Leanne Banks
feet first

This book is dedicated to all the so-called

underachievers…who just needed to find their

passion in order to become achievers.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

COMING NEXT MONTH

Special thanks to my terrific encouraging friends

and the PFD group: Cindy Gerard, Pamela Britton,

Rhonda Pollero and Cherry Adair, my awesome

parents, Tom and Betty Minyard, and my family for

providing take-out meals and chocolate during

deadline. Thanks, Richard, for helping me with

all things Atlanta. A big high five to the newsliners!

And I can’t forget the beach babes!

“The shoes a woman wants to wear reveal her secret fantasies.”

—Jenny Prillaman, Designer Wannabe

CHAPTER ONE

THIS WAS TURNING into a three-doughnut morning.

Jenny Prillaman scarfed down her second hot Krispy Kreme doughnut, marveling at how something that tasted so light could have so many calories. Krispy Kreme doughnuts weren’t on the approved list of foods for the South Beach diet, and she would have to exchange half her meals for the day on Weight Watchers.

Sighing, she surreptitiously licked one of her fingers. Tough. Her boss wasn’t here and he really needed to be.

She barely brushed some glazed sugar from her chin before executive VP Marc Waterson burst through the door wearing an expression of controlled fury on his chiseled face. “Brooke Tarantino is coming in today. Where’s Sal?”

Jenny cleared her throat and rubbed her sticky hands together beneath her desk. Oh, wow. She’d thought he would send his assistant down to do the inquisition.

Marc Waterson had always struck her as a force of nature carefully concealed in a well-tailored Brooks Brothers suit. She suspected in another time period he would have worn his hair long and carried a sword. He was a lethally clever overachiever type, and Jenny generally tried to avoid such types as she’d been forced to deal with a brother and sister cut from the same cloth since the day she was born.

Except, Marc was so hot he made her forget about her brother and sister, the overachiever part and everything but him. He was the kind of man she fantasized about instead of filing. She remembered the birthday wish she’d made after two martinis that if she ever got a chance to bed Marc, she would do it.

Easy enough wish to make. With the exception of a few times on the phone, the man spoke to her through his assistant. He would never notice her. And she wasn’t sure she would know what to do if he ever did.

Instead she worked for a tender-hearted artistic genius who unfortunately spent more time with whiskey than he should. “Sal’s not feeling well and he had to go to the doctor this morning,” Jenny told Marc. “Maybe we could reschedule. Or you could show her some of the sketches Sal has already put together.”

Marc, who was known throughout the company as Braveheart, studied her with a gaze so intent she felt as if she needed sunglasses.

Jenny bit the inside of her cheek to avoid biting her lip and prayed Bellagio’s most intense VP couldn’t tell that she was fibbing. She’d always tried to stay way below top management’s radar. It hadn’t been that difficult. Her body was okay, but she consistently fudged on her South Beach diet and found reasons to delay exercise. She had okay hair that was a pretty chestnut-brown color and blue eyes instead of the expected brown. It gave her a great sense of satisfaction to know that she annoyed her sister the attorney by wearing thin red-framed glasses.

He lifted his eyebrows. “If Sal has already done some sketches, then I’d like to see them.”

“I can get them for you,” she said, clasping and unclasping her fingers beneath her desk. “It may take me a little time to find them in Sal’s office, though. He sometimes puts his sketches in unexpected places.”

“How soon could you find them?”

“An hour, maybe less.”

“Brooke’s appointment was at nine.”

“But she’s usually over an hour late, and she—” She broke off, remembering that Marc was distantly related to Brooke.

“And she what?” he asked.

Jenny sighed. “Sal doesn’t usually need more time, but he did one other time. Brooke responded very well to a pedicure.” She cleared her throat again. “And a couple glasses of champagne.”

“Who did the pedicure?”

Jenny shrugged. “I did.”

He gave her a considering once-over. “You manage Sal and his issues and you keep the demanding Brooke happy. No wonder Sal won’t share you with anyone else. Get the sketches to me within an hour. I’ll decide if we need to order champagne or not.”

He left, closing the door behind him, and Jenny took a deep, shaky breath. She lifted her hands to her cheeks, praying they weren’t red with heat from her lies. Sal had obviously fallen off the wagon and she had to cover for him again. He probably wouldn’t call in until the afternoon.

If he weren’t so kind to her, and if he hadn’t hired her and given her such exciting, albeit secret, opportunities, then maybe she could out him. In her own clumsy way, she’d tried to intervene two times, but he’d brushed her off.

Worry gnawing at her, she shook her head as she rose and locked the office door. She knew why Sal drank, and he had some pretty sad stuff he faced on a daily basis.

Pushing her concern about Sal into another corner of her mind, she prepared to do what she did best.

Doodle.

When she felt bored, she doodled. When she felt stressed, she doodled. When she felt bummed, she doodled. The activity had gotten her in trouble in every class except art. But now she was almost getting paid for doodling.

From the bottom-left-hand drawer of her desk, she pulled out a pad of paper and thumbed through the sketches she’d already drawn of wedding shoes for the upcoming wedding of the century. Brooke Tarantino, Atlanta’s most notorious socialite, who had previously been described in the press as the debutante gone wild due to her escapades, was getting married.

Rumor had it that her father had put his foot down and threatened to cut off her expense account if she didn’t settle down.

Brooke liked attention, lots of it, as evidenced by how many times her picture appeared in every publication from the Atlanta Constitution to the National Enquirer. Brooke had even made People when she’d gotten arrested at one of the parties she’d attended in Miami last year.

Jenny added sequins to the white satin pump. Inspiration hit her and she sketched another pump, this one in leather with a sexy, revealing absence of material in the instep. Less leather, more skin. She enhanced the spiked heel with crystals.

