Excerpt of The Boss and Miss Baxter by Wendy Warren

"Tell no one that I did this."

"It's between us. I swear." Nina Baxter smiled at her friend and former co-worker. The smile felt forced and phony, but at least the words were sincere.

Burying her bunched fists more deeply into the pockets of her jacket, Nina stood by as Carolyn Ahearn fitted her master key into a polished brass doorknob and unlocked the heavy oak doors protecting Hanson Media from the rest of the world.

Nina felt her stomach clench as the door eased open. She'd crossed this threshold countless times over the past thirteen years — five days a week, Monday through Friday — but couldn't remember ever being here on a Sunday.

Nor could she recall ever being this nauseous when she'd come to work, and that included the months she'd slogged through morning sickness.

"I'm going to make a run to Noah's for a bagel and latte," Carolyn said, pocketing the key. "It'll probably take twenty minutes. Is that enough time?"

Nina nodded. "I'll meet you back here." She reached out to take her friend's hand. "I can't thank you enough, Carolyn. I'm sorry you had to interrupt your weekend for me. I just couldn't face —"

"I know." Giving Nina's cold fingers a reassuring squeeze, Carolyn shrugged. "It could have been you opening the door for me, kiddo. It was just the luck of the draw. Layoffs bite."

Nina's laugh sounded watery. "Big-time." She'd been laid off on Friday, told she could come back to collect her things on Monday if she needed to, but she wanted to wave goodbye with a modicum of grace — not stumble to the elevators with her arms full of items from her desk, and her eyes bloodshot and teary.

Even now, as tears gathered at the back of her throat, she clung to her stiff upper lip like a drowning man to a life preserver. "Go eat a bagel," she told Carolyn. "Extra cream cheese."

"Oh, sure," Carolyn mumbled as she turned back toward the elevators that had carried them to the offices of Hanson Media Group. "Easy for you to say. You can't eat when you're stressed. I devour my weight in carbs." She walked down the lushly carpeted hallway without looking back, and Nina quietly shut the door, listening for the click that locked her in.

With what she hoped was poetic dignity, she made her way past the imposing reception desk against the wall that sported a huge gold H in a circle, and continued round to the circular bank of desks where the secretaries worked.

Hanson Media Group had been her home away from home since she'd first walked through the doors at nineteen — newly married, delighted to start her first "real" job and pregnant with her first child. The clerical position she'd applied for had required office skills she hadn't possessed at the time and formal business attire she hadn't owned. She should have been daunted by the opulent surroundings and by co-workers who had made her look like a junior high intern. But Nina had needed the job too much to let a little intimidation thwart her. And she had been naive then. Wonderfully, happily naive.

Arriving at the desk that had become hers the day she'd been promoted to secretary, Nina trailed her fingers mournfully over the nubby back of her ergo-nomically correct chair. Monday through Friday, no matter what insanity had pervaded her personal life, she'd had this chair to sit down on, this desk to work at. She'd had self- respect — a single mom making a living and securing the future for herself and her kids.

All gone. All the security, everything she'd worked for — gone in one lightning-swift chop of the corporate guillotine.

A rush of anxiety made Nina feel as if she were about to internally combust. Her nausea intensified. Trying to cool off, she discarded her coat, pulled a knitted purple hat off her head and got down to business.

Opening the large shoulder bag she'd brought with her, she began to stuff personal items inside. Two pictures of her kids...her favorite pens...the lavender notepad in the shape of a hippo... She moved rapidly, packing her purse at random until she came to the plastic gold trophy cup her daughter had given her last year after the annual Take Your Daughter to Work Day. World's Best Secretary.

Perusing the packed in-box and watching her moth-er's fingers fly across the computer keyboard, Isabella had looked at Nina with such respect that Nina had thought she could have been standing atop an Olympic podium — she'd felt that triumphant, that proud.

Suddenly her hands began to shake. She pushed the trophy into the depths of her bag and kept packing, but she couldn't stop shaking. Nor could she halt the anger that sparked like flash fire in her belly.

It wasn't her fault that Hanson Media was in trouble. It wasn't the fault of anyone who'd been laid off. The trouble had started at the top, but did the big dogs care about that? No. Even when they dug their own holes, it was the little guy who wound up with a mouthful of dirt.

