The Christmas Marriage Mission

CHAPTER ONE

THE offices were lush, very lush—all muted tones of ochre and buttery yellows on pale maple flooring, and, although Kay could sense a discreet urgency behind the glass doors she was passing on her way to the big chief’s domain, the overall air of tranquillity was not disturbed. The glass lift that had transported her from the thickly carpeted reception to the fifth floor had been the last word in elegance too.

She knocked on the door with the nameplate reading ‘Miss Jenna Wright, Mr Grey’s secretary’, and waited until the woman inside raised her head from the word processor in front of her before opening it. Nevertheless, the beautiful cold face in front of Kay did not return her smile, and such was the expression in the carefully made up green eyes that Kay found herself speaking coolly as she said, ‘I’ve a package for Mr Grey. I understand it is urgent.’

Still the woman did not smile or speak, merely holding out her hand for the large manila envelope with an imperiousness that was insulting all by itself.

Mr Grey’s secretary obviously thought it beneath her to speak to a humble delivery agent, Kay thought wryly, aware that the woman’s gaze had taken in every crease and mark on her biking jacket and leathers. She walked across to the large desk and placed the envelope in the red-taloned hand waiting for it, and it was only then the thin, scarlet-painted mouth opened briefly to say, ‘Wait outside until Mr Grey has looked at it.’

Charming. Kay turned abruptly, aware her cheeks were flushing, and left the office without another word. She stood quietly for a second in the corridor outside, willing the colour in her cheeks to subside before she was forced to speak to the other woman again, and then walked over to where an area was set aside for visitors. Seating herself on one of the big plump sofas, she reached for a glossy magazine. When Mr Grey’s secretary wanted her—and she had already been told by the firm who had hired her to take the documents to Grey Cargo International there would be a reply—she could jolly well come and find her!

In spite of her irritation, as the minutes ticked by Kay found herself engrossed in the story of a massively fat woman who had decided to have her stomach stapled. The article chronicled the highs and lows of the woman’s two-year fight to become the size twelve she’d been before her husband had left her after their two children had died in an accident. Kay was so taken up with the battle that she found herself grinning like a Cheshire cat when the ‘after’ picture showed a slim, confident, smiling woman on the arm of a new man, and she was just muttering what she would have liked to have done to the first husband who had deserted his wife when she’d needed him the most—thereby contributing to the eating disorder she’d developed—when she became aware she wasn’t alone.

She raised defensive brown eyes, expecting to see the perfectly coiffured figure of the secretary in front of her, and then froze for a second as an amused smoky voice said, ‘Interesting?’

The man was tall, six feet two at least, and aggressively handsome in a hard, cold way, his silver-blue eyes and black hair holding no signs of softness or warmth, and his lean, powerful body intimidating.

‘I…I’m sorry?’ It was all she could manage through the wave of shock that had her rooted to the seat.

‘The magazine.’ He gestured at it almost impatiently. ‘Is it the latest fashion, or a new hairdo which is so riveting?’

The condescension was so overtly patronising that it worked like an injection of adrenalin. Kay jumped to her feet, pushing back her mass of thick curly red-brown hair, which always exploded into riotous disarray every time she took off her crash helmet—and which she had long since given up trying to control—and took a deep breath. ‘Neither,’ she said icily. ‘Just an article which reaffirms what swines men are, actually, although perhaps that’s not very fair on pigs.’

He blinked. ‘Right.’ There was a brief pause and she noted with some satisfaction that both the amusement and condescension had vanished when he said coldly, ‘You are the courier, I take it?’

Well, it was better than delivery girl, which she was sure was how the secretary would have referred to her. Kay nodded. ‘Yes, I am,’ she said coolly, her heart beginning to thump harder as it dawned on her this must be Mitchell Grey himself.

He said nothing for a moment, but then he didn’t have to—the arctic eyes said it all. Kay was well aware that at a slender five feet five she wasn’t the average courier, but, as her firm dealt only with the delivery of documents, letters and small packages, brawn didn’t come into it. Her ancient but trustworthy 100 cc motorbike could nip through the traffic jams that sometimes snarled up Romford town centre, which was all she asked of it.

‘How long have you worked for Sherwood Delivery?’ The words themselves were innocuous enough; his tone suggested the firm must have been crazy to take her on.

It was therefore with a great deal of inward pleasure, none of which was betrayed in her cool voice and blank face, that Kay said, ‘Ever since I formed the company three years ago.’

He didn’t blink this time, which said a lot for his self-control, Kay had to admit, but she just knew she had surprised him again, even though his face was deadpan. He continued to watch her steadily, the silver-hued eyes narrowing, before he walked across to where she was now standing.

Kay was immediately aware of feeling dwarfed, which in the circumstances was not pleasant, but she instinctively raised her small chin as she waited for his response.

‘Sit down, Miss…?’

‘Sherwood. Mrs Sherwood.’ And game, set and match to me, I think, Kay thought delightedly. It might teach him not to make so many high-handed assumptions in the fut

ure at least?

She saw him glance at her ringless hands as she took the seat she had just vacated, but as she watched him seat himself opposite the sofa she made no attempt to explain further. It was none of his business.

‘Three years.’ He sat back, one ankle resting on the other knee in a very masculine pose. ‘Why haven’t I heard of your company before this?’

Keep calm and don’t gabble, Kay warned herself silently. He was no doubt well aware of the faintly menacing air he gave off and probably well versed in the art of subtle—and not so subtle—intimidation. But he didn’t frighten her, not for a minute!

‘Probably because we are still very small,’ she said evenly. ‘We deal with files, documents, letters, photographs—that kind of thing.’ She knew it had been an urgent document she had delivered to him today from a firm of solicitors in the town, a document that needed a signature, but that was all she had been told.

‘Your husband is a partner in the company?’ he enquired softly.

‘No.’ It had been all the explanation she’d been going to give but, when the silence stretched and lengthened unbearably, she found herself saying stiffly, ‘I’m divorced. I founded the company after we’d parted; he was never involved with it.’ She glanced at the envelope in his hand, her voice dismissive when she said, ‘If the document is ready, I’ll take it now, shall I? I understand it’s urgent.’

He didn’t reply to this. What he did say—the cool, smoky voice deep and low—was, ‘I would like to be able to understand how you got started, Mrs Sherwood. Small business ventures are fascinating, don’t you think? What prompted you to choose such an…unusual career move?’

Career move? Kay stared at him, her big brown eyes betraying none of the whirling confusion in her head. Not so much a career move as survival.

For a moment she was tempted to spring up, grab the letter and make a dash for it, but common sense prevailed. She didn’t like his cold contemplation one bit, and sitting here in these lavish, grand offices in her old scuffed leathers opposite a man who looked as if he was clothed by Armani at the very least, was not her idea of fun. But insignificant as he made her feel, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of thinking he had unnerved her.

She resisted the impulse to fiddle with her hair, deeply regretting that she hadn’t taken the time to pull it back into a pony-tail as she normally did when she removed her helmet, and marshalled her racing thoughts. The bare outline, that was all he needed to hear. Nothing personal.

And then he completely threw her off balance just as she was about to begin when he said, ‘How old are you, anyway, if it isn’t a rude question?’

It was. Very rude, in Kay’s opinion. Resentment darkened the brown of her eyes to ebony, but she managed to keep her voice under control when she said crisply, ‘I am twenty-six,’ her tone adding silently, Not that it’s any of your business.