Sal would call it a bridal version of “Come do me” shoes. Jenny smiled to herself. Since she’d started working for Bellagio, she’d learned a lot about shoes. For some people shoes were all about comfort. But for most, shoes were called upon to accomplish many other goals. “Come do me” shoes. “I mean business” shoes. “Look at me” shoes.

Jenny glanced down at her own shoes and wiggled her toes. Black leather sandals with wooden heels. The trendy nail polish and blue-sapphire toe ring were her only concessions to fashion and self-expression. Her fingernails were bare of polish. She wore “Don’t look at me” black slacks and jacket, and she’d pulled her hair back into a low ponytail. No competition for an heiress or anyone else. Jenny would be happy to just doodle her life away.

The telephone rang, jolting Jenny’s attention from the drawing pad. She glanced at the clock and swore. An hour had already passed. “Poop,” she muttered, and picked up the phone on the second ring.

“Did you find the drawings?” MarcWaterson asked.

“Yes, I did,” she said, adding a swirl of red beside the shoe to make the white shoe pop.

“Bring them up to the executive conference room so I can get a look at them before Brooke gets here.”

“No problem. I’ll be up in just a few minutes.” Her nerves jumped in her stomach, belying her calm tone. She hoped she could dump the sketches on Marc Waterson and leave. Moving through the corridor, she waved to a few of her co-workers and, out of concession to the doughnuts she’d eaten, she walked the three flights up to the tenth floor.

The tenth floor was a different world with lush oriental carpets over hardwood floors. Exquisite antique furniture served the top executives in lieu of the prefab stuff in her office. Passing one office, she caught the scent of cigar smoke and wrinkled her nose. She endured a curious glance from the corporate gatekeeper, also known as Thelma.

Thelma waved her toward the executive conference room, and Jenny felt her feet begin to drag. What if he thought the drawings sucked? What if Brooke didn’t like them? This experience reminded her of walking to school as a child. She dreaded having someone tell her she wasn’t measuring up. Her stomach knotted with tension and she briefly considered leaving the folder of drawings with the receptionist and running back to her office. Just outside the executive conference room door, she lingered over a Picasso.

The door to the room whipped open, startling her. Marc Waterson shot her a curious gaze. “Problem with the drawings, Jill?”

How flattering, she thought. He couldn’t remember her name. “Jenny,” she corrected.

“Sorry, Jenny,” he said. “Is there a problem?”

“Not at all,” she said, and extended the folder to him. “All yours.”

He opened the door wider. “Come on in.”

Her stomach dipped again. Did she have to watch his first reaction? Guess so, she thought, and reluctantly stepped into the lush room.

“We’ll use the back room.”

Jenny had never been in the back room, but she’d heard about it. Well stocked with the finest wine, the oldest Scotch and leather furniture as soft as butter, the “back room” was reserved for use by Bellagio’s top executives and most powerful customers. Although Jenny knew Bellagio was planning to get publicity from designing Brooke’s wedding shoes, she hadn’t known it was that important. After all, Sal had been known to design shoes for movies.

Her stomach dipped again. What was she getting into? She followed Marc, noticing his extraordinary backside as he led her into the famed back room.

“Take a seat,” he said as he settled into a leather chair beside a sofa.

I don’t really want to, she thought, but gingerly chose the chair across from him.

The silence in the room shredded her nerves. She needed to remind herself that if he didn’t like the drawings it wasn’t the end of the world. She could get another job. Lord knew, she’d been through dozens, much to the distress of her siblings. This one had been her favorite, though. She’d lasted the longest at this job.

“The satin pump is showy,” Marc said.

“I thought—” She cleared her throat. “Sal thought that would suit Brooke’s personality. She’s bold and likes to make a statement.”

“That’s an understatement,” he said in a dry voice. He picked up the drawing of the shoe with the stiletto heel encrusted with crystals. “This is unusual for Sal. He tends toward the more traditional for formal weddings.”

Uncomfortable, Jenny cleared her throat. “Again, I think he was thinking about Brooke’s personality. That design is more trendy.”

“And sexy,” Marc added.

She nodded.

“We’ll see what Brooke thinks.”

Taking that as a dismissal, Jenny started to rise. “If you want to tell me her thoughts, I’ll be happy to pass them on to Sal.”

“I want you to stay.”

Surprised, she sank back into her chair. “Are you sure? Did you want me to get some nail polish?”

“No. I just want you to keep me from killing my cousin.”

Jenny blinked. “Excuse me?”

Marc adjusted his tie. “We know Brooke is a demanding, spoiled little rich girl who thinks of no one but herself. I can stand about fifteen minutes in her presence without telling her what I really think.” His jaw twitched with impatience. “We’ve just succeeded in making a deal that will bring Bellagio unprecedented publicity for Brooke’s wedding shoes. Since Sal isn’t here, I need you to be here. You successfully managed her last time, so I want you to do it again.”

Five questions popped into her brain, but the irritation on Marc’s features discouraged any indulgence of her curiosity. It looked like she would be flying by the seat of her pants. Nothing new there. She’d spent half her life walking the high-wire with no net. Today would be no different.

She stood again.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I’m just looking for the champagne,” she said, heading toward the refrigerator. “I wonder if this place has any chocolate.”

“It’s almost lunchtime.”

“In your world,” she murmured, opening the door to the refrigerator and nodding in approval. “Cristal, good. Veuve Cliquot isn’t enough of a treat and Dom is like an old Cadillac, grandma car, grandma champagne.” She peeked inside a cabinet.

“Grandma champagne,” he echoed. “What makes you say that?”

