Do Not Disturb (P.S. I'm Pregnant!, 1, Band 156) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Anna Cleary always loved stories. She cried over Jane Eyre, suffered with Heathcliffe and Cathy, loved Jane Austen and adored Georgette Heyer. When a friend suggested they both start writing a romance novel, Anna accepted the challenge with enthusiasm. She enjoyed it so much she eventually gave up her teaching job to write full time. When not writing Anna likes meeting friends, listening to music, dining out, discussing politics, going to movies and concerts, or gazing at gardens.

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The tall, dark-haired guy in the suit strode into the meeting room of Martin Place Investments, and the hum of conversation faded into silence.

Mirandi Summers sat straight in her chair, her pulse-rate a little elevated. Everyone else was in black or shades of grey. She hoped her violet dress wasn't too pretty for the office.

'Morning,' Joe Sinclair said without bothering to glance at his assembled market analysts, too concerned with checking the hardware for his presentation.

'Morning, Joe.' The responses came from around the room, some bright and eager to please, others more subdued.

This morning Joe looked authoritative and slightly on edge, something in his manner creating more than the usual tension. How he'd changed in ten years. Hard to imagine him burning up the bitumen on his bike now.

'Ah, here we go.' The boyish grin that had the temps drooling made a brief appearance on his lean, tanned face, then vanished.

A brilliant, multi-coloured graph illuminated the screen. On it a number of spiky criss-crossing lines curved upwards, shooting towards infinity.

'There now. Look at that.' Joe's cool blue eyes grew sharp and focused, a line creasing the space between his brows. 'You see before you the future. Looks good, doesn't it?' He sent a commanding glance around at his employees and Mirandi joined the chorus of assent. 'And it will be good, people, I think I can promise you that. It will, but only if we are willing to learn from the mistakes of the past.'

He frowned and pulled a face. 'Tomorrow, as you know, I'll be flying off to this conference in Europe. Before I leave I want to know everyone has a clear view of the factors influencing MPI's current direction.'

He touched the button again and another graph lit the screen, this one's projections not quite so sunny. He swept the faces of listeners. 'I'm keen to hear your ideas. Can anyone suggest—'

Suddenly he stopped in mid-sentence. His frown deepening, he swung around until his acute blue glance lighted on Mirandi at the end of the row.

'Oh—er…Miss Summers. You're here. Are you—intending to stay?'

Mirandi felt something grab in her insides. Under the weight of her red hair her nape grew uncomfortably warm. 'Well, yes. Of course.' She glanced about her. All the other market analysts were assembled, their laptops at the ready. 'This is the future projections meeting, isn't it?'

Joe Sinclair gave his ear a meditative rub. 'Yes, it is. Just that I was under the impression—Ryan had mentioned something he wanted you to do this morning. Didn't I hear you say that, Ryan?'

Beside Mirandi Ryan Patterson stirred himself to attention. 'Oh, did I? Yeah. Yeah, that's right, Joe. Sorry, Mirandi. I forgot to mention the Trevor file.'

Mirandi gave a small, gurgling laugh. 'Oh, the Trevor file. Now that's a mistake from the past if ever there was one.' Everyone joined in her light-hearted laugh, including Ryan Patterson. Everyone except Joe Sinclair, that was. His black lashes were lowered, as it it pained him to look at her.

Smarting, Mirandi changed position slightly and crossed her legs. 'As it happens, Joe, I've reconciled the Trevor file. It's all finished and accounted for.'

There was a moment of stunned silence, then the other analysts burst into a round of surprised applause and congratulations. Mirandi couldn't help but feel gratified. The Trevor file was notorious and had been around for a long time. Perfect material for a new MA to cut her teeth on. Especially if the boss needed something to keep her occupied whilst keeping her at a distance.

Joe smiled too, though Mirandi felt his quick smouldering glance leave a trail of sparks down her legs. 'Have you, now? Slick work. But have you written the letters to old Trevor and his sons to let them know the outcome?'

Mirandi's flush climbed higher, but she said in dulcet tones, 'Well, as you know, Joe, Ryan's assistant will be back next week and I suspect she'd like to have that pleasure.'

Beneath his lashes, Joe's half-lidded glance lasered Mirandi from across the room, though he said with silky gentleness, 'I don't think you understand quite how we operate here, Miss Summers. Until those letters are in the mail the file is incomplete. I'm sure you don't want to leave unfinished business for others to deal with.'

Mirandi felt a savage jump in her blood pressure, though she controlled it, surrendering to the command and rising from her chair with cool grace. 'Unfinished business?' She threw him a mocking smile. 'Heaven forbid. What would you know about that, Joe?'

She made a point of giving Ryan and the others a cheeky grin and a wave, then swept from the room, feeling a visceral flash from Joe's eyes sear through the fabric of her dress.

As she strode back to her desk along the corridor his voice drifted after her. 'Are you free to give us your attention now, Ryan?'

It took her a couple of hours to get over the latest clash, but she cooled down in time. She was determined not to go home with tears in her eyes this night. In fact, she might have managed to forget all about it by the end of the day if Ryan Patterson hadn't found something else for her to do. Might.

But he had, and ironically here she was, in the middle of the afternoon, approaching no-woman's land. Joseph Sinclair's private residence.

Twenty-second floor. Apartment four.

Leave the folders on the table in the foyer where Joe can easily find them, and hotfoot it straight back to work in time for the three o'clock credit review, were Ryan's spoken instructions. Unspoken, but lurking under the surface like crocodiles, was his more crucial advice. Don't linger there hoping for a chance to flirt, sweetheart. Forget leaving any traces of yourself behind to intrigue him. No strands of your flaming red hair or whiffs of your perfume, strategically squirted here and there. He's no good for the likes of you. He'd use you up without a second thought and break you in the process.

As if Mirandi didn't know that already. She had personal experience. If eyes were the windows to the soul, the colour of Joe Sinclair's was a liar. That heavenly blue had already lured her in once only to leave her floundering, and she wasn't a kid of eighteen any more, naive and willing to be enchanted by a charming young rebel with nothing to lose and everything to prove.

She couldn't have been persuaded to set foot in Joe's posh apartment building if her entire floor hadn't been overstretched with preparations for his big junket to France, and no one else available.

2204. Mirandi paused before the imposing door. Funny how even with a legitimate card key in her hand she felt that prickle of intruder's guilt. Noiselessly, the lock flashed green, she walked in and…

Whoosh.

Oh, wow. The light. The space. And through those double doors into the spacious sitting room—the views.

So this was who he was now. Of course, if an outlaw's natural brilliance had skyrocketed him up the corporate ladder to the highest echelon in an investment firm, why wouldn't he live in a palace at eye level with the top of the Sydney Harbour Bridge?

Hypnotised by the grandeur, she stepped through the double doors, still clutching the folders, and tiptoed the couple of miles across Joe Sinclair's satin hardwood floor to gaze out through the glass. Sydney looked like the postcards from this height, all blue sea, sparkling rooftops and scrapers under a bright azure sky.

She turned and cast an awed eye over the joint, inhaling deeply to soak in the atmosphere. It smelled rich. The furnishings were spare, but tasteful. Mahogany and leather, a richly-hued oriental rug, a couple of paintings.

This glossy apartment was a million miles from that two-roomed flat, their favourite trysting place all those long ago summer afternoons where Joe had initiated her into the delights of passion.

Her eye fell on a photo, frozen...