In Love With The Boss

Chapter One

If there was one thing Jordan Trent hated, it was being cooped up in the rain. It rained a lot in the Northwest. It was raining now—slanting sideways across the muddy Columbia river and almost obliterating the houses tucked between the fir trees on the hills. Normally, on a day like this, Jordan would either be at the office or taking off somewhere in his red Porsche. There was always somewhere better to be than the river on a wet day. Only this wasn’t a normal day. In fact, it was probably one of the worst days Jordan could remember in his thirty-nine years.

He shifted carefully on the couch and reached for the phone. The call had to be made and he wasn’t looking forward to making it. There was just no point in putting it off any longer. Scowling, he punched out the number, then jammed the receiver to his ear.

Across town the phone rang in the plush office of Gallagher Enterprises. The line clicked open, and the low, vibrant voice of his secretary answered.

Amber Richards had the kind of looks that belonged on the cover of a girlie magazine. She had rich, auburn hair, green eyes and a body that could turn a man’s head one hundred and eighty degrees. She was also happily married to a stockbroker and her dependability, common sense and intelligence far surpassed any of Jordan’s former secretaries.

He not only relied on Amber, he genuinely liked her. He felt safe with her, secure in the knowledge that she had no designs on his money or his body. The same couldn’t be said of his former secretaries.

He’d fired more women than he cared to count because of their determined efforts to seduce him. Being single and a successful architect, he’d discovered, instantly translated into highly desirable.

Women, it appeared, did not recognize the existence of a confirmed bachelor. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that as far as most of the women he met were concerned, his healthy bank account mattered more than his buns.

It’s me, he muttered in answer to Amber’s polite query. I’m on the houseboat.

Is something wrong?

Yes, something is wrong. Her concern was somewhat comforting. She was probably the only person in the world who genuinely cared what happened to him. He liked to think it wasn’t solely because of her considerable paycheck.

You had a bad weekend?

You could say that.

I thought you were going skiing.

I did. That’s what’s wrong.

He heard the little catch in her throat. Jordan, you didn’t hurt yourself, did you?

Just a little. He stared grimly at the padding of white plaster encasing his right foot. Enough to put me out of action for a little while.

This time the pause was more prolonged. How long?

At least a month, give or take a week.

What in heaven’s name did you do?

I tried my damnedest to fly. Ended up with a broken ankle.

Oh, Jordan, no. How did you get to the houseboat?

Ambulance and cab.

Do you want me to drive you down to the house?

No, I need to be close to the office. I can’t take a whole month off and I don’t want to hobble around the office like this. I’ll need to work at home. Since I can’t drive and it would take too long to have someone drive all the way to the beach just to drop stuff off, this makes more sense. Anyway, in a small place, I won’t have to move around so much. Everything is much closer together in here. Too close, he silently added. One cramped living area, a tiny kitchen, a bedroom that was smaller than his walk-in closet at the house, and a bathroom that made getting out of his clothes a unique and sometimes painful experience—he had to be out of his mind to think he could last a month in a house smaller than a bread box.

He’d bought the River Rat for a pittance, which was all it was worth considering its rapid state of decay. He’d planned on renovating it and selling it for a significant profit. Meanwhile, the houseboat had been somewhere to crash when he was too tired to drive to his house at the beach. Little did he imagine he’d be spending an entire month on the damn wreck.

Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in a hotel suite? Amber asked, her voice heavy with doubt.

Definitely. But hotels are noisy, inconvenient and public. I don’t want anyone seeing me hobbling around like this. He could just imagine some of his female acquaintances jumping at the chance to take advantage of his vulnerability.

Amber sighed into the phone. All right. What do you want me to bring you?

A new ankle.

Jordan, be sensible. How are you going to manage? Will Mrs. Sherborne be able to help you?

Mrs. Sherborne comes to the house a couple of times a week to dust, vacuum, do the laundry and cook the only home-cooked meals I eat all week. She doesn’t know this place exists. She’d go into cardiac arrest if she saw it. Besides, I can’t see her driving an hour and a half into town.

How about a temporary housekeeper?

He tried to hold down his irritation. I don’t need someone to clean house, Amber. I’m going to be stuck here for at least four weeks. I suppose I’ll be able to work from here, but I’ll need someone close at hand... a gopher. Preferably someone who knows how to use a laptop. You’ll have your hands full keeping things under control there. You’d better get me a temp.

All right, I’ll take care of it right away.

He gave her a list of projects he wanted her to bring over, then hung up. He wished he could have stipulated that she send a male temp. He knew what she’d say to that. He could just hear her voice rising.

Jordan, dear, it’s very difficult to find a male temp. In any case, that’s discrimination, and a federal offense. We don’t want to be in trouble with the law now, do we?

Sometimes, Jordan thought irritably, Amber could sound very much like a mothering hen. He shifted the lump of concrete that used to be his foot to a more comfortable position. Well, he’d just have to be on his guard even more than usual. One hint that the temp wanted to get personal and she’d be off his boat so fast she wouldn’t have time to blink.

Jordan shook his head in disbelief. Four miserable weeks stuck inside this peanut shell on floats. It didn’t bear thinking about. He hoped his potential gopher had a sense of humor and the temperament of a saint. He had a nasty feeling he wasn’t going to be very good company for a while.

Sadie Milligan peered through the rain-washed windshield and wished she’d had new wipers put on the car. Actually, she’d promised herself she wouldn’t spend another penny on the old clunker. Instead, she was saving frantically to buy a reliable used model with good mileage.

She’d never been down to this part of the river, and the road was difficult to follow. It was more like a mountain trail than a road. She could hear the crunch of the tires on the gravel and winced. That would probably take care of what little tread she had left on them.