“Previous job,” she said with a shrug. “When I was a cocktail waitress, I learned a lot about what people want in a drink. It’s not usually about how the drink tastes. It’s more about what the drink projects.”

“Is that so,” he said, more than asked, leaning back into his seat and making a triangle with his forefingers and thumbs. A power position, she noted. Donald Trump did it all the time on The Apprentice.

His intense gaze made the back of her neck itch. “A businessman doing a deal doesn’t order a daiquiri or an umbrella drink. It’s usually Scotch or bourbon with a year and brand attached. When an older man wants to impress a woman with champagne, he chooses Dom. When a younger man wants to impress a woman, he chooses Cristal.”

“The psychology of liquor,” Marc said.

“Something like that,” she said, and opened another cabinet. She spotted a box of truffles and felt a rush of relief. “Oh, good. We’re set now. Chocolate and champagne.” She glanced at Marc. He was the unknown entity and she suspected champagne and chocolate weren’t going to do it for him at all. “Are you hungry? Would you like me to order something for you? A roast beef sandwich?” She glanced at the clock. “Is it too early for Scotch for you?”

“A soda will be fine with me,” he said, as if he knew she was trying to apply her bar psychology to him the same way she had with Brooke.

“Are you sure? You seem a little—” She broke off when he raised a dark eyebrow. The expression revealed he wasn’t accustomed to having his choices questioned. “You seem tense. Is there something else I can get that would make this appointment easier?”

“A different cousin,” he said with a cryptic smile.

TWO MINUTES LATER Marc watched his cousin saunter into the room wearing a pair of low-slung jeans, a skimpy top, a Gucci bag and what he suspected was a hell of a hangover behind her dark Oakley sunglasses. Her hair was red today, cropped close to her head. She looked scary. “Sorry I’m late, cousin dear,” she said to Marc, and gave him an air kiss beside each cheek. “I had a late night and it was so hard to get up this morning.”

“I can tell,” he muttered.

She pouted. “Where’s Sal? He’s so much nicer than you.”

“He wasn’t feeling well. He had to go to the doctor,” Marc said, but he knew the truth. Sal was going to be out of commission for a while and it couldn’t have happened at a worse time.

“Well, tell him I’m sorry.” Brooke glanced at Jenny and paused. “You look familiar. Have I met you before?”

“Just once,” Jenny said. “Would you like some champagne? Maybe some chocolate.”

Brooke brightened. “Oh, that would be divine. So do we have any designs from Sal? Or did I come for nothing?”

“Right here,” Marc said. Spreading the drawings on the table, he noticed that Jenny opened the champagne with an expert hand. No lost champagne, just a gentle pop beneath the towel she’d used to edge off the cork. Although she’d lied for Sal, she hadn’t been lying about her experience as a cocktail waitress. She filled the flute three-quarters full and put the truffles on the table beside the sofa. She had a soothing kind of voice, he noticed. Almost nurturing. And her appearance was incredibly nonthreatening, he thought, taking in her black jacket and slacks. He wondered what her hair looked like down. And, for Pete’s sake, where’d she get those hideous glasses?

“Thanks,” Brooke murmured absently and slurped her champagne. She grabbed a chocolate and bit into it. “These are great.”

“The shoes,” Marc reminded his cousin, feeling his impatience ratchet up another notch.

She sighed and tilted her head to one side as she considered the drawings. “The sequins are okay. I think I like that one best,” she said, pointing to the shoe with the stiletto heel. “I’ll just have to take it off for the reception. I can run in heels, but dancing under the influence is a little tricky.”

“We could lower the heel,” Jenny suggested.

Brooke shook her head. “No, I like the height. It’s a little outrageous,” she said and smiled. “Like me.”

“Maybe we could design another shoe for your reception,” Jenny said.

Accommodating, Marc thought, adding the ability to his mental list. Sal’s assistant possessed the all-important quality of being able to listen.

Brooke gasped and tugged her shades down to peek over them. “I love that idea.”

“Well, you’ll also need going-away shoes,” Jenny added.

Brooke took another bite of truffle and nodded. “Yes, yes. This could work.”

“We need to start working on the shoes for your bridesmaids.”

Brooke shrugged. “I’m almost ready for that. I’ve narrowed down the dresses to two designs. As soon as I know, I’ll let you know.”

“The next meeting will be filmed,” Marc told Brooke. “So it would be helpful if you could be on time.”

Brooke’s eyes lit up. “That’s right. We should make it more dramatic than this.”

Marc’s gut tightened. “What do you mean more dramatic?”

She finished off a truffle and waved her hand. “Well, this is nice, but it’s boring. We need to see me try on some shoes. Can you make some models of them so I can try them on? You need to put in a few real losers like on those makeover shows.”

“Losers,” Marc echoed, clenching his jaw. The CEO, Alfredo Bellagio, would have a cow if Brooke said something like that publicly. “Bellagio doesn’t make loser shoes.”

Brooke sighed. “So touchy. Okay, not losers. But also-rans. Because I’m only going to pick one. Well three,” she amended. “When you count the reception shoes and the going-away shoes. But maybe we shouldn’t show which exact pair I choose because then it will add some suspense.”

In her own wacky way, he supposed she was right. But how was he supposed to keep a lid on his cousin if she wanted drama during her shoe selection?

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like some champagne, too?” Jenny asked, clearly sensing his mood. “Or some Scotch?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m fine.” Someone had to think clearly here. “Drama is okay. Let’s just make sure it’s planned so it shows well.”

“Okay,” she said, lifting her glass for a refill. Jenny immediately filled it. “This is going to be so fun. A reality show about my wedding. Even Daddy is pleased.”

“A reality show?” Jenny said, shooting Marc a questioning glance.

