‘Just sort the mail.’

‘But this letter says you’re an earl. You gotta read it.’

‘Like I read e-mails from Nigeria offering to share millions. All I need to do is send my bank account details. Jodie, you know better.’

‘Of course I do,’ she told him indignantly. Honestly, he was being a twit.

But she forgave him. Who wouldn’t? Hamish Douglas was the cutest boss she’d ever worked for. Jodie had been delighted when Marjorie had retired and she’d been given the chance to take her place. At thirty-three, Hamish was tall, dark and drop-dead gorgeous. He had ruffled black curls, which fought back when he tried to control them. He had deep brown twinkly eyes and the most fantastic smile…

When he smiled. Which wasn’t often. Hamish might be one of the most brilliant young futures brokers in Manhattan, but he didn’t seem to enjoy life.

Maybe he’d smile when he realised he really was an earl.

‘This one’s different,’ she told him. ‘Honest, Mr Douglas, you need to look. If you’re who these people think you are then you’ve inherited a significant estate. A significant estate in lawyer speak…I bet that means a fortune.’

‘I’ve inherited nothing. It’s a scam.’

‘What’s a scam? Is Jodie bothering you with nuisance mail?’

Uh-oh. Jodie had been rising, but as soon as the door opened she sat straight back down. Marcia Vinel was Hamish’s fiancée. Trouble. Jodie had overheard Marcia on at least two occasions advising Hamish to get rid of her.

‘She’s a temp from the typing pool. Surely you can do better.’

‘But I like her,’ Hamish had replied, much to Jodie’s delight. ‘She’s smart, intuitive and organised-and she makes me laugh.’

‘Your secretary’s not here to make you laugh,’ Marcia had retorted.

No, Jodie thought, shoving the offending letter into the tray marked PENDING. Life’s too serious to laugh. Life’s about making money.