Desired By The Boss
The Bosses
COLLECTION
August 2019
Forbidden Nights with the Boss
September 2019
Becoming the Boss
October 2019
Seduced by the Boss
November 2019
Flirting with the Boss
January 2020
Desired by the Boss
February 2020
Claimed by the Boss
March 2020
Taming the Boss
April 2020
Ruled by the Boss
About the Authors
RITA® Award-winning author LEAH ASHTON never expected to write books. She grew up reading everything – from pony books to cereal boxes at breakfast. One day she discovered romance novels – and one day, much later, wondered if she could write one too. Leah now writes happy ever afters for heroines who definitely don’t need saving. When she’s not writing, Leah loves all day breakfast, rambling conversations and laughing until she cries. She really hates cucumber. And scary movies.
JENNIFER LEWIS has always been drawn to fairy tales, and stories of passion and enchantment. Writing allows her to bring the characters crowding her imagination to life. She lives in sunny South Florida and enjoys the lush tropical environment and spending time on the beach all year long. Please visit her website at jenlewis.com
USA TODAY bestselling author CATHERINE MANN has books in print in more than twenty countries with Mills & Boon Desire, Mills & Boon Romantic Suspense and other imprints. A six-time RITA® finalist, she has won both a RITA® and Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Award. Mother of four, Catherine lives in South Carolina where she enjoys kayaking, hiking with her dog and volunteering in animal rescue. For more information visit: catherinemann.com
Desired by the Boss
Behind the Billionaire’s Guarded Heart
Leah Ashton
Behind Boardroom Doors
Jennifer Lewis
His Secretary’s Little Secret
Catherine Mann
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ISBN: 978-0-008-90608-5
DESIRED BY THE BOSS
Behind the Billionaire’s Guarded Heart © 2017 Leah Ashton Behind Boardroom Doors © 2012 Harlequin Books S.A. His Secretary’s Little Secret © 2016 Catherine Mann
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.
www.millsandboon.co.uk
Version: 2020-03-02
MILLS & BOON
Before you start reading, why not sign up?
Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!
SIGN ME UP!
Or simply visit
signup.millsandboon.co.uk
Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.
Note to Readers
This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:
Change of font size and line height
Change of background and font colours
Change of font
Change justification
Text to speech
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Authors
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Behind the Billionaire’s Guarded Heart
Back Cover Text
Dedication
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
EPILOGUE
Behind Boardroom Doors
Back Cover Text
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
His Secretary’s Little Secret
Back Cover Text
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
About the Publisher
Behind the Billionaire’s Guarded Heart
Leah Ashton
Falling for her mysterious boss...
When Australian heiress April Molyneux is left brokenhearted, she looks for a new start in London. Determined to stand on her own two feet, she finds herself working for the reclusive yet sexy billionaire Hugh Bennell.
Hugh likes his life—and his emotions—uncomplicated, but meeting glamorous April changes everything. Hugh doesn’t do relationships, and April wants to keep the independence she’s worked so hard for. But with these sparks flying...resistance might be futile!
For Jen – who writes beautiful messages in cards,
talks with her hands, and giggles at all my jokes.
Thank you for all your help with this book, and for
your belief in my writing.
You’re fabulous, Jen. I miss you.
PROLOGUE
THE SUNSET WAS PERFECT—all orange and purple on a backdrop of darkening blue. Just the right number of clouds stretched their tendrils artistically along the horizon.
The beach, however, was not so perfect.
It had been a warm Perth day, so April Molyneux hadn’t been alone in her plans for a beachside picnic dinner. Around her, people congregated about mounds of battered fish and chips on beds of butcher’s paper. Others had picnic baskets, or brown paper takeaway bags, or melting ice cream cones from the pink and white van parked above the sand dunes.
There were beach towels everywhere, body boards bouncing in the waves, children building sandcastles, women power walking along the beach in yoga pants, gossiping at a mile a minute. Then a football team jogged by, shirtless and in matching deep purple shorts.