“Oh, yeah,” Brooke said. “Didn’t Marc tell you?” She swatted at him. “Shame on you.”

“We hadn’t released a press statement yet.”

Brooke giggled. “Oops. I may have let it slip last night.”

Marc’s stomach began to burn. The reality show could take Bellagio Shoes to a new level. He was ready for that new level, but since he’d been given the assignment to make sure Bellagio was portrayed in only the best light, he didn’t know how in hell he could accomplish that without some control. And even though Brooke was engaged, she still wasn’t under control. He knew the wedding was being put together in a rush due to her father’s deadline. Brooke had put off committing herself until the last moment.

“That’s okay,” Jenny said. “Sometimes rumors can be more important than the truth.”

Brooke’s smile fell, and for a sliver of a second she turned serious. “How true.” She took another sip and gave a hard laugh. “And I’m an expert at generating rumors.” She pushed her glasses back in place. “Marc will make it all turn out right. That’s why the almighty Alfredo Bellagio put him in charge. He’s young, he looks great on camera, and he’s so level-headed he could run the country blindfolded, let alone Bellagio Shoes.” Brooke glanced at her watch. “My time here is done. Do you mind if I take the rest of those truffles?”

“Not at all,” Jenny said, offering her the plate and a napkin.

“And if you don’t mind, I think I’ll top off this glass and take it with me, too.”

Jenny picked up the bottle and paused. “You’re not driving, are you?” she asked.

“Nope. I’m being chauffeured today. Daddy’s orders.” She pursed her mouth into a kiss while Jenny topped off her champagne. “See you later, Marc. Don’t work so hard. You’re starting to remind me of my dad and that’s not good. Ciao!” she said and left the room.

Complete silence followed.

“Are you sure you don’t want some Scotch?”

Marc met Jenny’s gaze. “I’m sure. Now you know what we’re doing. Brooke seems to like your stuff. Are you up for the whole project?”

The champagne bottle hanging limply in her hand, she stared at him looking like a deer caught in headlights. “What do you mean she likes my stuff? The whole project?”

“I mean Sal didn’t really tell you he was at the doctor this morning, did he?” he asked.

She swallowed. “No, but he’s been having some problems, so I thought—”

“You thought he was at the doctor?”

She bit her lip but said nothing.

Loyal to the end, he thought. She would be perfect for the job. “Sal’s in rehab. He called me after you and I talked.”

Her jaw dropped. “Oh.”

“Surprised?”

She met his gaze then looked away, her eyebrows furrowing. “I’m glad for him to get any help he might need. He’s been a wonderful boss.”

“And mentor,” Marc said, and watched Jenny snap her head up. “When I told him his timing was terrible, he said you’ve been covering for him for months. Called you creative, brilliant, innovative. He said you could handle the shoe designs for this wedding with no problem. So, are you game or not?”

CHAPTER TWO

STUNNED, JENNY FELT her hands go limp. The bottle of champagne slid through her fingers. She tried to grasp for it, but she felt as if she were moving in slow motion.

Marc moved in a split second and caught the bottle just as it hit the floor.

Jenny shook her head and winced. “Sorry. I, uh.” She shook her head. “Great save.”

He nodded and stood in front of her. “You’ll need to be briefed by the PR Department and they’ll require you to take a few lessons. The worst part is you’ll have to deal with Brooke until this is all over, and you won’t get credit for your designs. We’re trying to build the name of Sal Amoré by Bellagio as the premier line in evening and bridal shoes. I wasn’t sure if you could do it, but Sal insisted you could. He told me to take a second look at your résumé. I didn’t know you’d attended design school and even did an apprenticeship with one of our competitors.”

She didn’t know that, either. Jenny dropped her jaw in shock. Marc must have gotten her résumé mixed up with someone else’s. Jenny had never attended design school unless one counted the pottery class she’d taken. And she’d never apprenticed with one of their competitors unless one counted her stint as sales person in Rice’s Department Store Shoe Department.

She should correct him. She really should correct him, she thought. “I think there’s been some confusion,” she began.

Marc lifted his hand. “Sal warned me that you wouldn’t want to take credit. He told me not to let you pull the modesty act.”

“It’s no act,” she insisted. “I haven’t—”

Marc cut her off again. “The company needs you for this,” he said.

Jenny opened her mouth to try to set Marc straight again, but something niggled in the back of her mind. When Sal had first hired her, he’d mentioned in an offhand way that he needed to fill in some blanks on her résumé for the Personnel Department. She’d thought he’d meant her recent change of address and social security number for health insurance.

How embarrassing. She should correct Marc right this minute.

And give up the opportunity of a lifetime just because she didn’t go to design school.

She should correct him. It was the right thing to do.

“Of course you’ll get a promotion and salary increase,” Marc said.

She felt herself tilt to the dark side. A promotion. A real promotion, not the move from French-fry cooker to front end clerk at Burger King. Her mind whirled with possibilities. It was okay that she wouldn’t get credit, she thought, but still felt a little pinch. The feeling surprised her. She’d thought she would be content to anonymously doodle and create until she reached retirement, but maybe she wasn’t. So she had an ego after all. She wanted some credit, too. She frowned in irritation. What a pain in the butt for this to show up now.

“What would my title be?”

“Associate designer. What else do you want?”

Good question, she thought, drawing a blank. The only time she could remember someone asking her what she wanted was in reference to food choice, and it usually involved takeout. “I’m not—” She sighed. “I need to think about that, if it’s okay with you.”

He studied her and nodded slowly. “Okay. We can talk tomorrow.”

She nodded. “That will work,” she murmured, seeing his Italian heritage in his dark hair and tanned skin and his Scottish ancestry in his strong bone structure and blue-gray eyes. He has great eyebrows, she thought. This was the first time she’d been close enough to really notice.

