The Boss and the Plain Jayne Bride
“Jayne, will you have dinner with me tonight?”
Books by Heather MacAllister
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
Copyright
“Jayne, will you have dinner with me tonight?”
She headed for her desk. “I’m free, but let me check with Mr. Waterman. I know he’d like to be there....”
Garrett stepped forward and covered her hand with his. “I don’t want to have dinner with Jayne, the accountant,” he said near her ear. “I want to have dinner with Jayne, the woman.”
Jayne, the woman, was flabbergasted. “You do?”
Garrett laughed softly. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“Well...yes.”
“Why? We’ve spent days working long hours together and I’d like to get to know you better.”
He made having dinner with her sound so logical. Jayne excelled at logic. “I’d love to.”
Texan Heather MacAllister lives with her electrical-engineer husband and two live-wire sons whose antics inspire her humorous take on love and life. She writes for both Harlequin Romance® and Harlequin® Temptation®, finding that the main difference between her stories for each is that the Romance heroines find love, but love finds the Temptation heroines. And of course, they all live happily ever after.
Books by Heather MacAllister
HARLEQUIN ROMANCE
3386—UNDERCOVER LOVER*
3421—TEMPORARY TEXAN*
3445—MARRY ME*
3466—HIS CINDERELLA BRIDE’
3487—MARRY IN HASTE*
3513—THE BACHELOR AND THE BABIES
3535—HAND-PICKED HUSBAND
*written as Heather Allison
Don’t miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the following address for information on our newest releases
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
The Boss and the Plain Jayne Bride
Heather MacAllister
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
CHAPTER ONE
“ONE hundred twenty-three thousand dollars sitting in a dormant account?” Tilting back in the executive chair, Mr. Waterman raised a silver eyebrow. “I see you’ve been your usual diligent self, Jayne.”
“Just doing my job.” Until recently—until last night, in fact—the dry acknowledgment from Jayne Nelson’s boss would have made all the sacrificed evenings of the past week worth it. But yesterday had been her twenty-eighth birthday, and she’d spent it working overtime instead of celebrating with her friend Sylvia.
The thrill of getting faint praise from the senior partner at Pace Waterman Accountants was gone, vanishing about the same time she bit into her fourth chocolate-frosted cupcake, left over from the ones Sylvia had brought to the coffee room to mark her birthday. They’d gone stale, rather like her life.
“Nevertheless, Brock Neilson’s widow has every reason to be grateful I designated you as her accountant.” Mr. Waterman casually tossed the file he’d been examining onto the desk.
Jayne tried to remain detached, difficult since the file represented hours of tedious work.
“How did you know to look for those CDs when no one else did?” he asked.
No one else had wanted to put in the effort of auditing the past tax returns. It was a waste of time, the other accountants had told her. But Jayne had suspected something was wrong and decided to pursue her hunch on her own. It wasn’t the first time she’d done so, and it wouldn’t be the last, which was why, at the relatively tender age of twenty-seven—make that twenty-eight—Jayne found herself poised on the threshold of a vice presidency. Unfortunately Mr. Waterman didn’t want to open the door.
The unsettling thing was that she didn’t care as much as she had yesterday. Maybe it was the cupcakes she’d eaten for dinner.
Jayne picked up the file she’d brought to his attention. “In 1992, there was a steep drop-off in Mr. Neilson’s reported interest income, which his former accountants explained by maturing certificates of deposit. I checked and there was never any record of the CDs in his subsequent financial statements, nor was there an investment made using those funds.”
Mr. Waterman shook his head. “He had two in college and one in medical school about that time. My guess is he planned to use the cash for the kids.”
Jayne withheld her comment on the financially questionable decision to leave a chunk of cash sitting without drawing interest. “Anyway, there wasn’t a record of this money in his financial assets when he hired Pace Waterman,” she assured him.
Again Mr. Waterman shook his head. “Remarkable piece of detective work. My congratulations.” He stood and offered Jayne his hand.
Just remember this at my annual review, she thought as she shook it and returned to her office.
“Amazing Jayne strikes again,” said a familiar voice behind her.
Jayne grinned. “Listening at the door, Sylvia?”
“Naturally. It was open.” Sylvia Dennison, a secretary with the insurance company three floors above Pace Waterman, and Jayne’s best friend, fell into step beside her. She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “Hey, that sounded pretty good back there. What did you do this time?”
Jayne tapped the file folder. “Found money for a widow.”
“That was noble of you.”
“And not just any widow—the widow of one of Mr. Waterman’s oldest and dearest friends.”
“Way to go, Jayne! Noble and self-serving at the same time.” Sylvia gave her a look of approval.
Jayne pushed open the door to her office. “Must you make everything sound sordid?”
“Oh, please. Don’t tell me you didn’t think of it.” Sylvia followed her into the office, flopped over the arm of Jayne’s leather couch and swung her leg back and forth. “Anyway, I suppose it was worth spending the whole week and your birthday with a calculator instead of with me.”
