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"Is he married?"
She shook her had swiftly. "No."
"Has he taken advantage of you?"
She couldn't help blushing. "No. No, it's not like that. The problem is, he doesn't know I exist while I…I-"
"You what?"
"I'm crazy about him." She averted her head, wishing she could just crawl into some city manhole and hide. "Hopelessly crazy."
"That does sound bad."
"It is," she answered huskily, her voice breaking.
She could feel his gaze rest on her, felt what seemed to be sympathy, and she didn't want it from him. "Which is why I started looking for a new job. I knew this wasn't working out and I thought change was necessary. I thought it'd be wise to put some distance between us."
Mr. Grady looked troubled. "But if he doesn't know...?"
"It doesn't matter if he knows or not, I know. I know when he's here. I listen for his footsteps, for his voice, for everything." She bit her lip, fought for control. "But it's too painful. I can't do this anymore."
He studied her for a long silent moment and then shook his head. "Fine. Tell me his name and I'll fire him."
Winnie nearly fell off her chair. "Mr. Grady!"
"I'm not going to let one of my most valuable staff members ruin her career."
"You can't blame him!"
"I don't. But I'm also not going to stand by and watch you walk out because some guy here is knocking around your heart. If you can't stand coming to work because Mr. Heartbreak works here, then give me his name and let's get this over with."
She couldn't believe he was serious. He'd fire someone because she wasn't happy here anymore? "You can't be serious."
"He'll get an excellent severance package."
"Mr. Grady!"
"And the best references."
"No."
"I want his name."
"No." Her phone rang and she looked at the handset where the number and name of the caller flashed. "It's Shipley's Bank again," she said, heart hammering, hands shaking and yet incredibly grateful for the interruption.
"His name, Winnie."
Her phone rang again. She tensed, muscles tightening everywhere. When the phone rang a third time she couldn't keep silent. "I'm going to answer. Do you want to take the call or should I take a message?"
He didn't say a word, his dark blue gaze locked with hers. He didn't look angry as much as determined, jaw jutted, expression intense.
Winnie reached for the phone, "Mr. Grady's office, may I help you?"
He gave his head a slow shake and mouthed the words, "This isn't over, Winnie," before returning to his office.
He remained sequestered in his office on the call with Shipley's Bank for nearly two hours before leaving directly for a meeting across town.
After he left, Winnie let out a long sigh of relief. She'd been sitting on pins and needles the past two hours and wanted nothing more than to get a break herself. She opted for a rare luxury-lunch out, heading down the street to her favorite deli two blocks away.
But not even a lunch out could erase her worry.
Business and pleasure didn't mix. Careers were destroyed over office romances. It'd be disastrous for her to remain at Grady Investments much longer. She felt it in every bone of her body.
Winnie walked slowly back to the Tower's building, trying to ignore her reflection in the mirror-glass building fronts but it was impossible to deny the black glasses, beige blouse, hair scraped back from her face which screamed, uptight. Make that uptight, unsatisfied virgin.
Yes, an uptight, unsatisfied virgin. That's exactly what she'd become.
Winnie stopped and stared at her reflection and hated what she saw. This wasn't her. This isn't how she felt on the inside. On the inside she was madly passionate, daring beyond measure. On the inside she wanted everything and was willing to risk all-
On the inside.
There lay the problem. No one knew about Winnie on the inside. No one saw the fun side, or adventurous side of her. No, she kept that side buttoned down and pressed back because once upon a time she decided if she wasn't going to be popular and sexy and fashionable then she damn well better get respect.
Respect. Aagh! Respect was fine for seventy-year-old matriarchs, but she was twenty-five. She had no social life. No dates. No romance. No wonder.
Impatiently Winnie reached up and undid the top button of her stiff blouse. She didn't want to be uptight. She didn't want to be unsatisfied. She didn't want to go through life without ever experiencing anything.
Winnie unbuttoned the next button. Checked her reflection again. Still boring, still a virgin, still really, really not sexy. And let's face it, two buttons unfastened on a beige blouse were not exactly a makeover. What she needed was a miracle. What she wanted was a life-changing experience.
She'd give up everything, she thought, if for one week-no, make that a month-she could look like Tiffany from the sixty-third floor. Sexy, curvy, sensual. A woman that made men hot. A woman that made men melt.
Crossing the lobby Winnie's sensible heels clicked loudly on the floor. She pressed the elevator up button and waited. A moment later the elevator doors opened. People streamed out. Winnie stepped back to let the others pass. As she moved out of the way, Tiffany Saunders grabbed Winnie's arm.
"Hey," Tiffany cried, latching onto Winnie's sleeve as if they were life-long friends. "I just heard the news. It must be nuts upstairs!"
"What news?"
"About Morgan Grady. News Weekly's Man of the Year. Isn't it incredible?"
Winnie blinked blankly. "But Mr. Morgan isn't Man of the Year, he was Sexiest Man-"
"No, no. This just happened. The magazine doesn't hit the stands until tomorrow but it was announced on the noon news broadcast today. The media are everywhere. They're swarming upstairs-" Tiffany broke off, eyes widening. "You didn't know? Where've you been?"
Winnie's throat dried. "Out to lunch."
"Well, honey, you better check in because your Morgan Grady is Man of the Year."
The express elevator to the seventy-eighth floor always left Winnie's stomach at her feet, and today was worse than ever.
Stepping off the elevator, she walked into a frenzied sea of reporters and carefully picked her way through the crowd to the reception desk. The young receptionist at the front desk, flagged Winnie down. "Thank God you're here," the receptionist choked. "They won't go away and they just keep arriving and I don't know what to do."
"They're here for Mr. Grady?"
"Yes. It's about the Man of the Year award. The phones keep ringing-" She was interrupted by the telephone and her face crumpled as she sat down again to take the call.
Winnie sized up the crowd. Tiffany was right. It was bedlam in here. Every reporter from every paper and TV station must have a representative in the reception area.
Poor Mr. Grady.
The receptionist hung up the phone. "So what do I do, Winnie? How do I get rid of them?"
"Tell them he's not here."
"I did, but they don't care. They won't leave. They want Mr. Grady and they're going to stay until he arrives.”
Winnie recognized the stricken look on the poor girl's face and her conscience pricked her. She couldn't leave this eighteen-year-old from Nebraska to deal with this snapping, yapping throng. The journalists had been kept waiting for over an hour and they were impatient, hungry, and doing a very good imitation of a pack of wild dogs.
She also knew how Mr. Grady would hate returning to face this crowd. He'd never sought out the media, had never wanted to be a poster boy for the gorgeous and eligible. He routinely declined interviews, shunned society events, donated anonymously instead of funding charities publicly.
In the last six months she'd witnessed firsthand how the media hounded him. Board meetings, morning runs in Central Park, and dinner dates were nothing more than photo ops for the determined press. Just last week a reporter with a microphone jumped out from a stall in the men's washroom in hopes of g
etting a good sound bite for the evening's news.
Morgan Grady was a hunted man.
Winnie felt a wave of loyalty, laced with pity. Facing the noisy throng she put two fingers in her mouth and whistled. The piercing sound silenced the crowd. "Thank you," Winnie said briskly. "Now is there something I can do for you all or are you here applying for a job?"