He frowned. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look shell-shocked.”

She moved her head in a circle, trying to clear it. “Well, this caught me off guard. I usually have a fast recovery, but this was several things at once. Plus I’ve probably just fallen off the sugar high I got from the Krispy Kreme doughnuts I ate.”

His lips twitched. “Do you need the rest of the day off?”

Wow, he was being almost nice. She never would have expected it. One surprise after another. “I don’t need the whole day, but I’ll take some extra time at lunch if that’s okay. A long walk will help.”

“Take it,” he said. “Just remember that the confidentiality agreement you signed at the start of your employment is in force.”

Jenny vaguely remembered skimming the agreement along with the forms for Social Security, tax deductions and insurance. At the time, she’d been much more concerned with starting the job so she could make her rent and car payments. “So I can’t discuss this with anyone,” she said.

“Correct.”

“Except maybe a cat,” she mused, thinking of her adopted barn cat, Romeo, at home.

“R…i…g…h…t,” he said, drawing the word out and giving her a strange look.

“You don’t have a pet, do you?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “Why?”

She shrugged. “No reason, really. You have a very demanding position. I imagine you feel like you don’t have the time or the inclination to take care of a pet.”

“And your point is?”

She shrugged again, wishing she hadn’t rattled on. “Nothing really.” She could tell she needed to shut up. Her attorney sister had always told her to give the least amount of information possible to officers of the law and people who could control your income.

He narrowed his eyes and hesitated, then looked away and back again. “There was a point to your comment about pets, but I suspect I don’t need to know what it was.”

“True.”

He frowned. “What is true?”

“What you just said, both things,” she said, and smiled because she felt as if she were sinking into the giant hole she was creating for herself. “Thank you for giving me some extra time at lunch, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She glanced at the drawings of the shoes. “Is it okay if I take these with me?”

“Yes, but make a set of copies for me.”

“Okay,” she said, supremely uncomfortable with his attention as she picked up the drawings. “Well, it’s been interesting.” She turned around and backed toward the door. “Bye for now,” she said, turning the doorknob and waving.

He waved in return, still looking at her as if she had a loose screw. Which wasn’t far from the truth. Jenny had learned long ago that in a world of round holes, she was definitely a triangle.

AT EIGHT O’CLOCK that night, Marc stepped into his Italian-tiled foyer with his laptop and assorted files crammed into a case. The condo was dark and completely silent. He stood still for a moment. It was so quiet he could hear his heartbeat.

For ten seconds he treasured the silence, a respite from the noises at the office and in traffic. He walked through the hallway to the kitchen counter and glanced through his mail before he put it down. Shooting a glance at his widescreen television, he made a mental note to turn on the Braves game while he worked tonight. He set his case down on the sofa table, loosened his tie and went to the refrigerator to grab a beer. Corona. It reminded him of a trip he’d taken to the islands years before when he’d had more time and less corporate responsibility.

He felt a twinge at the memory. Lord, that felt ages ago. Had it been so long?

Dismissing the thought, he took a long draw from the bottle of beer and went upstairs to his bedroom. It was just as he’d left it this morning. Neat and orderly. The way he liked it. He’d nixed the decorator’s suggestion for a useless pile of extra pillows on his king-size bed. He didn’t like clutter. He never had. He didn’t like messes because he’d had to clean up too many.

His mind wandered to Sal’s assistant, what was her name? Jillian? Jerri? He shrugged, remembering her kooky comment about pets. What had she meant? He shouldn’t care, but he was curious. She’d been right. She’d been right about Brooke, right about Sal and somewhat right about him. He tugged his tie loose and unbuttoned his shirt.

He’d looked at her résumé again this afternoon. She was qualified for a little bit of everything. According to her résumé, she’d spent several years exploring career opportunities before she’d finished design school and landed at Bellagio twenty-two months ago. Her tendency not to finish much of what she started bothered him. He needed someone who would see this project through until the end. But she’d finished design school, he reminded himself. And she’d completed an apprenticeship. Maybe she’d just needed to find her niche.

Sitting down on the bed, he pulled off his shoes and carried them to the shoe stand in his walk-in closet. He ditched his slacks, hung them with the rest of his dress pants and reached for a pair of jeans.

Bellagio had other designers. Hell, he could have pulled someone from Italy if he’d been inclined. Sal, however, had been persuasive, and Marc had been impressed by the assistant’s loyalty and the drawings of the shoes. He knew talent when he saw it. The CEO, Alfredo Bellagio, would leave the decision to Marc. Alfredo had given Marc the assignment of maximizing Bellagio’s opportunities with the reality show at the same time that he kept it under control. With Brooke as the bride, the latter would be a huge challenge. He didn’t need another overinflated Italian ego in the mix.

He took a swig of beer and headed downstairs. Amazing how he liked the quiet for a few minutes, but then it started to bother him. He thought of what’s-her-name’s comment about his not having a pet. She was right. If he hadn’t made time for a relationship, then how could he make time for a pet?

Most men his age had wives and children. Marc just never felt as if he’d found the right woman at the right time. Sure, he’d been involved, but either the woman hadn’t been right or the time hadn’t been right.

It had gotten old coming home to an empty house, so he’d put together a plan, he reminded himself. No luck four months into it, but he was confident.

His doorbell rang, followed by a quick knock and yell. “Marco! Open up. I’ve got a live one.”

Marc laughed darkly at the sound of his favorite sixteenth cousin and best friend’s voice as he opened the door. “Do you have to announce it to the entire neighborhood?”

