The Millionaire's Masquerade (Erotic Romance Novella) by Amelia Calhan
Authors: Amelia Calhan
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Chapter One
Excited holiday chatter filled the tinseled office while Elvis Presley crooned about being lonely this Christmas. Meg Daniels mumbled along with the lyrics and nodded in agreement. This year, instead of eating, drinking, and being merry, her holiday plans involved unpacking boxes, painting walls, and stacking shelves. In seven days, she would no longer be Ms. Daniels, personal assistant to the most desirable man alive; she would be Meg Daniels proprietor of Recollectibles Furniture Restoration.
With a tuneless hum, she rummaged through the depths of the purse slung over her chair until she located her compact—the one that promised flawless skin—and examined herself critically. Panda eyes weren't an option—not today. Despite it being her last day at Forrester Holdings, she'd made an extra special effort with her appearance, even going as far as to dye her hair a shade called
copper shimmer
. She'd blow-dried it so it lay in soft curls over her shoulders instead of the usual messy bun at the nape of her neck. If he didn't notice her today, he never would.
Aidan Forrester oozed sex, and it wasn't because of his Bailey's-over-ice accent—although that didn't hurt. It was the way he carried himself, the way he commanded a room, the way people automatically deferred to him.
Every time he strode past, her breath hitched and her inner muscles tightened. At least when she left her job, she could make a grown man weep with one squeeze of her pelvic muscles.
She'd dropped a pen or notepad accidentally on purpose so many times, just so she could bend down in front of him, which wasn't all that easy in a pencil skirt and heels.
Over the past two years, he'd been nothing but professional towards her. Not one inappropriate remark, or one lingering glance, or one brush of his fingers, but today, if she had to, she'd lock him in his office and rip off her clothes until he
saw
her. She could do that. She could take charge of her emotions and tell him exactly how she felt. Maybe. Or Not. Probably not.
Satisfied her pumped-up washable mascara was still in place, she threw the compact into her bag and turned her attention to her paper-strewn desk. How could someone amass so much crap in twenty-four months? For the millionth time, she peeked at the clock on her monitor. Where was he? He was taking longer than forever to show his bad boy face.
She smoothed down her white blouse and opened two buttons so her cleavage would be on full view when she leaned over his desk. The anticipation sent butterflies relay racing around her stomach. And she attempted to tamp down her anxiety by organizing her paperwork and dropping mementos from the past two years into moving boxes. Coming across as a skittish whack job when her boss arrived wasn't part of the plan.
Ten sluggish minutes passed before Aidan strode into the office. Her heart batter rammed her rib cage. He was more perfect today than yesterday and the day before—if that was possible. Cropped black hair, chocolate-brown eyes, and an athlete's build all wrapped up in a navy Italian suit. Meg tucked her hair behind her ear and glanced at him from beneath her eyelashes, but he walked past without acknowledging her and slammed his office door. Her heart clattered to the floor, and she slumped onto her swivel chair.
Goddammit.
If she had any guts, which she didn't, she'd march in there and tell him how she felt.
It wasn't that she
wasn't
cute—enough people had told her she was—but she obviously wasn't Aidan Forrester cute. The women he dated had a cool elegance that reminded her of runway models, plus they all had powerhouse careers. She'd never be runway material, unless runway material meant being five-four and wearing a size fourteen, or sixteen depending on the day. She restored second-hand furniture and wore paint-splattered overalls when not in the office.
She firmed her lips and stared through the window panels either side of his door. Usually, he had an open
Excited holiday chatter filled the tinseled office while Elvis Presley crooned about being lonely this Christmas. Meg Daniels mumbled along with the lyrics and nodded in agreement. This year, instead of eating, drinking, and being merry, her holiday plans involved unpacking boxes, painting walls, and stacking shelves. In seven days, she would no longer be Ms. Daniels, personal assistant to the most desirable man alive; she would be Meg Daniels proprietor of Recollectibles Furniture Restoration.
With a tuneless hum, she rummaged through the depths of the purse slung over her chair until she located her compact—the one that promised flawless skin—and examined herself critically. Panda eyes weren't an option—not today. Despite it being her last day at Forrester Holdings, she'd made an extra special effort with her appearance, even going as far as to dye her hair a shade called
copper shimmer
. She'd blow-dried it so it lay in soft curls over her shoulders instead of the usual messy bun at the nape of her neck. If he didn't notice her today, he never would.
Aidan Forrester oozed sex, and it wasn't because of his Bailey's-over-ice accent—although that didn't hurt. It was the way he carried himself, the way he commanded a room, the way people automatically deferred to him.
Every time he strode past, her breath hitched and her inner muscles tightened. At least when she left her job, she could make a grown man weep with one squeeze of her pelvic muscles.
She'd dropped a pen or notepad accidentally on purpose so many times, just so she could bend down in front of him, which wasn't all that easy in a pencil skirt and heels.
Over the past two years, he'd been nothing but professional towards her. Not one inappropriate remark, or one lingering glance, or one brush of his fingers, but today, if she had to, she'd lock him in his office and rip off her clothes until he
saw
her. She could do that. She could take charge of her emotions and tell him exactly how she felt. Maybe. Or Not. Probably not.
Satisfied her pumped-up washable mascara was still in place, she threw the compact into her bag and turned her attention to her paper-strewn desk. How could someone amass so much crap in twenty-four months? For the millionth time, she peeked at the clock on her monitor. Where was he? He was taking longer than forever to show his bad boy face.
She smoothed down her white blouse and opened two buttons so her cleavage would be on full view when she leaned over his desk. The anticipation sent butterflies relay racing around her stomach. And she attempted to tamp down her anxiety by organizing her paperwork and dropping mementos from the past two years into moving boxes. Coming across as a skittish whack job when her boss arrived wasn't part of the plan.
Ten sluggish minutes passed before Aidan strode into the office. Her heart batter rammed her rib cage. He was more perfect today than yesterday and the day before—if that was possible. Cropped black hair, chocolate-brown eyes, and an athlete's build all wrapped up in a navy Italian suit. Meg tucked her hair behind her ear and glanced at him from beneath her eyelashes, but he walked past without acknowledging her and slammed his office door. Her heart clattered to the floor, and she slumped onto her swivel chair.
Goddammit.
If she had any guts, which she didn't, she'd march in there and tell him how she felt.
It wasn't that she
wasn't
cute—enough people had told her she was—but she obviously wasn't Aidan Forrester cute. The women he dated had a cool elegance that reminded her of runway models, plus they all had powerhouse careers. She'd never be runway material, unless runway material meant being five-four and wearing a size fourteen, or sixteen depending on the day. She restored second-hand furniture and wore paint-splattered overalls when not in the office.
She firmed her lips and stared through the window panels either side of his door. Usually, he had an open
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