Christmas with her Boss (10 page)

‘Perish the thought,' Meg said, trying to sound sarcastic, but it didn't come off.

‘So will you try it?'

No, Meg thought. But she couldn't say it.

She looked at the dress, and then she also glanced in the direction William had gone. She could no longer see him.

He'd be back.

Tomorrow or the next day he'd be gone.

What the heck. It was his plastic.
I suggest
…

She was merely following her boss's orders. Only he no longer felt like her boss. He felt like something else completely.

So did she. She stared into the mirror and saw the woman she'd been two days ago behind the woman she was now. And she thought of the impossibility of going back to what she had been.

I'll be one of those elderly secretaries, she thought, totally
devoted to the boss, taking whatever he'll give. ‘Good morning, Mr McMaster, of course I'll take dictation, certainly I'll send flowers to Sarah, I suggest tiger lilies because they're what the gossip columnists say is her favourite flower.'

Meanwhile…

Meanwhile, Scotty had climbed on the roof to put Santa up himself and Letty had tried to fix it. If she'd had a regular job, where she could go home every night…

She'd told herself this was better. Working twenty-four seven for short bursts and then staying home.

She'd loved twenty-four seven. She loved working for W S McMaster. But now…

Now she'd seen William clinging to the roof, holding her grandma. Now William had held her at the hospital and she'd needed him to hold her.

Two days ago she'd been able to draw a line—that life, this life.

The lines had blurred and it frightened her.

Decisiveness had always been her strong point. She didn't have to like it but she knew when a decision had to be made. She made one now. Oh, but it hurt.

She took a deep breath. She glanced once more in the direction William had gone. Before he came back, she had to find some resolution.

She took the polka dots and disappeared into the changing room…to change.

 

She was wearing polka dots.

He'd left her wearing bloodied overalls and truly disgusting boots. She was now wearing what could only be described as a happy dress, a Christmas dress. Her boots had been replaced with white strappy stilettos and her hair, caught back with an elastic band while she'd done the milking, was now a riot of bouncing curls, caught on the side with a tiny red rosette.

She looked about ten years younger.

She looked breathtakingly lovely.

Meg was gazing into the mirror as if she, too, hardly recognised herself. She met his reflected gaze and turned slowly to face him, and he thought if he hadn't caught her in this she might have fled and taken it off.

‘It's…it's silly,' she said.

‘It's lovely,' the shop assistant said definitely. ‘We've found two more that are just as pretty, only she won't buy three. She's reluctant to buy even this one, but I persuaded her to try it on again. With shoes.'

‘Well done,' he said, walking closer. ‘I can see it needs shoes.'

‘It's silly,' Meg said again.

‘It's not,' William said, somehow managing to smile at the shop assistant without taking his eyes off Meg. ‘You look lovely.'

She flushed. ‘I feel like something out of Hollywood.'

‘Great things come out of Hollywood. We'll take it.' He still hadn't taken his eyes from her. ‘And the other two. Wrap the others. She'll leave this one on.'

‘William…'

‘Say “Yes, Mr. McMaster”.'

‘No!'

‘You're intending to go to a classy restaurant wearing overalls?'

‘I'm not going to any classy restaurant.' Her new resolution hadn't included socialising. She'd have a sandwich on the run and then go back to the hospital. Then she'd get through Christmas. She'd tell him her decision as she put him on the flight back to New York.

A withered spinster gazing adoringly after her boss… She hauled the conjured vision back into her head and held on to it.

Her decision was right, no matter how much it hurt. She had to move forward.

But he was still thinking restaurants. ‘Of course we need to go to a restaurant,' he said, sounding wounded. ‘I've bought new clothes too, so we're both dressed up. You like my chinos?'

He was smiling at her. Oh, that smile…

‘They're fine, but…'

‘Hey, I said you're lovely.'

‘Okay, you're lovely too,' she muttered. ‘But we don't need to match.'