April wanted to scream. This was not what she’d planned.
This was not a private, romantic, beachside tête-à-tête.
Evan lay sprawled on their picnic blanket, his back turned away from April as he scrolled through his phone.
Today was their wedding anniversary. Three years.
#anniversary #threeyears #love #romance
Right now April felt like dumping the contents of the gourmet picnic box she’d ordered all over his head—sourdough baguettes, cultured butter, artisan cheeses, muscatels and all.
‘Do we have to do this?’ Evan asked, not even looking at her.
‘You mean spend time with your wife on your anniversary?’ Her words were sharp, but April’s throat felt tight.
The sea-breeze whipped her long blonde hair across her eyes, and she tucked it back behind her ears angrily. She sat with her legs curled beneath her, a long pale pink maxi-dress covering her platinum bikini. She stared daggers at Evan’s back. His attention was still concentrated on the screen of his phone.
‘You know that isn’t what I meant.’
She did. But she’d spent weeks leading up to today, posting photos of their wedding to her one point two million followers.
#anniversary #threeyears #love #romance
She’d organised for the Molyneux family jet to take them up north, up past Broome. She’d found the perfect—perfect—private beach. She’d had the stupid picnic box couriered up from Margaret River, and she’d had her assistant organise a gorgeous rainbow mohair picnic blanket, complete with a generous donation to the Molyneux Foundation.
And then Evan had called from work as she’d been packing her overnight bag. He’d asked if they could cancel their trip. He didn’t really feel like going, and could they stay home instead?
Coming to this beach had been the compromise.
It wasn’t even about the beach, really. Just the photo.
All he needed to do was smile for the camera and then they could go home and eat their fancy picnic in front of the TV. Or order pizza. Whatever. It didn’t matter. And Evan could eat silently, then retreat to his study and barely talk to her for the rest of the evening.
Just as he did most nights.
Again, April’s throat felt tight.
Finally Evan moved. He shifted, sitting up so he could face her. He took off his sunglasses, and for some reason April did too.
For the first time in what suddenly felt like ages he looked directly at her. Really intensely, his hazel eyes steady against her own silvery blue.
‘I don’t think we can do this any more,’ he said. Firmly, and in a way that probably should have surprised her.
April pretended to misunderstand. ‘Come on—it’s just a stupid photo. We need to do this. I have contractual obligations.’
For product placement: The mohair blanket. The picnic box. Her sunglasses. Her bikini.
Donations to the Molyneux Foundation were contingent on this photograph.
Evan shook his head. ‘You know what I’m talking about.’
They’d started marriage counselling only a year after their wedding. They’d stopped trying for a baby shortly afterwards, both agreeing that it was best to wait until they’d sorted things out.
But they hadn’t sorted things out.
They’d both obediently attended counselling, made concerted efforts to listen to each other...but nothing had really changed.
They still loved each other, though. They’d both been clear on that.
April knew she still loved Evan. She’d loved him since he’d asked her to his Year Twelve ball.
To her, that had been all that mattered. Eventually it would go back to how it had used to be between them. Surely?
‘I’ll always love you, April,’ Evan said, in a terribly careful tone that she knew he must have practised. ‘But I don’t love you the way I know I should. The way I should love the woman I’m married too. You deserve better, April.’
Oh, God.
The words were all mashed together, tangled up in the salty breeze. All April could hear, repeated against her skull, was: I don’t love you...
His lips quirked upwards. ‘I guess I deserve better, too. We both deserve that love you see in the movies, or in those books you read. Don’t you think? And it’s never been like that for us.’
He paused, as if waiting for her to say something, but she had nothing. Absolutely nothing.
