Accepting the Boss's Proposal. Natasha OakleyЧитать онлайн книгу.
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“Good idea?” he asked, his eyes indicating the glass London Eye capsule they were in. “Do you think your boys are enjoying it?”
Jemima couldn’t believe he was experiencing a moment of doubt about it, but his blue eyes seemed to be waiting for an answer. “It’s brilliant. They’re loving it. Thank you.”
Then he smiled, and she wondered whether it was doing her heart any permanent damage to keep beating so erratically. For thirty years she hadn’t experienced the slightest difficulty, but since meeting Miles it had been behaving very peculiarly.
“Are you?”
She nodded, feeling unaccountably shy.
“Come see,” he said, holding out his hand.
Slowly, her heart pounding, Jemima put her hand inside his. She’d seen a movie once where they’d talked about looking down and not knowing where one hand left off and the other began. It felt a little like that, except that she knew which hand belonged to whom. His hand was dark against her fair skin. It was more that she felt as if it belonged there.
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Accepting the Boss’s Proposal
Natasha Oakley
MILLS & BOON
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Natasha Oakley told everyone at her primary school that she wanted to be an author when she grew up. Her plan was to stay at home and have her mom bring her coffee at regular intervals—a drink she didn’t like then. The coffee addiction became reality, and the love of storytelling stayed with her. A professional actress, Natasha began writing when her fifth child started to sleep through the night. Born in London, she now lives in Bedfordshire with her husband and young family. When not writing, or needed for “crowd control,” she loves to escape to antique fairs and auctions. Find out more about Natasha and her books on her Web site, www.natashaoakley.com.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
SHE’D made a mistake.
Jemima knew it the minute she saw what the woman on the reception desk was wearing. Kingsley and Bressington might sound like some staid turn-of-the-last-century law firm, but the reality was completely different—and the woman on the reception desk embodied exactly that.
She wore a rich brown T-shirt which hugged the kind of yoga-toned body that always made Jemima feel vaguely depressed. Dramatic turquoise jewellery picked out an exact shade in the receptionist’s vibrant skirt and brought out the colour of her eyes. Her look was overwhelmingly young…fashionable…and a world away from Jemima’s borrowed suit. Its aubergine colour might be perfect with her carefully straightened red hair, but it was entirely too formal for Kingsley and Bressington.
Nor was she quite sure how she could dress any differently tomorrow. Even if her own wardrobe wasn’t restricted to jeans and easy care fabrics, she was two children too late for that kind of body conscious clothing.
Jemima glanced around the acres of white walls, taking in the abstract paintings and sculptural plants in huge stainless steel pots. What the heck was she doing in a trendy place like this? If she didn’t know she’d be letting Amanda down she’d turn tail and run now. Fast. This wasn’t what she’d wanted at all.
Instead she made herself stand firm. She could hardly balk at her first placement and this was about so much more than one temporary job. This was about standing on her own feet, recovering her self-esteem, making a new beginning…All those trite phrases that everyone instinctively churned out when they were confronted by the rejected half of a ‘now divorced’ couple.
That she believed they were right was probably something to do with the British ‘stiff upper lip’ thing that was buried deep in her psyche. She twisted the gold chain at her neck. God forbid she should break down and cry. Or curl under her duvet and refuse to emerge until the world had settled back to the way it had been before. She had to be strong. For the boys. Everyone said so…
Jemima took a shaky breath and waited for the receptionist to finish her telephone call. She’d already been cast an apologetic ‘I’ll be with you in a moment’ look and watched with growing fatalism as the receptionist tapped her acrylic-tipped nails impatiently on the glass table while she explained why she couldn’t transfer the caller to the person they wanted.
She could do this. She could. Jemima made herself stand a little straighter and concentrated on exuding confidence. What was it Amanda had said about ‘transferable skills’? All those years of PTA involvement had to amount to something. Not to mention her degree, secretarial qualifications…