The Secretary's Bossman Bargain

Blushing furiously, she propped her purse on her lap. “Did you know Monterrey has over five million people now?” She shoved the maps she’d printed at the office and lists of Spanish words back in her purse.

He slapped the book shut and let it drop with a resounding thump at his feet. “Would my interest offend you, Virginia?”

She squinted at him, expecting a laugh, a chuckle, a smile at least.

He was perfectly sober. Excruciatingly handsome and sober.

Oh, no. No, no, no, he wouldn’t do this. She was prepared to do a job, but she was not prepared to allow herself to become a man’s…plaything.

No matter how much she fantasized about him in private.

With a nervous smile, Virginia shook a chastising finger at him, but it trembled. “Mr. Allende, the closer we’ve gotten to Mexico, the stranger you’ve become.”

Silence.

For an awful second, her blatant claim—part teasing and part not—hung suspended in the air. Virginia belatedly bit her lip. What had possessed her to say that to her boss? She curled her accusing finger back into her hand, lowering it in shame.

Sitting in a deceptively relaxed pose, he crossed his arms over his broad chest and regarded her with an unreadable expression. Then he spoke in that hushed, persuasive way of his, “Do you plan to call me Mr. Allende when you’re out there pretending to be my lover?”

Self-conscious and silently berating herself, Virginia tucked the skirt of her dress under her thighs, her hands burrowing under her knees. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“I’m not insulted.”

She racked her brain for what to say. “I don’t know what came over me.”

He leaned forward with such control that even a glare might have been more welcome by her. “You call me Marcos most of the time. You call me Marcos when you want my favors. Why now, today, do you call me Mr. Allende?”

She looked away, feeling as if her heart were being wrung. He spoke so quietly, almost pleadingly, that he could be saying something else to her—something that did not smack her with misery.

Because I’ve never been alone with you for so long, she thought.

She hauled in a ragged breath and remained silent.

The plane tilted slightly, eventually coming in for a landing as smoothly as it had flown. Its speed began to ease. If only her hammering heart would follow.

They taxied down a lane decorated with large open plane hangars, and she fixed her attention on the screen behind him, resolved to smooth out the awkwardness. “Do you believe Allende will be a safe investment for Fintech?” she asked. She knew it was all that remained of his past. His mother had passed away long before his father had.

“It’s poorly managed.” He extracted his BlackBerry from his trouser pocket and powered it on. “Transport vehicles have been seized by the cartels. Travel is less safe these days in this country. For it to become successful, strict security measures will need to be put in place, new routes, new personnel, and this will mean money. So, no. It isn’t a safe investment.”

She smiled in admiration as he swiftly skimmed through his text messages. He oozed strength. Strength of mind, of body, of purpose. “You’ll make it gold again,” she said meaningfully, still not believing that, God, she’d called him strange to his face!

He lifted his head. “I’m tearing it apart, Virginia.”

The plane lurched to a stop. The engines shut down. The aisle lit up with a string of floor lights.

Virginia was paralyzed in her seat, stunned. “You plan to destroy your father’s business,” she said in utter horror, a sudden understanding of his morose mood barreling into her.

His hard, aquiline face unreadable, he thrust his phone into his pocket and silently contemplated her. “It’s not his anymore.” His face was impassive, but his eyes probed into her. “It was meant to be mine when he passed away. I built it with him.”

This morning, between phone calls, coffee, copies and errands, she’d gotten acquainted with Monterrey from afar. Learned it was a valley surrounded by mountains. Industrial, cosmopolitan, home of the wealthy and, at the very outskirts of the city, home of the poor. Indisputably the most prominent part of northern Mexico. Conveniently situated for Allende Transport, of course, as a means to import, export and travel—but also conveniently situated for those who imported and exported illegal substances. Like the cartels.

Allende wasn’t a bouquet of roses, she supposed, but she’d never expected Marcos willingly to attempt to destroy it.

“You look as if I’d confessed to something worse,” he noted, not too pleased himself.

“No. It’s only that—” She checked herself before continuing this time. “That’s not like you. To give up on something. You’ve never given up on Santos no matter what he does.”

His intense expression lightened considerably. “My brother is a person—Allende is not.”