‘Look, I would never cheat on you, April, but a while ago I met someone who made me think that maybe there was a bigger love out there for me, you know?’ This bit definitely wasn’t practised—his words were all rushed and messy. ‘I respected you too much to pursue her. I cut her out of my life and I haven’t been in contact with her. At all. I promise. But I can’t stop thinking about her, and I...’
His gaze had long ago stopped meeting hers, but now it swung back.
He swallowed. ‘I want a divorce, April,’ he said with finality. ‘I’m sorry.’
She could only nod. Nod and nod, over and over.
‘April?’
Her throat felt as if it had completely closed over. She fumbled for her sunglasses, desperate to cover the wetness in her eyes.
‘Let’s just take this stupid picture,’ she said, her words strangled.
His eyes widened, but he nodded.
Awkwardly, they posed—only their shoulders touching. April took the photo quickly, without any thought at all...but amazingly the beach in the photo’s background was perfectly empty just for that millisecond as she pressed the button on her phone.
To her followers it would seem perfect.
A private beach, a handsome, loving husband, a glorious sunset...
Silently she cropped the image, then added her caption and hashtags.
Three amazing years with this guy! #anniversary #threeyears #love #romance
But she deleted the last hashtag before she posted it:
#over
Hugh Bennell’s gaze was drawn to the black door at the top of the grey stone stairs. The paintwork and brass door hardware all looked a bit dull—and not just because the sun was only just now rising on this rather dreary London morning. A handful of leaves had gathered where a doormat should be, and a single hopeful weed reached out from beneath the doorstep.
He’d have to sort that out.
But for now he simply wheeled his bike—lights still flashing from his pre-dawn ride—straight past the steps that led to the three-storey chocolate and cream Victorian end-of-terrace, and instead negotiated a matching set of steps that led downwards to his basement flat.
Inside, the cleats on the base of his cycling shoes clicked on the parquet flooring, and his road bike’s wheels squeaked noisily. He hung the bike on its wall hanger, immediately across from the basement front door. Above it hung his mountain bike, and to the right of that was the door to one of his spare bedrooms.
That door was painted white, and the paintwork still gleamed as fresh as the day he’d had the apartment painted. He noted that the brass knob still shone—in fact his whole house shone with meticulous cleanliness, just as he liked it.
Hugh settled in at his desk after a shower, his dark hair still damp. The desk was right at the front of his apartment, pushed up against the window. Above him foot traffic was increasing as London got ready for the workday. From his viewpoint all he could see were ankles and feet—in heels and boots and lace-up shoes. The angle was too acute for anyone passing to see him—he’d checked, of course—so he could leave his blinds open, allowing natural light to filter across his workspace.
He placed his mug of tea on the coaster immediately to the right of his open laptop. Beneath that lay the day’s to-do list, carefully formulated and handwritten the previous evening.
He’d always loved lists, even as a young kid. He remembered his mum’s bemusement when he’d stuck a list above his bedside table to remind himself what to pack for school each day of the week. He’d found it calming to have it all written out—a much better alternative, he’d thought, to his mother’s panicked realisations at the school gate and her frantic delivery of forgotten sports shoes at morning break.
‘A neat freak with lists!’ His mum had laughed. ‘How could you possibly be mine?’
To the bottom of his list for today he added Paint front door and polish brass.
He was certain the team at Precise thought his penchant for paper lists eccentric for a man who owned and ran a multi-million-dollar mobile app empire—but then, the team thought him eccentric for many more reasons than that.
A reminder popped up on his screen for a nine a.m. appointment, and he clicked through to sign in for the online meeting. Already four of the five other attendees were logged in, their faces visible via their webcams in a grid to the right of screen.
But in Hugh’s box there was only the generic grey silhouette—he never chose the video option, and he kept the camera at the top of his laptop taped over just in case.
Because, for Hugh Bennell, maintaining his privacy was non-negotiable.
He was in control of exactly what he revealed to the world.
His laptop dinged as the final attendee arrived.
‘Looks like everyone’s here,’ Hugh said. ‘Let’s get started.’