Jayne was busy clearing off her desk, but didn’t miss the petulance in Sylvia’s voice. “You wouldn’t have noticed, except that you’re between boyfriends.”
“I noticed because days ago you promised to help me put that aubergine rinse in my hair.” Sylvia patted her raven tresses.
Jayne had doubts about the aubergine, especially after the home perm Sylvia had insisted on giving her. Instead of full, shiny bouncy hair, she had brown dandelion fluff. Women accountants didn’t look particularly professional with dandelion fluff for hair.
“Well, anyway, we should celebrate tonight.” Sylvia bounced to her feet. “Shall we go to that new club on Richmond where the brokers hang out? Or how about the sports bar with the lawyers?”
“I can’t tonight.” And Jayne was glad because she hated trailing after Sylvia on her manhunting excursions into Houston’s stylish restaurants. “I’m teaching the June accounting seminars.”
“Jayne!” Sylvia crossed her arms and stuck out her lower lip. “Can’t they give you a break? There are a ton of accountants working here. Why do you always get stuck teaching the seminars?”
“I like teaching the seminars.” Jayne emptied her electric pencil sharpener into the wastebasket at the side of her desk.
“Try this equation—Jayne works nights equals Jayne never meets anyone.”
“Sylvia.” Jayne swept pencil shavings off her desk. “You’re sounding like my mother’s Sunday afternoon phone calls.” And they were probably both right.
A crafty smile lit Sylvia’s face. “Speaking of relatives—”
“No more blind dates!” At least not the blind dates Sylvia arranged.
“Are you still mad about Mogo?”
“As soon as I heard his name was Mogo, I should have said ‘No go.’” Most of Sylvia’s male relatives played sports. Mogo, aka Mogo the Magnificent, was a professional wrestler. Jayne’s question about whether the matches were real or fixed proved to be the evening’s conversational highlight, especially since Mogo had chosen to take her to one of his. He’d abandoned her outside the entrance to the dressing area, apparently forgetting he’d brought a date, which was fine with Jayne.
Sylvia opened her mouth, but Jayne broke in. “Want to join me for a sandwich downstairs?” Food and men were Sylvia’s two favorite topics.
She groaned. “Not the company snack bar!”
“I’ve only got an hour before class starts.”
“Jayne, let’s at least go to the Greek place across the street.”
Jayne laughed as she retrieved her purse from the bottom file cabinet drawer. “I thought there weren’t any men who ate there.”
“No eligible ones.” Sylvia trudged beside her. “They work around here and I’ve already eliminated them as possibilities.”
Ten minutes later, Jayne and Sylvia, seated in a vinyl booth next to the window, were trying to resist a bowl of salty, oily olives—Sylvia more successfully than Jayne.
“Jayne, fat and salt equal secretary’s butt.”
Jayne dropped the black olive. “You don’t have to keep talking to me in equations.”
“You’re an accountant. You understand equations.” Sylvia snatched the bread basket away from Jayne’s creeping hand. “No bread, either!”
“I like olives! I like bread!” Jayne wailed. She inhaled, her eyes closed. “Warm, yeasty, crusty...I can smell it from here!”
The basket thudded to the table. “Heads up. New waiter.”
“I suppose you’re not going to let me order moussaka, either,” Jayne grumbled as an attractive dark eyed man approached.
“Perish the thought.”
While Sylvia simpered at the waiter, Jayne defiantly snuck in her order for moussaka and ate an olive for good measure. Then another. She was reaching for the bread basket when she saw him.
The most gorgeous man in the universe, or at the very least in Texas, stepped from the evening sunshine into Garcia’s Greek Eats. Impossibly, stunningly handsome, he paused and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the interior.
Jayne’s heart hammered with such force she felt the tremor in her hands. The man was out of Sylvia’s sight, or Jayne knew the waiter who had captured her friend’s interest would be forgotten. In fact, when Sylvia did spot this man, she’d probably kill Jayne for not pointing him out to her earlier.
But Jayne couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe and didn’t want to share the beautiful man, though he was so far above her orbit, he was more dream than reality.
The restaurant owner approached the sable-haired god and led him to a table on the opposite side of the room where he sat in profile to her and still behind Sylvia.
Jayne swallowed, her mouth dry and brackish from the olives.
“Jayne?” Sylvia gave her a strange look.
“What?” With difficulty, Jayne dragged her gaze away from the Gorgeous One.
“I’ll bring more bread,” the waiter said smoothly.
Sylvia glanced to Jayne’s bread plate where three rolls and five olive pits sat.
“Oh.” Jayne stared at rolls she didn’t remember taking and the pits of the olives she didn’t remember eating. “I’m hungry?”
With Sylvia still looking at her skeptically, Jayne bit into a roll and chewed as though she were enjoying it.
