Misbehaving with the Millionaire: The Millionaire's Misbehaving Mistress. Kimberly LangЧитать онлайн книгу.
Cinderella
Gwen reached for her coffee cup. Empty. She’d need at least another cup before she was awake enough to deal with teenage angst. She swiveled out of her chair and headed to the kitchen for a refill to fortify her before she waded in to the dangerous waters of adolescent controversy.
In the nine months she’d served as Miss Behavior, Teen Etiquette Expert on the TeenSpace Web site, she’d been embroiled in enough melodrama to write her own teenage soap opera. She’d signed on thinking she’d be answering simple questions like who asks whom to the prom or who pays for dinner. How wrong she was. The complexities of seating charts were child’s play in comparison to the day-today drama of high school.
The coffee carafe was still half-full as she pulled it off the warmer and poured another extra-large cup. Her experience with teenage dramatics had been vicarious at best. She’d been the “good” daughter—except that one time—leaving her sister Sarah to reap Mother’s wrath over her outlandish behavior. Funny how now, after all these years, she was still standing on the outskirts of the fray and trying to mediate the peace.
A yowl was Gwen’s only warning as Letitia jumped from behind the pie safe to attack the ears of Gwen’s bunny slippers, only to land claws first on her ankle instead. Coffee sluiced over her hand as she jumped, splattering to the floor around the black and white cat. Letitia hissed at the coffee puddles, took one last swipe at the slippers and bolted out of the kitchen.
“You’re going to get burned doing that, you silly cat.” Or declawed. This was a new trick from the previously laid-back Letitia. A gift from her sister, the new slippers with their oversize ears had pushed the cat over the edge. After five days of this, her ankles looked like she’d been attacked by a ravenous horde of three-inch vampires. The slippers were comfortable, not to mention cute, but not worth the constant battle. She left the slippers in the kitchen for Letitia to attack at her leisure and went back to her computer.
Stifling the urge to start with “With friends like that, who needs enemies,” Gwen typed out her response for Cinderella and posted all five of today’s questions and answers to the site before logging out of her Miss Behavior account and turning her attention to the mail on her desk. Miss Behavior had been an instant Internet success, tripling the hits to TeenSpace in the last six months, and her real-life consulting business was benefiting from the popularity of the column. As much as she hated it sometimes, practically every debutante in Dallas had her on speed dial.
In addition to bills and a few checks her bank account desperately needed, the morning’s snail mail brought yet another plaque of thanks from the Victorian Guild for her work with the current debutante class. She’d earned a plaque this year; that group of debs had been the worst yet. Just getting them to spit out their gum and turn off their cell phones had taken most of her patience.
She scanned her office, debating where she had room for it. Wall space was at a premium as debutante class photos, thank-you plaques and other memorabilia competed for a place. There was space over her certificates from some of the best protocol schools in the country, but she really didn’t want anything relating to her current work next to them.
She sighed. If her classmates could see her now. Those certificates—many awarded with honors as the top student in her class—hung next to her degree from George Washington, all of which needed dusting. She was trained to work with politicians, heads of state and corporate bigwigs; instead, she spent her time with debutantes and cotillion clubs.
One day, she’d be able to quit teaching spoiled, rich teenagers to eat without their elbows on the table and go back to working with grown-ups in serious business.
Please, God.
For now, though, the teenagers of Texas were paying her rent. She pulled her file on the group of Junior League members who would be taking their daughters to D.C. next month. Teenage girls meeting senators was at least one step closer to getting back on track. She should be counting her blessings.
The three short rings of her business line caught her attention. She sat up straight, smiled and answered before the second set of rings finished.
“Good morning. Everyday Etiquette. This is Gwen Sawyer speaking.”
“Miss Sawyer, this is Nancy Tucker calling from William Harrison’s office at HarCorp International.” The voice was cool, smooth and undeniably professional.
Gwen’s heart beat double-time at the woman’s words. She’d been trying to get her foot in the door at HarCorp for months. That dragon in Human Resources seemed so hell-bent on ignoring her proposals, she’d almost given up. A squeal of glee wanted to escape, but she cleared her throat and concentrated on sounding just as professional as Ms. Tucker.
“Yes, Ms. Tucker, how may I help you?”
“Mr. Harrison would like to meet with you to discuss contracting your services. He realizes it’s very short notice, but he could meet with you this afternoon at two, if you are available.”
Adrenaline rushed through her system, and she began pulling files of proposals from her desk drawer. Available? She’d cancel a funeral to be there. Forget the HR dragon; the boss himself wanted to see her. “Two o’clock would be fine.”
“Wonderful. I’ll let the receptionist know to expect you.” The carefully modulated tones didn’t change.
“Thank you. I’ll see you then.” Only when the phone was securely in its cradle did Gwen release the squeal choking her.
This was it. Her days in debutante hell were finally over. After five long years of penance, she’d finally get the chance to restart her career. Ms. Tucker hadn’t mentioned what kind of service HarCorp was looking for, but Gwen didn’t care. If Will Harrison wanted to talk to her, it would have to be something important. Hadn’t she seen an article in the paper not long ago that HarCorp was moving into the Asian market? Had someone passed along her proposals to the boss himself?
Talk about dream come true time… The Junior League file went back into the drawer, and she pulled out her folder on HarCorp and the ignored-until-now proposals. She didn’t have much time to prepare, but deep down, she knew one thing.
This meeting was going to change her life.
Gwen checked her watch. One-fifty. Perfect. She’d killed the last five minutes in the ladies’ room on HarCorp’s fourteenth floor, not wanting to arrive too early. One last critical look in the mirror confirmed that she presented the best image possible. The wind in the parking lot had teased a few wispy tendrils of hair out of the severe French twist she’d forced her hair into earlier, but thankfully, the damage wasn’t too drastic. She powdered the freckles on her nose one last time and hoped the nervous flush on her cheeks would fade. Applying one last sweep of gloss across her lips, she studied the image in the mirror carefully. She wouldn’t be winning any beauty pageants, but she looked responsible and mature—just like a protocol consultant should.
Camel-brown suit. Peach silk shirt. Closed-toe shoes with coordinating briefcase. Gramma Jane’s pearls for luck. Gwen closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, willing herself to project cool, collected, confident professionalism.
Even if she was quivering so badly inside she thought she might be ill.
At one fifty-five, she opened the glass doors of the executive offices and presented herself to the receptionist.
“I’m Gwen Sawyer. I have a two o’clock appointment with Mr. Harrison.”
The reception desk resembled the cockpit of the space shuttle: blinking buttons, keyboards and computer screens all within easy reach of the occupant. The nameplate on the desk identified the occupant as Jewel Madison, a detail Gwen noted so it could be added to the HarCorp file later. The Ms. Tucker she’d spoken to earlier must be Mr. Harrison’s personal secretary.
Jewel consulted a screen. “Mr. Harrison has been held up in a meeting and is running a few minutes behind. He sends his apologies. You can have a seat