Gino, three years older than Marc with a wife and three sons, looked offended. “What? Live one could mean anything—fish, business proposition.” He lowered his voice. “In this case it’s wife material.”

Gino gave Marc a bear hug. “I even have a photo. Give me a beer. I have to make this quick. Sonja is warming up the bed for me if you know what I mean,” he said with a wink.

“Don’t remind me of what I’m not getting,” Marc muttered, taking another swig of his beer. Four months ago he’d made a decision that it was time for him to get married. Getting sex hadn’t been an issue for him. In fact, it had been too easy. Finding a woman he wanted to stay with for more than two nights—that was the problem.

Gino had told Marc that he needed a different kind of woman, a less ambitious woman, a woman who wanted a home and husband instead of a world-changing career. So Marc set up a strategy, which he’d put in writing, to find a wife. Gino had put himself in charge of supplying him with dates. In order to give himself a sense of urgency to fulfill the quest within a year or less, he’d decided to remain celibate until he found “the one.”

Gino had insisted that Marc be required to date each woman twice before eliminating her. Marc also had a goal of dating a minimum of once per week, which he hadn’t always met due to travel and personal emergencies with his grandfather.

No sex for four months. He was getting to the place where he couldn’t watch razor commercials for women without getting a hard-on.

“Who’s Miss Wonderful?” he asked, pulling the manila envelope from Gino’s hand while his friend grabbed a beer from the fridge.

“She’s blond and beautiful, a former Miss Brunswick County.”

Marc slid his friend a sideways glance. “A beauty pageant winner,” he echoed, looking at a photo of a busty blonde. He had to admit she wasn’t hard on the eyes.

“A county pageant winner with a double bachelor’s degree in history and psychology.”

Marc shook his head. “No shrinks allowed. I don’t want a shrink.”

“It’s just a bachelor’s degree. You’re not thinking this all the way through. She didn’t major in engineering or accounting or premed. Besides, you didn’t hear what her future goals are.”

“And they are?” he asked skeptically.

“To make the world a better place by being the best wife and mother she can be.”

Marc sank into the vision of receiving a full body massage from a busty blonde intent on carrying out her wifely duties to the best of her ability. Ooohhh, baby, yes, a little lower… He felt himself harden. Sighing, he took another swig of Corona. “What was her talent?”

Gino smiled wickedly. “Gymnastics.”

Marc swallowed a groan. What could be better than a blonde intent on serving him with trick sex? “Is she available this week?”

“Name the day.”

Gino stayed a few more minutes before he went home to take care of Sonja humming under the covers. Marc thought of Gino’s three screaming little bratty boys and felt a weird hollow sensation in his gut. He rubbed at his stomach, but it didn’t go away. Frowning, he turned toward the fruit bowl and grabbed an apple.

Just one more weird feeling after a crazy day, he told himself, taking another drink. He was fine with his life. He had a condo others coveted. Hell, he lived in the same gated community as Elton John and Whitney Houston if you gave a rip about that kind of thing. He had a job and salary that made others green with envy. He had it all without messes or clutter. If one didn’t count his responsibilities with his grandfather.

He picked up the remote and turned on his television. The sound of the Braves game instantly filled the room assuaging his strange mood. Sinking onto his brown leather sofa, he opened his notebook computer and did what he did every night. He looked at his schedule for the following day and made a plan of action for each meeting, each appointment, each phone call. Marc was known for making a plan of action for everything. He was rarely caught off guard and when he was, his discipline for planning a strategy always, always got him through.

JENNY CLIMBED THE STEPS to her second-floor sublet apartment while juggling two bags of groceries. She pushed the key into the lock, which turned out to be unnecessary.

“Stella?” Jenny called as she opened the door.

A seven-year-old girl, the daughter of Jenny’s neighbor, rounded the corner from the bedroom holding a cat. “Hi, Jenny.”

“Hi, to you, sweet pea. How’s Romeo?” she asked, speaking of the cat who wasn’t really Jenny’s. He had just sort of shown up at her front door one day with one eye missing, his ribs sticking through his fur and enough fleas to take over the world.

“He wanted a hug,” Stella said.

Jenny’s heart twisted. Stella was the one who probably wanted a hug. The little girl reminded Jenny of herself at that age. She wore a lost expression except when she was drawing pictures or making a craft project. Stella’s mom had arranged for after-school care with another neighbor, but when Stella got bored she went to Jenny’s apartment to play with Romeo.

“Well, he’s lucky to be getting hugs from little Miss Magic,” Jenny said, giving Stella a squeeze and scratching Romeo behind the ears.

Stella beamed at the mention of the nickname. Jenny had told Stella that her smiles were magic.

“Did your mom have to work late again?” Jenny asked. Taking in Stella’s nod, she asked, “Cookies or SpaghettiOs?”

“Both?” Stella said hopefully.

Jenny smiled. “What’d you have for lunch today?”

Stella wrinkled her nose. “Gross meat loaf.”

That explained the hunger. “How about if we eat the cookies while you do your homework?”

“Okay,” Stella said.

Forty-five minutes later, after they’d consumed the SpaghettiOs, Jenny helped Stella with her story problems as both of them munched on warm chocolate chip cookies. Jenny barely resisted rolling her eyes at the story problems. She’d hated them as a kid and she hated them now. The extraneous information drove her nuts. They finally finished the problems and moved onto Stella’s paper on bees.

Halfway through, a knock sounded at the door and Stella’s mother, Anna, poked her head inside. “Is my girl here?” she asked with a tired smile.

Stella scrambled to her feet and dashed to give her mom a hug. “Hi, Mommy!”

Jenny watched the two embrace and felt another twist of her heart. They truly only had each other. “Thanks for letting her come over,” Anna said over Stella’s head. “My boss kept me late again. I know she gets bored. I’m enrolling her in an after-school program as soon as I can afford it.”

