded herself, splashing cold water on her overactive hormones. Dredging up confidence she didn’t feel, she smiled and strode past him into the cool interior of the immaculate office. The door closed quietly behind her.

      “Mr—”

      “Would you care for a drink, Miss Debry? A shot of Scotch, perhaps?”

      She jerked her head up. Again with the dark humor. No, she had to be mistaken. Overwrought with stress and attraction to the point she was imagining things. Sad, really.

      His back to her, he rummaged through the bar. From experience, she knew how well stocked it was.

      “Um, no. I don’t think a shot of anything would be a good idea at…” She glanced at her watch and winced. Well, no point putting off the inevitable. She cleared her throat. “Nine forty-eight in the morning.”

      “How terribly precise, Miss Debry. No, I don’t suppose it would be appropriate to indulge so early.”

      He sighed. The unusual sign of humanity took her aback. He sounded tired. More than tired. Bone-deep weary.

      “How about some coffee, then? Water? Juice?”

      “Coffee would be nice. Thank you.” Swallowing might prove an issue, but he was clearly determined she drink something.

      “Cream and sugar, as I recall.”

      “Yes.”

      Were you courteous to someone you were about to fire? A final liquid meal before kicking them out in the cold? She failed to find any comfort in his hospitality. She eyed his broad shoulders, refusing to allow her gaze to dip lower, no matter how much it wanted to. Since when did he remember personal details about his employees, like how they drank coffee? The fact he’d taken note of her preferences was bewildering.

      “I—”

      “Please, have a seat. No need to stand when there are relatively comfortable chairs just waiting to be of use.”

      He turned from the bar, coffee cup in hand and she headed for one of the chairs facing the massive desk dominating the space. An excellent place for intimidating employees.

      “No, no. Not there.”

      Her eyebrows shot up at the impatience lacing his words. She always sat in one of those chairs during a meeting with him. Just like he always sat in his elegant black chair behind the large expanse of gleaming wood, maintaining the proper distance between a denizen of the construction world and his employees. Always.

      “Yes, I know. I’m excessively full of what’s proper, establishing my authority and all that crap. Come sit over here.”

      The conversation area he indicated faced the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. She glanced again at the low-backed chairs in front of his polished desk. Uncertainty sat low and uncomfortable in her belly. Her stomach rolled. Shoulders back, head erect, Grace walked over and sat in a comfortable chair.

      She’d always assumed the hard chairs were intentional. A subtle hint that relaxing in his presence was unacceptable.

      He placed the full coffee cup and saucer on the table between them, then settled in a neighboring chair. “Is that the report?”

      “Yes.” She handed the paperwork to him. “I’m sorry it’s late, Mr. Duncan.”

      “Don’t worry about it.”

      Eyes widening, she clenched her jaw to keep her mouth from dropping open.

      He tossed the report on a little table. “I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

      “No, sir.”

      He nodded, staring out the windows. It was a beautiful view. Neo-classic buildings sat with cheerful disregard amongst high-rise glass structures like theirs. The oldest had been there since the city’s birth well over one hundred years ago.

      The trees were still stark and barren despite the

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