gridlocked and it’s four blocks.’
‘I will have privacy at this place?’ he demanded again, suddenly suspicious.
‘At my home,’ she said, goaded. ‘Yes, you will.’
He hesitated. ‘And your family…’
‘They’ll be glad of the extra income,’ she said, knowing that this at least was true.
And it seemed it was the right thing to say. He was moving on.
’Don’t think I’m accepting this with any degree of complacency,’ he snapped. ‘We’ll discuss this debacle after Christmas. But for now…let’s just get it over with.’
Where was she taking him?
Maybe he should have paid attention, but he’d stalked back into his office and worked until she’d decreed it was time to go. Then he’d walked beside her to the station and stayed silent as she organised tickets. He’d been too angry to do anything else, and too caught up in work. The Berswood faxes had come through just as he left, and he’d spotted a loophole that would have his lawyers busy for weeks.
Had they really thought he wouldn’t notice such a problem?
As he walked to the station he was planning his course of attack—and maybe that was no accident. Burying himself in work had always been his way to block out the world, and he was not looking forward to the next three days. Three days immersed in his work, with little to alleviate it, with no hotel gym to burn energy…And missing Elinor and the kids…That hurt.
At least he had the Berswood contract to work on, he told himself as he strode beside his PA, trying to think the legal implications through as she purchased tickets and hurried to the train. Then as the train pulled out, the announcement came through that the train destination was four hours away. What the…?
He and Meg had been forced to sit across the aisle from each other. He looked across at her in alarm. ‘Four hours?’
‘We get off earlier,’ she called. ‘Two and a half hours.’
Two and a half hours?
He couldn’t even grill her. He sat hard against the window with barely enough room to balance his laptop. Beside him, a woman was juggling two small children, one on her knee and one in a carrycot in the aisle. Meg had someone else’s child on her lap. There 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