Public Relations by Tibby Armstrong Page B

there was a problem, Carl would tell him.
    “Have to go.” Peter disconnected the call and let the driver escort him inside under the umbrella.
    Three stories up, the elevator doors opened and the buzz on the floor momentarily lulled, then increased twofold as employees scurried back to their desks. If he’d been in a less agitated mood, he might’ve found the scene amusing. Instead it irritated him to watch Sid and three other employees trip over themselves fleeing Georgia’s desk for the safety of their own.
    “Good morning, Ms. Whitcomb,” he said on the way past.
    Hair pulled away from her face with an airily tied silk scarf, the ends of the material teasing the middle of her back, she looked thoroughly bohemian chic and nothing like a buttoned-up executive assistant.
    “Morning.” She replied without looking up from her computer screen.
    He switched on his own computer and frowned when Georgia remained at her desk as if her phone were her sole responsibility. How Brenna Templeton ran her business with such a shoddy assistant, he couldn’t fathom, until he remembered she hadn’t run it at all—unless he counted its headlong crash into the ground.
    “Ms. Whitcomb.” Peter leaned out his door. “My office.”
    Underneath her desk, the blue jeans Georgia wore hadn’t caught his attention. As she sashayed into his office, the curve of her thighs and sleek line of her calves in the skintight pants made his jaw tighten. He settled into his leather chair and faced her across his desk, in a position of power and control.
    “Sit,” he said, more terse than he’d intended.
    Georgia sat and crossed her legs. Slim fingers lightly gripped the chair arms as she stared up at him, wide-eyed and anything but innocent. More like calculating and dangerous. Something about the juxtaposition of expression and intent called to him, challenging him in ways he hadn’t been in a long, long time.
    He let his gaze sweep her from head to toe. Pink. Everything about her was pink today. From the frosted lipstick she wore to the polish on her toes in a pair of open-toed heels. He tried to keep his perusal of her outfit terse and professional, but parts other than his brain took a keener interest in her fashion sense.
    He cleared his throat. “Your outfit is entirely inappropriate.”
    Georgia’s chin dipped as she looked down at her blouse, bringing Peter’s attention to the section of her body he’d thus far managed to avoid examining. He bit back a groan when she shifted so her chest became more prominent.
    “I’m sorry, but I’m not accustomed to dressing for my employer,” she said, shrugging one slim shoulder.
    Peter clenched his chair arms a little harder. “You deliberately misunderstand me.”
    Georgia only raised her brows.
    “I hope you have a good memory,” he said, noting her lack of a paper and pen before he began a litany of instructions Emma would’ve automatically written down. Not wanting to butt heads with his temporary PA, he’d done without her services all week, but his life was rapidly spiraling out of control.
    “When I come in, I expect my computer and lights on, messages waiting for me. You’ll follow me into my office to deliver them as I situate myself.” She gaped at him, but he continued to rattle off instructions as if he hadn’t noticed her incensed expression and ended with, “Until Emma returns, you’ll follow my schedule, working in the offices I go to each day. I’ll give you access to my calendar so you know where I expect you.”
    “Exactly how many offices do you have?” The curiosity in her tone was edged with steel.
    “One at each subsidiary, plus a main office in Wells Tower.”
    The Wells Industries stock value flashed in the upper right corner of Peter’s computer window, absorbing him momentarily. It’d been down ever since he purchased the newspaper, but today it started climbing immediately at the opening bell. Looked like investors had moved on to other worries.