Marion Lennox
Christmas with her Boss
© 2005
Dear Reader,
Sigh. As I write this, Christmas is over for another year, and there’s a mixture of relief and regret as I pack up the decorations. I can still hear my grandma muttering, “It’s not worth packing them up. It comes around so fast that before you know it you’ll be pulling them out again.” And of course Grandma’s right, but from here it seems a long time till I get my next hit of Santa Clausing, carols and eggnog.
Anyway, just to keep me going until next year, I’ve indulged in the next best thing to Christmas, which is a Christmas romance for you to enjoy as you take the decorations out again. My story has all my favorite things: a hero to die for, drama, fun, dogs, cows, a birth-oh, and did I mention eggnog?
I loved locking my heroine on her farm with her to-die-for boss. A billionaire boss-what greater gift could a girl find in her stocking on Christmas morning?
Enjoy!
Marion Lennox
CHAPTER ONE
‘ALL scheduled flights have been cancelled until after Christmas. Charter planes are no exception. I’m sorry, ma’am, but nobody’s going anywhere.’
Meg replaced the phone as if it was about to shatter. The air around her felt sharp and dangerous. She was trying hard not to breathe.
The door to her boss’s inner sanctum was open. W S McMaster was clearing his desk, filing vital documents into his lovely calfskin briefcase. Suave, sleek and almost impossibly good-looking, the man looked what he was-a billionaire businessman moving on to the next important thing.
But the next important thing was in New York, and W S McMaster’s personal assistant was about to tell him there were no planes for at least three days.
No-o-o-o-o-o.
‘Oh, Meg, I’m so out of here.’ Josie, Meg’s assistant, was tugging off her office shoes and hauling on six-inch stilettos. ‘Dan’s meeting me in five minutes and I’m free. How cool to have Christmas fall on Monday. I have two solid days of partying until I need to sober up for the family Christmas Day.’
Meg didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
Josie and the rest of the office staff departed, calling Christmas greetings as they left. Yes, Christmas was on Monday. It was Friday afternoon. The corporate world closed down, right now.
Except for Meg, whose job it was to be at hand as Mr McMaster’s personal assistant at any time he was in Australia.
Mr McMaster was only in Australia for maybe ten or twelve weeks of the year, and there was little administration she had to do outside those times. It was a fabulous job. She’d been so lucky to get it. If she’d messed this up…
Don’t go there. Focus on now. Focus on getting her boss out of the country. She gave a weak little wave to the departing staff and tried one last phone call.
Her boss was too far away to hear, but there was little to hear anyway; just more of the same.
‘Helicopters depend on air traffic controllers too?’ she asked bleakly. ‘No, thank you; I understand. And there’s no way the strike can be resolved until after Christmas? Of course I know the whole country closes down from five tonight, but this is vital. Can we…I don’t know, take off from a paddock while no one’s watching? Island hop to Indonesia and find a flight from there? I’m serious; I’ll do anything.’
No and no and no.
She replaced her phone and stared at it as if it had personally betrayed her-and Mr McMaster was standing in the doorway, ready to go.
He looked ready to take on the world.
He always did, she conceded. William McMaster was thirty-six years old; he’d been born into money and he’d inherited the gene for making it. He headed a huge family corporation and the McMaster empire was growing by the day. For the last three years he’d spent two or three months a year here, growing the part of the firm that was opening mines all over Australia. He flew from one business meeting to another. While he was in Australia Meg flew with him, and as she did she realised why he had a different PA in every country. He’d wear one out in weeks.
She was worn out now, and he was ready to leave. He was leaning against the door, waiting for her attention. He was wearing a dark Italian business suit that screamed money and taste, with a crisp white shirt, new on this morning because the hotel laundry had sent his shirts back slightly yellowed. She’d had a frantic scramble to get new ones. His hotel was supposed to be the best in Melbourne-how could she top that? The hotel also had the best gym in Melbourne. He insisted on hotels with great gyms and his body proved it. Tall, dark, and far more good-looking than any man had a right to be, he was watching her now through dark, hooded eyes, as if he knew something was wrong.
Of course he knew something was wrong. You couldn’t get to where he was without intelligence and intuition, and William McMaster had both in spades.
‘My car to the airport?’ he queried, but softly, as if he already suspected the answer.
‘There’s a problem,’ she said, not looking at him. Her new three year contract was on her desk, waiting for her boss to sign on his way out. She shoved it under her fax, as if somehow hiding it could protect it. She so wanted to keep this job. While Mr McMaster was overseas she wasn’t needed, but when he was in the country she moved to total commitment. Seven days out of seven. Twelve hour days, or more.
He worked like this all the time, Meg knew. She was in touch with his three other PAs, one in London, one in New York and one in Hong Kong. Wherever he went, the work of a dozen people followed. The man was driven and he drove everyone around him.
He couldn’t drive her now. She must go home.
‘There’s a delay,’ Meg managed, trying desperately to sound as if this was a mere hiccup to be sorted by six. Six, the time his plane took off and she could catch the train home and be free.
He didn’t respond. He simply waited, his dark eyes barely flickering. He was a man of few words. He expected his people to anticipate his demands and sort them.
That was what she was paid to do, but this time she’d failed.
She couldn’t hire a private jet. Helicopters needed airspace too. How long would it take a boat to get to New Zealand so he could fly from there? A week at least. No.
And hotels… They’d been booked out for months for this holiday weekend. When she’d settled his account this morning the manager already sounded tired in anticipation.
‘It’s great he’s booked out early. I have people queuing. There’s not a room to be had in the whole city. I have people offering bribes…’
‘Are you intending to tell me?’
His eyes had narrowed-he knew by now that the problem was serious. To her surprise, though, there was a gleam of suppressed amusement in his dark eyes, as if he guessed the mess her thoughts were in.
‘There’s been a snap strike by air traffic controllers,’ she said, feeling ill. ‘The conciliation meeting ended twenty minutes ago, with no result. All airlines are grounded indefinitely.’
She could see the airport from this office. Meg snatched a fleeting glance outside. This was the penthouse suite of the most luxurious office block in Melbourne. The view was almost all the way to Tasmania, and normally there were planes between here and the sea.
Now the sky was empty, and her boss’s gaze had followed hers.
‘No planes,’ he said slowly.
‘Nothing that needs airspace until after Christmas. There’s no guarantee even then. This is…’
‘Absurd,’ he snapped. ‘A private jet…’
‘Requires airspace.’ She managed to meet his gaze full on. He liked direct answers; hated being messed around. She’d worked with him for three years now and she knew enough not to quail before that steely gaze. Sometimes this man demanded more than was humanly possible. When that happened she told him and he simply moved on.