were people squashed every which way, in a train taking them who knew where?
He was heading into the unknown, with his PA.
She didn’t even look like his PA, he thought as the interminable train journey proceeded, and even the Berswood deal wasn’t enough to hold his attention. It seemed she’d brought her luggage to the office so she could make a quick getaway. Once he’d grudgingly accepted her invitation, she’d slipped into the Ladies and emerged…different.
His PA normally wore a neat black suit, crisp white blouse and sensible black shoes with solid heels. She wore her hair pulled tightly into an elegant chignon. He’d never seen her with a hair out of place.
She was now wearing hip-hugging jeans, pale blue canvas sneakers—a little bit worn—and a soft white shirt, open necked, with a collar but no sleeves.
What was more amazing was that she’d tugged her chignon free, and her bouncing chestnut curls were flowing over her shoulders. And at her throat was a tiny Christmas angel.
The angel could have been under her corporate shirt for weeks, he thought, stunned at the transformation. She looked casual. She looked completely unbusinesslike—and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like being on this train. He didn’t like it that his PA was chatting happily to the woman beside her about who knew what?
He wasn’t in control, and to say he wasn’t accustomed to the sensation was an understatement.
William McMaster had been born in control. His parents were distant, to say the least, and he’d learned early that nursery staff came and went. If he made a fuss, they went. He seldom did make a fuss. He liked continuity; he liked his world running smoothly.
His PA was paid to make sure it did.
Meg had come to him with impeccable references. She’d graduated with an excellent commerce degree, she’d moved up the corporate ladder in the banking sector and it was only when her personal circumstances changed that she’d applied for the job with him.
‘I need to spend more time with my family,’ she’d said and he hadn’t asked more.
Her private life wasn’t his business.
Only now it was his business. He should have asked more questions. He was trapped with her family, whoever her family turned out to be.
While back in New York…
He needed to contact Elinor, urgently, but he couldn’t call her now. It was three in the morning her time. It’d have to wait.
The thought of contacting her made him feel ill. To give such disappointment…
‘There’s less than an hour to go,’ Meg called across the aisle and, to his astonishment, she sounded cheerful. ‘Dandle a baby if you’re bored. I’m sure the lady beside you would be grateful.’
‘I couldn’t let him do that.’ The young mother beside him looked shocked. ‘I’d spoil his lovely suit.’
He winced. He’d taken off his jacket but he still looked corporate and he knew it. He had suits and gym gear. Nothing else.
Surely that couldn’t be a problem. But…
Where were they going?
He’d had visions of a suburban house with a comfortable spare room where he could lock himself in and work for three days. He’d pay, so he wouldn’t have to be social; something he’d be forced to be if he stayed with any of Melbourne’s social set. But now…Where was she taking him?
He was a billionaire. He did not have problems like this.
How did you get off a train?
There was a no alcohol policy on the train, which was just as well as the carriage was starting to look like a party. It was full of commuters going home for Christmas, holidaymakers, everyone escaping the city and heading bush.
Someone started a Christmas singalong, which was ridiculous, but somehow Meg found herself singing along too.
Was she punch-drunk?
No. She was someone who’d lost the plot but there was nothing she could do about it. She had no illusions about her job. She’d messed things up and, even though she was doing the best she could, William McMaster had been denied his Christmas and she was responsible.
Worse, she was taking him home. He hadn’t asked where home was. He wasn’t interested.
She glanced across the aisle at him and thought he so didn’t belong on this train. He looked…
Fabulous, she admitted to herself, and there it was, the thing she’d carefully suppressed since she’d taken this job. W S McMaster was awesome. He was brilliant and powerful and more. He worked her hard but he paid magnificently; he expected the best from her and he got it.
And he was so-o-o sexy. If she wasn’t careful, she knew she stood every chance of having a major crush on the guy. But she’d realised that from the start, from that first interview, so she’d carefully compartmentalised her life. He was her boss. Any other sensation had to be carefully put aside.
And she’d learned from him. W S McMaster had compartments down to a fine art. There was never any hint of personal interaction between employer and employee.
But now there needed to be personal interaction. W S McMaster was coming home to her family.
He’d better be nice to Scotty.
He didn’t have to be nice to anyone.
Yes, he did, she thought. For the next few days her boundaries needed to shift. Not to be taken away, she reminded herself hastily. Just moved a little. She needed to stop thinking about him as her boss and start thinking about him as someone who should be grateful to her for providing emergency accommodation.
She’d made a start, deliberately getting rid of her corporate gear, making a statement that this weekend wasn’t entirely an extension of their work relationship.
He could lock himself in his room for the duration, she thought. She’d sent a flurry of texts to Letty on the subject of which room they’d put him in. The attic was best. There was a good bed and a desk and a comfy chair. It had its own small bathroom. The man was a serious workaholic. Maybe he’d even take his meals in his room.
‘He’s not singing,’ the elderly woman beside her said. Meg had struck up an intermittent conversation with her, so she knew the connection. ‘Your boss. Is he not happy?’
‘He’s stuck in Australia because of the airline strike,’ Meg said. ‘I suspect he’s homesick.’
Homesick. She’d spoken loudly because of the singing, but there was a sudden lull between verses and somehow her words hit silence. Suddenly everyone was looking at William.
‘Homesick,’ the woman beside Meg breathed, loud enough for everyone to hear; loud enough to catch William’s attention. ‘Oh, that’s awful. Do you have a wife and kiddies back home?’
‘I…no,’ William said, clearly astonished that a stranger could be so familiar.
‘So it’ll just be your parents missing you,’ the woman said. ‘Oh, I couldn’t bear it. Where’s home?’
‘New York.’ The two syllables were said with bluntness bordering on rudeness, but the woman wasn’t to be deflected.
‘New York City?’ she breathed. ‘Oh, where? Near Central Park?’
‘My apartment overlooks Central Park,’ he conceded, and there was an awed hush.
‘Will it be snowing there?’ someone asked, and Meg looked at her boss’s grim face and answered for him. She’d checked the forecast. It was part of her job.
‘The forecast is for snow.’
‘Oh, and the temperature here’s going to be boiling.’