“No problem. I enjoyed having Miss Magic for a while.”

Stella beamed. “G’night, Jenny!”

“’Night Miss Magic,” she said and closed the door behind them. She turned around and gathered the dishes from the table and washed them in the sink. The dishwasher was on the blink again.

Her mind wandered to the meeting with Brooke and Marc. She felt a rush of excitement. She had really been asked to design Brooke Tarantino’s wedding shoes. Sure, the heiress was going to be a handful, but Jenny wasn’t worried. Her many previous jobs had provided her with opportunities to work with some prize jerks and eccentrics. Brooke was still searching for herself. Jenny understood that.

Her doorbell buzzed. She glanced at the clock and smiled, guessing who it was. She didn’t bother to answer. Two and a half seconds passed, and Chad, whom she’d met when she’d worked at O’Malley’s, sauntered through the door.

With coal-black hair, olive skin, dark eyes that flashed passion and a body hot enough to make every woman who saw him want to eat him with a spoon, he strutted behind her, looped his arm around her shoulder and rubbed his lips against her cheek.

“Hello, gorgeous. Come with me to Loco’s Tavern tonight and burn up the dance floor,” he said seductively against her ear.

She took a quick whiff. He always smelled better than she did. “What are you wearing this time? It smells delicious.”

“I smell delicious,” he said. “It’s Curve. So come and dance the night away with me.”

“You can’t fool me. I know this is Ladies’ Night at Loco’s Tavern. You want me to give you all my cheap drinks while you burn up the floor with someone else.”

Jenny looked into his smoldering eyes and sighed. Darn shame he wasn’t the least bit attracted to her or any other woman. He had a boyfriend of his own.

“Where’s Paul?”

“He’s working graveyard this week. I was feeling bored, so he encouraged me to hit Loco’s with you.” He paused a half beat. “Hey, I’ll even dance with you.”

“That’s what you said last time…before you left me in the dust to enter the salsa contest.”

“I won’t abandon you this time. I promise. You might even talk me into teaching you a little salsa.”

That stopped her. Chad was an awesome dancer.

“I’ve about given up on being discovered,” he said in a glum voice.

“I never understood that, anyway. If you want to be a model, you should go to New York.”

“I could always be a shoe model,” he hinted with a broad smile.

He’d hinted the same more than once. As if she had any pull with the higher-ups at Bellagio. “I told you before,” she said, sliding her hand over his cheek and lowering her voice. “Your feet aren’t big enough.”

He gave a snort of indignation. “My feet are plenty big. In fact, my feet are so big I’ve gotten oohs and ahhs over how—”

Jenny covered her ears. “I told you I don’t want to hear about your sex life.”

“You started it by denigrating my—” He cleared his throat. “Feet. Enough.” He grabbed the dish towel from her hand and tossed it to the counter. “Let’s hit the ball, Cinderella.”

She allowed herself to be swayed. A night out with a gorgeous guy who would teach her to salsa didn’t sound too bad. “I can’t stay late. I have work tomorrow.”

He shrugged, snatching her purse from the back of a kitchen chair and tugging her toward the door. “So, you always have work? You answer the phone and shuffle paperwork. How many brain cells does that take?”

“Depends on the day. Sometimes it takes all my brain cells.” Tomorrow she was meeting and negotiating with Marc.

He shot her a curious but skeptical glance. “And you have a feeling tomorrow is going to be one of those days, my spooky little girl?”

Although he knew her feelings had turned out to be right on more than one occasion, he still liked to tease her about them.

“Yep,” she said, thinking about Marc and feeling an itch at the back of her neck. “I have a feeling I’m going to need all my brain cells at top performance tomorrow.”

Two hours later she’d downed two martinis and was laughing at her own efforts to salsa.

“C’mon, Jenny, you can do it,” Chad coaxed her when she fumbled over her steps for the umpteenth time. “Release your inner passion, your inner diva, and follow.”

Concentrating, she shook her head. “If I look very very hard, I may find my inner passion, but I’m not sure I have an inner diva.”

He gave her a hard snap, sending her reeling away from him, before he jerked her back against him. “Then you must create her. If you’re going to succeed at salsa, you must release your inner passion and inner diva, and follow.”

He squeezed her waist, directing her to take a step in the direction he wanted to go. “Follow with passion. The diva knows she can demand what she wants and get it.”

“How do you know so much about salsa and women?” she asked, evaluating his words.

He twirled her around and she enjoyed the dizziness. He wouldn’t let her fall. He would seduce her into dancing, but not into bed. She was safe.

She couldn’t help thinking about her meeting tomorrow with Marc. No net with that man. She wondered if she had the nerve to go after him if she got the opportunity. And the job, the dream job that was being handed to her on a platter. She wondered what would happen if someone got around to checking the credentials Sal had filled in on her résumé. No net again.

“Trust me?” Chad asked with a dare in his eyes.

Feeling a tingle of excitement, she nodded. He was her friend. The only thing she had that he wanted was a cheap cocktail.

She felt the earth move and suddenly her head sank, nearly touching the ground. She hung suspended, at Chad’s mercy. She heard applause in between the roaring in her ears.

Chad’s white teeth gleamed in approval.

She felt a bit dizzy. “You have three seconds to pull me back up or I’m never bringing you to girls’ night out with me again.”

Chad laughed out loud and immediately whipped her up so that her body pressed intimately against his. “You were wrong about your diva. She’s there.”

WITH THE EXCEPTION of the luxurious furnishings, Marc Waterson’s office reminded Jenny of the principal’s office at her elementary school. Funny, she was having some of the same feelings she’d had as a child when she’d been called to the principal’s office. She still remembered the conversations.