‘Better that we don't, I think,' he said softly. ‘But we'll buy the dresses anyway.'

M
EG
walked out of the shop feeling as if she were in a freeze-frame from a fifties movie. William put his hand in the small of her back to guide her through the crush of shoppers and the feeling of unreality deepened.

‘Don't think about it,' he said, obviously sensing how self-conscious she felt. ‘The crowds were looking when you were covered in blood. They're still looking, but now they're smiling. Let's concentrate on the important things. Like breakfast.'

She'd given up fighting. A sandwich on the run felt good, but anything would do. She was so hungry she was likely to keel over. If he had to take her to a restaurant, then so be it.

‘Yes, please,' she said, expecting him to take her into one of the small local restaurants. But instead he ushered her back into the car—how did this man manage to get a park when the whole world was looking for a park today?—and she almost groaned. She wanted to eat
now
.

But she'd worked for too long for this man to complain when meals took too long coming, so she stifled her groan and folded her hands in her lap and thought she looked ridiculous. She should be smiling and waving. But then they should be driving an expensive sports car instead of Letty's farm wagon. At least the silencer was fixed, she thought, and then she saw where they were going and she forgot about anything else.

He was driving up to the cliff above the town. He was taking her to the most expensive restaurant in the district.

She'd never been here.

‘This place is… Oh, it's where you go to celebrate wedding anniversaries. When you're rich. They don't do breakfast,' she breathed.

‘They do today. I rang them. I spoke to the chef personally. Bacon and eggs and fried bread and strawberries and fresh juice and sourdough toast and home-made butter… We had a long discussion. Anything we want, we can have.'

‘If we pay.'

‘If I pay,' he said gently and he was out of the car, striding round to her side and handing her out as if she was one of his dates instead of Miss Jardine, his PA.

He never handed her out of his car. He opened doors for her, the natural courtesy of a polite man, but to walk around and help her out of the car… no. She was his employee and the extra cosseting was reserved for…his women?

She no longer fitted either category, she thought, as she brushed past him and his touch made her feel even more as if this was not real, it was something out of a movie. The lines were blurring.

But if the lines were blurring… The question was huge and for some reason it was drumming in her head—insistent, urgent. There was never going to be a good time to ask—so why not now?

‘Who's Elinor?' she asked, and he looked at her for a long moment and then smiled and shrugged and led her inside.

Maybe the lines were blurring for him too, she thought, and then she thought, all the more reason why her decision was the only possible one.

‘I'll tell you over breakfast,' he said simply, and she knew she was right.

The restaurant was almost empty. This place started lunch
at what it deemed a respectable hour and this didn't quite qualify. Maybe they wouldn't have taken his booking if he hadn't…thrown his credit card around? Thrown his name around?

‘You'll have the paparazzi in your face before you know it,' she said darkly and he shook his head.

‘You think the paparazzi has nothing better to do on Christmas Eve than take photos of me? I'm low-key in the celebrity world.'

He was, she thought, but only because he created little stir. He didn't do the society thing. Even though his name was known worldwide, for the most part he deliberately kept away from cameras. He was seen in the celebrity magazines, stepping back into the shadows as his woman of the moment smiled and posed. If the women he escorted started to like the limelight too much, he moved on. Was this why she hadn't heard of Elinor until now? Did the woman have sense enough to stay low profile?

She shouldn't have asked. She had no business asking.

She really wanted to know.

The head waiter was leading them to what must surely be the best table in the house, in an alcove which gave a semblance of privacy but where the view stretched away across the ocean, as far as the eye could see. There were windsurfers on the waves below them. Meg thought suddenly, how long had it been since she'd swum?

Their farm was almost an hour's drive from the sea. There was never any time to indulge in anything so frivolous. Maybe
when
she changed jobs…

The thought was inexorably bleak.

‘Eggs and bacon and toast and fruit and juice and coffee,' William said to the waiter. ‘Any way you want to serve them, as long as it starts coming fast. Is that okay with you, Miss Jardine?'