“At least you aren’t slathering them with butter.” As she spoke, Sylvia looked over Jayne’s shoulder out the window, allowing Jayne the opportunity to stare at the man undetected.
From this distance, she couldn’t make out the minute details of his appearance, but what she saw was more than enough to steal her breath. Though dressed in a casual shirt and pants, he had a sleek, well-puttogether look about him.
Toying with her roll, Jayne only half listened as Sylvia extolled the virtues of exercise and fat-free dining and warned Jayne about the dangers of cellulite in women of their age. Sylvia was nearing thirty—nearer than Jayne, but Jayne knew better than to point that out.
She sighed and ate a particularly large olive. No one was likely to see her cellulite anyway.
“Don’t think I didn’t see you eat that olive.” Sylvia interrupted her monologue. “I’ve a highly developed peripheral vision. Nothing much gets by me.”
Except the man behind her and Jayne decided not to mention him. Once or twice, he checked his watch, but he never looked their way, of course. When the waiter approached, he ordered and appeared to be dining alone. Incredible. The woman in his life—Jayne didn’t doubt there was one—shouldn’t let him go out alone. If he were in Jayne’s life, she wouldn’t let him out of her sight for a minute.
Letting Sylvia’s words waft around her, Jayne transported herself into the empty chair across from the man.
He’d raise his eyes to hers, greet her warmly and smile a smile just for her.
And she’d...
Jayne tried again. And she’d...she’d...
Nothing. She wouldn’t do anything because she’d never have the courage to be with or even speak to a man like that.
Such a man was not for her. She acknowledged this fact without self-pity. Beautiful people were attracted to other beautiful people. That was simply a law of nature intended to protect their gene pool. Others might go swimming in that pool, but would soon find they were in over their heads. Survival of the fittest, or in this case, beautifulest.
“Jayne? Are you listening to me?”
“Nope.”
“Figures.” Sylvia pointed to Jayne’s bread plate. “What is with you?”
Jayne stared at her fingers, which were buried in a mound of bread crumbs. “The bread was dry,” she declared and withdrew her hand, scattering bread crumbs and bits of crust across the table. “Really, really dry.”
“And you’re really, really distracted. Are you going to tell me about it?”
“No,” Jayne said as their dinner arrived, “I’m not.”
How could she have eaten so much? Jayne stood in the Pace Waterman conference room and regretted each and every bite of the moussaka. Well, maybe not the first half-dozen bites, but after that she should’ve quit eating and would have if Sylvia hadn’t been scolding her for ordering the heavy dish in the first place.
She was really cross with Sylvia because her scolding kept Jayne from daydreaming about the dreamboat. And then she had to leave the restaurant because of this seminar and didn’t get a chance to see the man’s full face instead of his admittedly perfect profile.
Thus, when the most gorgeous man in the universe strolled into her accounting seminar, Jayne didn’t recognize him until he turned his head to speak to the dazed woman already seated in the row. Then he sat at a student desk, looking for all the world as though he thought he belonged there.
He didn’t, of course. Spectacularly gorgeous men did not study accounting at seminars, at least not at the seminars sponsored by the Pace Waterman accounting firm. In general, gorgeous people did not study accounting at all. Jayne knew this, being an accountant herself.
In two minutes, she would have to start class. This meant that in two minutes, after she welcomed those present to Accounting for Small Businesses, the breathtaking man sitting three seats from the front would recognize his mistake, furrow his brow in attractive confusion, laugh an attractively self
deprecating laugh and excuse himself, attractively, from her life forever.
Jayne had two minutes to imprint every detail of his perfect features on her psyche. Two minutes to fuel future fantasies. It wasn’t much, but she could work with it.
Taking a step closer, she inhaled, as if to absorb his essence into her being, and let her breath out on a sigh as her eyes traced the contours of his face.
From the cleft in his chin, her gaze climbed the steep slope of his cheekbones, waded through the blue pools of his eyes, tangled in his black brows, slid down an impossibly straight nose and landed in the valley between his lips.
His lips. Jayne shivered and clutched the class roster to the bodice of her navy-blue suit Not skinny lips and not full, blatantly sensual lips; these lips were kissing lips. Athletic lips.
Jayne had never been privileged to kiss or be kissed by such a pair of lips. And even if a man of her acquaintance possessed such lips, he wouldn’t know what to do with them. Jayne doubted she would know what to do with them, either, but she was willing to learn.
Her watch beeped the hour. Lost in the valley of the shadow of his lips, Jayne tried to ignore the beep but a restless shifting and a few stray whispers among the two dozen people seated before her told her she’d better start class.
Drawing a breath, she spoke the words which would send the stunning god back to Mount Olympus. “Welcome to Small Business Accounting sponsored by the accounting firm of Pace Waterman. I’m Jayne Nelson, your instructor.” She paused, waiting for him to leave.
He regarded her with an impassive blue gaze.