Page 7 of The Greek Billionaire's Rejected Secretary

I stare at my phone, disgusted with myself. Since when do I accept a flat "unavailable" from my secretary?

Since never.

I swipe to my calendar and glare at tonight's dinner with Senator Holbrook. The old man has been rambling about judicial nominations for months. Nothing that can't wait.

I send a quick text to his chief of staff.

Emergency case development. Need to reschedule. My apologies.

Then I call my driver.

"I won't need you tonight, Milos."

"Everything alright, Mr. Kontides?"

"Business emergency. I'll drive myself."

I hang up before he can ask questions. Milos has been working for me for twelve years, and one thing he does a lot is play chess with my secretary during their free time. Traitors, the lot of them. How did I end up paying so much money just to be betrayed like this?

But to hell with that.

Right now, it's all about figuring out where Shayla's going, and if for one moment she actually thinks I'd let her spend the evening with that courthouse slimeball—

My teeth start grinding against each other, and I find myself cracking my knuckles at the mere thought.

It's just concern, I tell myself.

Professionalconcern.

I've invested nine years in training the perfect executive assistant. I'm simply ensuring she doesn't ruin herself with some third-rate lawyer who smells like cheap aftershave and desperation.

I wait at my desk, pretending to review briefs while actually watching the clock. At 6:05, I hear the click of her heels passing my door. No goodbye. No checking if I need anything before she leaves.

Not typical of her,and the thought has my blood boiling.

Could she really be going out with that ass? And this early on he's proving himself to be a bad influence on my secretary? Has that sleazeball somehow convincedmyShayla that he's more important than me, her rightfully concerned boss?

Bastard.

I give her ten minutes, then follow. My Maserati purrs to life in the parking garage, and I keep a careful distance as her cab turns onto Sixth Avenue.

It eventually stops in Tribeca, and I make sure to park half a block away. Shayla steps out, andwhat the—

How did she change in that cab?

The ponytail, the glasses, and even the shapeless pantsuit.

It's all gone.

And in their place is a strapless dress that hugs her every curve—curves that my sensible secretary of nine years should have no business of possessing.

Dammit.

A muscle starts ticking in my jaw as I follow her into an upscale Japanese restaurant. I force myself to hold back and wait until she's past the inner set of doors before letting the guy at reception see me.

His face registers immediate recognition, but he's trained well enough not to express any surprise even though he's clearly aware that the woman who entered before me is my secretary.

"Good evening, Mr. Kontides. Table for how many?"

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