Miss Jardine. It sounded wrong. Maybe it sounded wrong to William too, because he was frowning.

‘Yes. Wonderful,' she managed.

The waiter sailed off as if he'd just been given an order which was a triumph of creation all on its own—how much had William paid to get this table, to get a breakfast menu, to simply be here? To take his woman somewhere beautiful.

She was not his woman.

Neither was she Miss Jardine.

Deep breath. Just do it. ‘Mr McMaster, this might not be the time to tell you, but I think I should,' she said and she faltered. Was she mad? Yes, she was. She knew it, but she still knew that she had no choice. ‘I need to resign.'

William had glanced out to sea as a windsurfer wiped out in spectacular fashion. He turned back to face her and his expression had stilled.

‘Resign?'

‘I'll train my replacement,' she said hurriedly. ‘I won't leave you without anyone. But you're going back to the States anyway. If you're gone for a couple for months I'll have someone sorted before you return. I'll work side by side with her then for a couple of weeks until I'm sure you're happy, but…'

‘I hire my own PAs,' he snapped.

‘So you do. Then, please, you need to find my replacement.'

‘Can I ask why?'

There was the question. A thousand answers crowded in but he was watching her face—and this was William… No, this was W S McMaster…and she knew him and he knew her and only honesty would do.

‘The work we do…we need to travel side by side. We need to be totally dependent on each other but we need to stay detached. Today… Up on the roof I got undetached.'

‘Meaning?'

‘Meaning I don't think of you as Mr McMaster any more. I think of you as the man who saved my grandma.'

His gaze didn't leave her face. ‘So take a pay cut,' he said at last. ‘I don't see how abandoning me is showing your gratitude.'

‘You know what I mean.'

He did. She saw a flicker behind his eyes that might almost be read as pain if she didn't know how aloof this man was. How he stood apart.

‘There's no need to leave.'

‘I think there is.'

‘You're under contract,' he snapped.

‘No.' She met his gaze calmly, hoping he couldn't guess the tumult behind her words. ‘My contract's up for renewal. It expires next month.'

‘You're responsible for keeping contracts up to date.'

‘So I am. So I have. My contract expires. It's not to be renewed, so we move on.'

‘So you tell me now?' he snapped. ‘And you expect us to calmly go on sharing Christmas when you no longer work for me?'

She flinched, but there was no avoiding what needed to be said. She knew him well enough now to accept the only way forward was honesty.

‘It's the only way I can go on sharing Christmas,' she said simply. ‘Feeling the way I do.'

‘Feeling…'

‘Like you're not my boss any more.'

‘This is nonsense.'

‘It's not nonsense,' she said stubbornly. ‘I'm sorry but there it is. I've quit. If you want me to keep working until you get a replacement…'

‘That means you'll still be working over Christmas.'

‘I'm returning my Christmas bonus.' She glanced down at her dress. ‘I'll take these in the form of severance pay. You won't be out of pocket.'

‘What nonsense is this? You can't afford the grand gesture.'

‘It's not a grand gesture,' she said stiffly. ‘It's what I need to do. I can't afford not to.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘It means not everything's about money.' She hesitated. ‘Who's Elinor?' she asked again and his brows snapped down in a sharp, dark line of anger.

‘Is that what this is about?'

‘You mean am I, your PA, jealous of a woman called Elinor?' She managed a smile at that one. ‘Of course I'm not. All I'm saying is that the lines between personal and professional have been blurred. Last week I wouldn't have dared ask that question—I wouldn't want to. However, suddenly I want to know why you never had a dog when you were a kid. I want to know how you learned to climb when you were a boy. And, yes, I do want to know about Elinor.' She hesitated. ‘Maybe this can't make sense to you, but a week ago I didn't mind…that you seemed aloof and a bit…unhappy.'

