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look on Peter’s devilishly handsome face as he stared up at her from the cover of Businessweek stung her conscience. She rearranged the stack of magazines so she had a view of an automobile ad on the back cover, but ended with fumbling the coffee.
    “No!” she wailed as the elevator doors slid open, and she jostled the cup. Brown liquid spread in a rapid stain on the front of her cream silk blouse.
    Focused on the Niagara Falls of scalding liquid, she raced past scores of empty desks to the back of the wide-open room. Placing the coffees on her desk and tossing the rest of her belongings on her chair, she mostly failed to register the eerie silence of the newsroom. She dug in her top drawer, found her stain-release pen, and swiped at the ruined blouse with all the success of using correction fluid on a can of spilled paint.
    “Classic,” she muttered.
    Throwing open another drawer, she tossed the pen on her desk and rummaged for her emergency cardigan. It’d be a little shabby, but at least she wouldn’t look as if she’d had a freak accident with the coffee wagon. As she shoved her arms into the sweater sleeves, Sid rushed into the room looking like someone had lifted and shaken him by his underwear.
    “Georgie. Thank God!” Sid pulled her by the arm toward the conference room, babbling, “You’re his assistant. Do you hear me? Assistant .”
    Propelled more by jet lag than understanding, Georgia stumbled along in Sid’s wake until they burst into the conference room.
    “Here she is!” Sid exclaimed, shoving her to the front of the room.
    Caught unaware, Georgia tripped over her own two feet and would’ve performed a gold-medal-garnering face-plant if two strong arms hadn’t been there to catch her. Crisp linen and sharp spices mingled with a warmer scent that brought with it the impulse to bury her nose in the man’s solid chest. His arms tightened briefly, assuring her steadiness, before he set her away from him and backed up a pace.
    “Ms. Whitcomb. How good of you to join us.” That voice. Oh God, that voice . “The rest of you are dismissed. You stay too, Mr. Deloitte.”
    Georgia’s gaze drifted upward, and she had the distinct feeling of rubbernecking at her own three-car pileup when her gaze met that of Peter Wells. Mouth set into a stern line, cobalt eyes darkened with disapproval, he stared down at her. Maybe it was her lack of heels, but he seemed a lot taller than she’d remembered from their encounter outside the library.
    “I—” Georgia glanced past Peter at Sid, who mouthed the word assistant . “I stopped to get…coffee for…” Her tongue tripped over the American accent she automatically strengthened.
    “Mrs. Templeton,” Sid supplied in a rush. “Georgia usually gets her coffee on Mondays.”
    The rest of the newspaper staff had already scurried over themselves to leave the room. Putting two and two together, Georgia realized Sid had created this cover for her—the assistant. But why an assistant to Peter Wells? He didn’t work here. Taking in Sid’s unnaturally pale face, she again thought of funerals. Her own, in particular. What the hell was going on here?
    “Um. Where is Mrs. Templeton?” Georgia asked the safest question that came to mind.
    “Sit.” Peter indicated the seat closest to him. Furthest from Sid.
    Inexplicably, Georgia sat. Peter paced to the bank of windows on the far side of the table. She followed his movements, then squinted as he opened the blinds and sunlight cut across the room. Rather than move away from the glare, Peter remained with his back to the morning light. Only his dark suit lent any relief from the painfully bright rays. The fabric draped, hugged, and tucked in all the right places, wrapping a mantle of power around an already powerful man.
    “I think you know what I want to know.” The rumble of Peter’s voice rolled over the room like a storm. Georgia fought the urge to slouch. “I’ll give you thirty seconds to tell me the