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Ever since I became a viscount, my mother has drummed it into my head that I must assert my title whenever it's appropriate, especially in business. I feel like a ruddy fool every time I heed her command.
"Oh, Lord Sommerleigh," the woman says with no small measure of anxiety evident in her voice. "I'm afraid—It's just that—Hold, please."
Jenkins doesn't want to talk to me. He must've instructed his executive assistant to refuse my calls.
No, I'm being paranoid.
"Lord Sommerleigh?" Megan says when she finally comes back on the line. "I'm afraid Mr. Jenkins just left for an important meeting. He won't be back today, but he says he'll contact you as soon as he has time in his schedule."
Wonderful. That means I'll need to take Avery's advice and try to charm this woman into letting me speak to Jenkins. "Can't you squeeze me in, darling? It's rather urgent, and I would be very grateful for your help. Perhaps I could meet Mr. Jenkins for lunch."
"He'll be out all day." She hesitates yet again. "I really am sorry, Lord Sommerleigh. I love your sweets, especially the caramel-filled ones."
Am I being granted a slender thread of hope? Maybe I'm just desperate because I hear myself saying, in that blasted Lord Steamy voice, "Why don't I send you a package of our silkiest, most decadent dark-chocolate caramel truffles? The silky centers will melt on your tongue like sin itself."
"I'm not supposed to accept gifts at work."
But I can tell from her tone that she wants to accept that silky, decadent gift from me. "Why don't I send the package to your home, darling? It's a thank-you for all your help."
"I don't know…"
"You'll never taste anything more luscious than Sommerleigh truffles."
"All right. You can send them to my home." Megan rattles off her address while I write it down. "This is very kind of you, Lord Sommerleigh."
"Not at all. Goodbye, darling."
She giggles. "Goodbye."
I didn't get to speak to Phillip Jenkins, but I've made an ally at his company. Sweet-talking a man's executive assistant is a stepping-stone, one I admit I've employed before. Doing this never used to bother me, but these days, it does.
Only a little bit.
Well, possibly more than a bit.
Though I want to go home and hide, I force myself to stay at work all day. I've never behaved like such a ruddy coward, but lately, I feel like an impostor and keep waiting for the real Lord Sommerleigh to walk into the room and toss me out on my arse. Not that long ago, I was confident and ready for anything. Now, I slump behind my desk, desperately struggling to pay attention to the documents I'm meant to read and understand.
But the words blur together.
Everything I need to get done today takes three times longer than it should—until two forty-five p.m. That's when my mobile rings. I don't even glance at the caller ID, but simply answer with a half-mumbled hello.
"What color suit will you be wearing tonight, Lord Sommerleigh?"
Avery's voice makes me jerk upright, no longer slumping in my chair, and my pulse accelerates. "Pardon?"
"I said what color suit will you wear."
Since I hadn't even thought about that yet, I decide to have a little fun with her. "Are you trying to initiate phone sex with me? Whenever women ask that question, sex is what they have in mind. So tell me, what are you wearing, darling?"
"What are you wearingtonightis what I asked. Don't get ahead of yourself, Lord Sommerleigh."
"If you don't mean to phone-shag me, why are you speaking in a sultry voice?"
"Didn't mean to."
"But you're still doing it, love." I hook one ankle over the other knee and begin to rock my chair gently. "You have the sexiest voice I've ever heard. Say something naughty, darling, please."
"We're not having phone sex, Hugh."