‘I'm not unhappy,' he said, startled, and she thought about it. ‘Okay, not unhappy,' she conceded. ‘Wrong word, but I don't know what the word is. Just…holding yourself tight against the world, when letting the world in could make you happy.'

And he got it, just like that. ‘Like caring about Scott and Letty?'

‘Like caring about Scott and Letty.'

‘And if anything happens to them?'

‘Then my world falls apart.'

‘Then that's dumb. You can't afford to think like that.'

‘Why not? That's all there is.'

‘Emotional nonsense.'

‘So who's Elinor?'

‘It's none of your business.'

‘It's not,' she agreed. ‘And as my boss you can tell me to mind my own. As a casual acquaintance you can tell me that as well. But now I'm your hostess for Christmas, and you saved my grandma's life. So I owe you and you owe me and I really want to know that there's someone in your life who can take that horrid, reserved look away from your face.'

He stared at her, nonplussed. She managed to meet his gaze and hold. This wasn't just about her, she thought. There was something she had to reach…something it was important to reach.

He'd saved Letty. She owed it to him to try.

But then breakfast arrived. The smell reached her before the meal, wafting across the room as a delicious, tantalising siren call. A couple of early lunch diners were being ushered to their tables. She saw their noses wrinkle with appreciation and she thought—mine, hands off.

She turned back to William, and the same thought flickered.
Mine…
Only it was a stupid, stupid thought. It was why she had to get out.

Maybe she didn't want to know who Elinor was. Personal or not, boss or…friend?…she didn't have the right.

But she wasn't retracting and her question hung.

And it seemed he'd decided to tell her. The meal was set before them and he started to talk even before he started to eat. There was anger beneath his words, an edge of darkness, but the words were coming out all the same.

‘Elinor's a foster mother in Manhattan,' he said. ‘She's a lovely, warm Afro-American lady with a heart bigger than Texas. She's old enough to retire but there are always children who need her. Right now she's fostering Ned and Pip.
Two years ago she took them in while their mother supposedly undertook a court-ordered rehab, but instead she robbed a drug store, with violence. She's been in prison ever since and she doesn't contact them; she treats them with complete indifference. Elinor's trying to persuade her to give them up for adoption but she won't. So Elinor's the only mother they know.'

‘And…you?' she asked, stunned.

‘I met Elinor when I agreed to sponsor the Manhattan Foster-Friends programme. It's an organisation designed to give foster carers support, for people who'd love to help but who only have limited time to give. So Elinor and the children have become my… Foster-Friends. I'd promised to take them out for Christmas.'

‘I see,' she whispered, and she did see. Sort of. So the image of a sleek, sterile Manhattan apartment wasn't right. Or maybe it was right; it was just that he moved out from it in a way she hadn't expected.

‘So what will they do now?' she asked, feeling dreadful—for Elinor, for Pip and Ned, and for William himself.

‘Elinor has said not to worry. She'll give them Christmas. They don't depend on me.'

‘Oh,' she said in a small voice.

‘Eat your breakfast, Meg,' he said gently and she turned her attention to her plate, though the enjoyment wasn't in it now. Or not so much.

It did, indeed, look wonderful. Pleasure laced with guilt.

‘I'm sorry I didn't get you home,' she said.

‘It's not your fault. Eat.'

Eat. She'd almost forgotten she was hungry. Or maybe not. She was fickle, she thought, piercing an egg and watching the yolk ooze across the richly buttered toast. Mmm.

She glanced up and William was watching her and she thought, with a tiny frisson of something she was far too
sensible to feel—
Elinor's a retirement age foster mother. And William cares about kids.

But William only cared about these kids part-time. In the bits he had available. She knew he was out of the country eight months out of twelve.

The coldness settled back—the bleak certainty that this man walked alone and would walk alone for ever. There was nothing she could do about it. She'd resigned. She didn't have to watch him self-destruct.

But maybe he was right. Maybe he wasn't self-destructing—maybe it was she who was putting herself out there to be shot down with emotional pain.