The branches of a willow brushed along her window, making her jump. Although it was late March, the heavy clouds made the day as dark as the middle of December. Ahead of her rain slanted across the road, obscuring whatever lay in her path. She had to be close to the water, she thought worriedly. She only hoped she wouldn’t drive smack into the river.

A splash of blue up front alerted her. She’d been told to watch for a bright blue mailbox, and there it was, adding a dash of color to the drooping shrubs and wet grass. She parked gingerly beside the mailbox, then peered through the windows in the direction of the river.

A dark shape loomed up out of the gloom. She couldn’t help a little spasm of excitement. She’d never been on a houseboat before. Actually, she thought, it all sounded rather romantic. She could just imagine herself lying in bed at night, gently rocking, listening to the river lap against the hull. Not that she was likely to spend a night on this one, she hastily reminded herself.

Climbing out of the car, she winced as rain dripped down inside the collar of her windbreaker. Mrs. Simpson, the dour, no-nonsense supervisor at the Helping Hands Agency, had given her terse instructions about her assignment.

A month’s contract, involving general office work, most of it on computer, and running errands for someone called Jordan Trent. That was all. Do not work overtime, do not volunteer to do extra work. Keep careful check of her hours, and send in her reports every Wednesday.

Sadie was told nothing about Mr. Trent, other than he had broken his ankle and needed assistance with his office work. She was not a nurse, Mrs. Simpson had unnecessarily reminded her, neither was she a housekeeper. She was to accept only those assignments that fell into the category of general office work or essential errands.

Sadie found the woman a little intimidating. She hoped Jordan Trent turned out to be a little more agreeable. Hooking her purse over her shoulder, she turned her jacket collar up over her ears and tramped down the path toward the murky river.

She found the houseboat somewhat of a disappointment. Not at all what she’d fondly had in mind. Badly in need of a coat of paint, it looked little more than a rundown shack on a raft. A rickety veranda ran around the corner in each direction, and a faded checkered curtain covered the one window she could see.

The whole place creaked and groaned like an exhausted old man on his deathbed. Shivering at the macabre thought, Sadie stepped along the wide ramp that led to the doorway. Look on the bright side, she told herself. The job promised to be interesting, and a welcome change from the last assignment in a crowded, stuffy office in the heart of downtown Portland.

Behind her, the wind rustled the pine needles and slapped little rivulets of water among the swirling grasses at the river’s edge. The mist was so thick she could barely make out the sullen hills beyond the opposite shore. Strange how different the river could look in the rain, she thought. It had seemed so tranquil and pretty in the sunlight.

The door of the houseboat appeared to have no bell. She pounded on the worn woodwork, listening to the wind whistling around the dilapidated walls. There was another, more modern-looking houseboat moored farther down. The bend in the river and the overhanging shrubbery hid anything else from view.

In the opposite direction lay the city, but it was too dark and hazy to see more than vague shapes in the mist. For a second or two Sadie felt a little apprehensive. She banished her qualms by pounding on the door again.

In the eerie silence that followed, she heard ducks quacking somewhere in the distance. The damp wind found its way down her neck and she shivered. Once more she hammered on the door, wondering if she had the right house. This time she heard a faint bellow from within.

It’s open, dammit. Come on in.

With a guilty start, Sadie turned the handle. She’d forgotten about the broken ankle. The poor man was probably bedridden.

The door opened onto a small kitchen, with a door leading off to the right It wasn’t much warmer inside the houseboat. A damp, musty odor, blending with the smell of burned food, wrinkled her nose.

Dishes and glasses filled the sink, and packages of all shapes and sizes covered every available space on the narrow counter. A saucepan half filled with muddy-looking soup sat on the stove, and a slice of burned toast rested on a chipped plate against the remains of scorched scrambled eggs.

Shuddering, Sadie felt her spirits sag. Wondering what she was walking into, she stepped over a pile of old newspapers and carefully pushed open the door.

A man, propped up by sagging pillows, sat bolt upright on an ancient, beaten-up couch. One foot, heavily encased in plaster, was propped up on a torn leather ottoman. He wore a shabby tartan robe with a blanket tucked over his lap, and he stared expectantly at her as she ventured into the cluttered room.

Who’re you? he demanded, slurring his words in a deep, grating voice. The temp, I hope? About damn time, that’s all I can say.

Sadie cast an uneasy glance at the half-empty brandy bottle waving about in his hand. She hoped he hadn’t consumed the other half at that hour in the morning. Mrs. Simpson would be shocked if she knew her latest client was a drunk.

It’s only a little after nine, she said briskly. I had a little trouble finding the place. You are Mr. Trent, I presume?

Damn right I am. He narrowed silver-blue eyes at her. Can you type?

A hundred words a minute with ninety-nine percent accuracy.

Know your way around a computer?

Both Windows and DOS.

Hummph.

He studied her a moment longer, making her feel extremely self-conscious. Judging from the amount of bare chest she could see behind the gaping folds of his robe, it appeared that Mr. Trent had not yet dressed for the day.

He certainly hadn’t shaved, since a dark stubble covered his chin, and his thick, black hair tumbled in an unruly mess over his forehead. She wondered if he could shower with a cast on his foot. Probably not. He would have to use the tub.

How are you at rubbing backs? he demanded, startling her out of her thoughts. Before she could answer, however, his expression suddenly changed, becoming mournful. I can’t find my damn painkillers. He waved the bottle at her, sloshing the contents violently around in it. Been drinking brandy to kill the pain.

So I can see. Deciding to take the initiative, Sadie stepped forward and took the bottle out of his unresisting hand. It wouldn’t hurt