And what had Nina done on Friday after being let go? She'd hugged her supervisor. That's right. She'd felt sorry for her obviously stressed supervisor, told her not to worry then brought her two aspirins and a glass of water.

Such a faithful employee; such a thoughtful person. "Such a doormat!" Nina growled, feeling a surge of power that came from resentment, pure and simple. Who at Hanson would bring her an aspirin when she got a headache from searching the classifieds? Who would care whether she got a job before she had to move her kids' bedroom to the back seat of their Toyota?

"No one!" Nina answered her own question. And even though it was not nice, even though it was downright wrong, she picked up the first thing she spied — a plastic container filled with multicolored paper clips — and threw it as hard as she could against the solid oak door of David Hanson's office.

He was a big dog — emphasis on dog. He was a Hanson. Would he skip even one steak while his laid-off employees stocked up on Cup-a-Soup?

The paper-clip container made a satisfying ping against the door, but it wasn't nearly satisfying enough. So Nina picked up her Strunk and White's The Elements of Style and threw that against the door as well. Then she reached for her Pocket Roget's Thesaurus.

With each article she grabbed — and hurled — she said a naughty, naughty word she'd never used before.

And began to feel a little bit better.

"What the —"

David Hanson looked up from the paperwork covering his desk and stared at his closed office door. At first he'd thought someone was knocking — strange enough on a Sunday — but when he heard thwack after thwack against the solid wood, he realized he'd heard not a knock but a smack.

There was someone in the outer office, and that someone was throwing things at his door.

David didn't take long to think, and he didn't pause to consider calling reinforcements, like someone from building security. He rose, strode to the door and stood by, waiting for a lull in the assault. When it came, he jerked open the door....

And was almost decapitated by a stainless-steel travel mug.

"Holy — !"A timely duck saved him. Straightening, he locked eyes with a wild-haired blonde whose pitching arm was poised again. "Whoa!" David ordered, raising a hand to halt the action. When she froze, he turned his open hand into a warning index finger. "Excuse me. What the hell is going on out here?"

The blonde seemed incapable of speech. Or of moving at all now that she'd been caught in the act of vandalizing his office.

David took a quick glance around. She was definitely alone, which he supposed was a good thing: one of her, one of him. Next, he noted that she had a strong arm (stood a good thirty feet from his door and still managed impressive velocity). And finally, he saw that she needed a tissue.

Tears filled the woman's eyes and streaked her face; her nose was red, and her cheeks were rapidly turning the same fiery shade. She looked so miserable, in fact, that he began to feel sorry for her until he reminded himself she was a vandal. He really ought to let security handle this. With all the other trouble he had right now, he didn't need a nutcase on his hands. He stepped one foot back toward his office. But then...

David leaned forward. And squinted. "Miss Baxter?"

With her arm still poised, the blonde blinked several times rapidly to clear her eyes. She attempted a smile that wobbled treacherously around the edges. "Yes?"

Jeez, it was her. He'd been thrown off by the exploding- firecracker effect of kinky blond curls and clothing that was more suited to a swap meet than the office. The Miss Baxter he was used to seeing during the week wore suits or skirts and blouses, like the other secretaries, and she wore her hair...well, hell, he couldn't really recall...in a bun?

David frowned. "What are you doing?" He was going to add here, but what are you doing seemed more apropos under the circumstances.

To her credit, she was obviously determined to make the best of the situation and shrugged with what appeared to be a miniature potted plant in her still-raised hand. "Cleaning."

He looked at the floor outside his door. A small paper- clip explosion had occurred; plus, there were two books and a silver mug lying on the carpet. "Cleaning?"

"My...desk...off. Sir."

After three of the most difficult and unpredictable months in his career, David should have been used to expecting the unexpected. But Nina Baxter had him knocked for a loop. Had there always been a psych case lurking behind the face of the mild-mannered secretary?

And then David realized...

Aw, hell.

Nina Baxter was one of the casualties of his late brother's screwups.

David squeezed the bridge of his nose as the headache he'd been battling for days took a sudden turn for the worse. Obviously he was not going to escape the mess his life had turned into. Not even on a Sunday.