CHAPTER ONE
Six weeks later—London
APRIL FELT GOOD.
She was thirty-two, and her first ever job interview was today.
Sure, she’d been interviewed for the couple of internships she’d had back at uni, but they didn’t count. Today was her first real-life I actually really, really want this job interview.
That was significant.
She smiled.
Around her, the Tube train was packed. Everyone looked completely absorbed in their own world—reading a book, swiping through a phone, gazing out of the window into the blackness of the tunnel.
Nobody noticed her. Nobody realised how momentous this day actually was.
Since her disastrous wedding anniversary there’d been weeks of numbness for April. There’d been shock, then anger, then the awfulness of telling her mum and her sisters, Ivy and Mila. There’d been weeks of meetings with lawyers and endless discussions about property settlement. There’d been tears and wine and long conversations.
Time had seemed to go on and on. Especially at night, when she’d been alone in her ridiculously too big concrete-and-angles home. Mila had stayed a few nights to keep her company—but she had her own life and a partner to worry about. Her mum had stayed every night for a fortnight, determinedly focusing on the practicalities of lawyers and legal details. Ivy had brought her son, Nate, to visit regularly—although she had been mortified when the toddler had accidentally pushed a salad bowl off the table, shattering it into millions of pieces.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ April had reassured her. ‘It’s one less thing we need to decide who gets to keep.’
At first, sorting out the things that she and Evan had bought together had seemed vitally important. Maybe it was the focus it had given her—or maybe there was more of her ruthless businesswoman mother in her than she’d thought.
But as the weeks had worn on, and she’d spent more time staring at her ceiling, not sleeping, all their stuff had begun to feel meaningless.
As it probably should for a woman with a billion-dollar family trust that she held with her sisters.
So Evan could have everything. Of course he could have everything.
I don’t love you...
April didn’t sugar-coat what Evan had said. He’d wrapped it up in superfluous words to blunt the blow, but that didn’t hide the reality: Evan didn’t love her. He’d never loved her—at least not the way April had loved him.
In those endless nights she’d analysed that relentlessly.
How could she not have known?
I don’t love you.
You.
Who was she, if not married to Evan?
The feminist within her was horrified that she could even ask herself this question. But she did. Again and again:
Who was she?
This woman Evan hadn’t loved enough. This woman who had been oblivious to the end of her marriage.
Who was she?
She was thirty-two, single and had never worked a day in her life.
Her home had been a wedding gift from her mother.
Everything she’d ever bought had been with a credit card linked to the Molyneux Trust. She had been indulged by a family who probably didn’t think her capable of being anything but a frivolous socialite. Why would they? She’d applied herself to nothing else. Her days had been filled with shopping and expensive charity luncheons. Her evenings with art gallery openings and luxurious fundraising auctions. She’d spent her spare time taking photos of herself and posting them online, so millions of people could click ‘like’ and comment on her fabulous perfect life.
What a sham. What a joke.
She hadn’t earned a cent of the fortune she’d flouted to the world.
And her husband hadn’t loved her.
She was a fraud.
But no more.
April smoothed the charcoal fabric of her pencil skirt over her thighs. It wasn’t designer. In fact it had probably cost about five per cent of the cost of her favourite leather tote bag—which she’d left back home in Perth.
She’d left everything behind.
She’d booked a one-way ticket to London and opened up a new credit card account at her bank—politely declining the option to have the balance cleared monthly by the Molyneux Trust. From now on she was definitely paying her own way.
She’d also located her British passport—a document she had thanks to her mother’s dual citizenship of both Australia and the UK.
Only then had she told her family what she was doing.
And then she’d ignored every single one of their concerns and hopped onto her flight the next day.
Now here she was. Three days in London.
She’d found a flat. She’d bought reasonably priced clothes for the first time in her life. She’d researched the heck out of the environmental sustainability consulting firm where she was about to have an interview.