In Bed with the Boss's Daughter

“God, I hope not!”

Their eyes met and held, hers wide with mock horror—or maybe not so mock. No one wanted to work directly with K.G., not even his daughter. A wry smile tugged at Jack’s lips, then her eyes slid down to his mouth, and as quickly as that the mood shifted.

He wondered if she was thinking about the other night, about how he’d kissed her in anger and frustration. Heat closed around him, along with the drift of her perfume, something unexpectedly soft and warm. He badly needed to loosen his tie, and usually that didn’t happen for at least two hours.

Floor fifteen, he noted. Still four to go.

Why was this lift so damned slow?

He made a mental note to speak to the building manager about having it serviced. Eyes trained on the indicator, he returned to the question she’d so neatly sidestepped. “What is this job, exactly?”

“He didn’t exactly say…”

Eighteen.

“…although he did mention a special PR project.”

Nineteen.

Ping.

Jack knew, without a shadow of a doubt, which project. He’d petitioned K.G. for weeks about appointing a PR person to Milson Landing, with no response. He hadn’t wanted to believe K.G. would do something this shortsighted, this foolhardy.

Taking the three steps out of the lift required enormous effort—maybe it was the weight of all that cement in his belly.

Paris flicked her hair back and started down the corridor, even though Jack was slow to follow. She wanted, so badly, to ask why he was here, what this was all about, but she didn’t want to let on how little she knew. K.G. had done his don’t-you-worry-your-pretty-little-head thing when she’d pressed him for details, and her hopes of earning his respect through a working relationship had plummeted.

Everything with Jack might have changed in six years, but nothing with K.G. had changed a bit.

She didn’t know why he’d asked her to come home, but it wasn’t because he’d suddenly recognized her true worth. The bad feeling in the pit of her stomach intensified. K.G.’s reasons involved Jack—they must, or why was he following her down the corridor? She knew he was there because the back of her neck prickled with awareness, even though the thick carpeting muted their footfalls. On this floor everything was muted, beige, restrained, as if subdued by her father’s personality.

Despite it being Saturday, K.G.’s secretary sat guarding the portals of power. Evelyn inspected Paris over the top of her glasses, her eyes beetling over the yellow dress, her mouth pursing at its length. Evelyn’s disapproval dated back to the day she’d caught Paris feeding papers from her father’s briefcase into the shredder.

Paris’s seven-year-old reasoning had been simple. If there were no papers, then her father would have no work, thus he would come to her ballet concert. Of course Evelyn hadn’t understood her reasoning, and she doubted her father had, either. He’d laughed and indulgently scrubbed her hair, but he hadn’t come to her concert.

Paris lifted her chin. “He’s expecting us,” she stated imperiously as she breezed toward K.G.’s door.

Evelyn bounded out from behind her desk and took charge of the door handle, effectively stopping any unannounced arrival.

“How about you let him know we’re here, Evelyn?” Jack suggested with a lopsided grin that seemed to render the middle-aged secretary witless.

Paris took advantage of Evelyn’s distracted state to push past.

“Good morning, princess.” K.G. came out from behind his desk, and as she offered her cheek for the obligatory kiss, Paris wished her father wouldn’t call her princess in that indulgent tone. She opened her mouth to tell him so, but he was busy shaking Jack’s hand and ushering him to the conference area at the side of his office. Paris shut her mouth and helped herself to a seat.

“I won’t be here long enough to sit,” Jack said. “I’m due down at the Landing.” He might as well have said, get to the point; that was what he meant.

“Good. You can take Paris with you. Show her round.”

Jack’s lips tightened, but he didn’t even glance her way. “No,” he said evenly. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

A moment’s pause. “She’s not dressed appropriately.”

What? Paris blinked and sat up straight. She started to object, but K.G. laughed over top of her. “One thing you’ll learn about my daughter is she never dresses appropriately.”

Paris narrowed her eyes, lifted her chin and wished she’d worn her red slip-dress. Now that little number reeked of inappropriate!

“I don’t intend learning anything about your daughter.”

Jack’s dismissive tone set her blood to slow simmer, but K.G. slapped his thigh, obviously highly entertained. “No? I distinctly remember you asking me to find you a PR rep for the Landing.”

“I need an experienced PR person.”

“Lucky for you my daughter’s been doing public relations work in London.”

“Really?”

Paris’s simmering blood turned cold with K.G.’s announcement, then surged with indignation at Jack’s reply. PR wasn’t quite what she’d been doing in London, but with Jack looking at her like she was incapable of spelling PR, let alone doing it, it was close enough. She looked coldly down her nose at him. “Is that so hard to believe?”

One eyebrow rose to a leery angle. “Who were you working for, princess?”

“I worked in my mother’s business.”

“That being?”

“My mother does parties,” she replied archly.

The eyebrow rose higher. “Drinks for a few close friends?”

“A few hundred. We put together corporate functions and product launches, fashion parades and charity balls—”

“And I’m sure you did them very well,” Jack cut in. He turned back to K.G. “I don’t need a party planner. I need someone with media savvy.”

Paris’s indignation morphed into anger. She was sick of being treated like she wasn’t in the room. She leaned forward and speared Jack with a steely eyed gaze. “Unless you’ve been living on another planet, you should know I’ve been media savvy since birth.” She shifted focus to her father and smiled sweetly. “Which magazine had exclusive rights to my christening, Daddy? Southern Society, I think.” She switched back to Jack and dropped the smile. “I’m on Christmas-card terms with every society columnist in Sydney and London—and half their editors—and while I suspect titillating snippets of gossip isn’t your job’s focus, I’m sure my contact network could stretch to find the odd serious journalist.”

The room was silent for a count of four before K.G. rubbed his hands together and announced to the room in general, “That’s settled then. Perfect.”

“Perfect…how?” Jack’s delivery was dangerously slow.

“I trust you to look after her, keep her out of trouble.”

Paris swore she heard Jack’s jaw click into inflexible mode. “I don’t have time to baby-sit your daughter.”

“Rubbish,” K.G. boomed. “Lew needs more responsibility. Start delegating. Besides, you’ll fit in with Jack’s schedule, won’t you, princess?”