“Jenny, both your brother and your sister were in our gifted program. We know you’re intelligent. You could be in the gifted program, too, if you would just try a little harder.”

She had tried. But math and science bored her to death.

As she sat across from Marc Waterson while he finished a phone call, she rubbed her damp palms together and took a deep breath to get rid of the tight feeling in her chest and stomach. She had told herself to reach for her inner diva for this meeting, but so far she wasn’t feeling successful.

This wasn’t the same as being in the principal’s office, she told herself. This was a promotion. Kinda, anyway. It was the desk, she thought, eyeing the mammoth cherry desk that separated her in her little chair from the hot and almighty Marc Waterson. The hot Marc Waterson who clearly had no problem ignoring her, despite the fact that she’d dressed “office sexy” in a little black skirt and fitted sweater.

A growl of frustration bubbled from her throat, shocking her when it came out of her mouth like an ill-timed burp. Oh, crap, she hoped he hadn’t heard…

Marc glanced at her, lifting his eyebrows. He raised an index finger, signaling one minute.

“Okay, Gino, I’m clear for tonight. Do you know if she likes Italian or seafood? Not on the application,” he said with a chuckle. “I’ll think of something and get Cynthia to make the reservations.” He groaned and raked his hand through his gorgeous thick hair. “God, I hope Miss Brunswick County is Miss Right. This is getting old.”

Marc chuckled. “Remember you get something out of this, too, if it works out.” He nodded. “Ciao.”

Miss Right? Marc was looking for Miss Right? And he sounded pretty intent on it. Miss Brunswick County, a pageant winner, she thought, turning up her nose. How superficial. She would have thought he’d be beyond that. She felt a stupid pull of disappointment in her belly. Lord knew she wasn’t pageant material, not unless she was backstage.

Seconds later he set down the phone and punched his intercom button. “Cynthia, please make reservations for two tonight at the Atlanta Grille at The Ritz. Then hold my calls. Thanks,” he said, and turned his attention to Jenny.

Having him look at her made her feel even more squirmy. She allowed herself one little shift and crossed her legs.

“Jenna, have you decided to do the project?”

She fought a spurt of irritation. “Jenny,” she corrected.

“Sorry, Jenny,” he corrected, although he didn’t appear particularly sorry at all.

“I’m interested. I’d like some more details on exactly what will be expected of me and what my compensation will be,” she said, pleased that she hadn’t stuttered and thankful that she’d spent the morning rehearsing. I am diva, hear me roar, she mentally chanted. At the same time she wondered if Marc wore aftershave, if she’d ever get close enough to smell.

He named a figure for her increased salary that made her want to sing hallelujah, but she restrained herself and tried not to stare at his mouth while he talked. He listed her duties and expectations along with her new job title—assistant designer.

The two words were music to her ears. How interesting, she thought. Her jobs had always been a means to an end, a way to pay the bills and she hadn’t cared about prestige. She’d usually been too busy looking for the next job because she’d either quit the last one or her company had gone out of business. She hadn’t loved anything she’d done enough to give much thought to how long the job would last. This one was different.

“The salary is fine,” she said, forcing herself to make the understatement. “The job title is fine, but I’m concerned about my position once the project is over. What will I do then?”

“What do you want to do?”

I want to make wild monkey love with you…whatever wild monkey love entails. She cleared her throat and tried to clear her mind. Diva, diva, diva. “I’d like to design my own line of evening shoes,” she said, the words boldly popping out of her mouth.

Marc blinked.

She would bet he hardly ever did that. He was the type who didn’t need to blink. “That’s a tall order.”

“Not according to you and Sal. You must agree with him that I’m up to the task of designing if you’re willing to give me such an important project.” Except for the fact that Marc was in a sticky spot.

“This is an unusual situation,” he said, adjusting his tie.

Jenny was shocked by the subtle display of discomfort. She had made Marc Waterson uncomfortable. Would wonders never cease.

“I haven’t seen enough of your designs to know that you can create an entire line and sustain it. Creating a line requires a huge investment from the company.”

“If Sal doesn’t come back, you’re going to have to make that investment in somebody.”

“I have no reason to believe he won’t return. And if he didn’t, we would still continue his line for years to come.”

Sounded like no to her and it sucked. For the first time in her life, Jenny was doing something noteworthy and she wouldn’t mind if people knew.

He met her gaze. “You’re not going to get credit for the shoes you’ll design for Brooke.”

She nodded.

“And it bothers you,” he said.

She nodded again.

He tapped his Waterman pen on his desk. “I’ll tell you what. Put together some sketches of some evening shoes and if I think they’re good, I’ll show them to marketing. We can go from there.”

It was a chance. More than she’d had when she’d walked in the door.

CHAPTER THREE

THE NEXT DAY Jenny’s promotion felt more than ever like a pretend promotion. She fielded calls for Sal, filed and did everything she used to do, plus now she also needed to design.

During the lunch she took at her desk, the phone rang again. She frowned at it and almost didn’t pick up. Mentally grumbling, she answered the phone. “Jenny Prillaman for Sal Amoré.”

“Take the Tarantino job, Jenny. You can do it,” Sal said.

She nearly dropped the phone in shock. “Sal! Where are you?”

“In rehab. I had to sneak this call. I won’t be able to call again. Just do the job.”

“But Marc Waterson thinks I have a degree from a design school.”

“In this case, what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Sometimes upper management doesn’t understand the way an artist creates.”

“But I’m not an artist,” she protested. “I’m a doodler.”

“Don’t diminish your talent. You’re an assistant designer now, Jenny. Do your job. I’ll call you after I get out. Ciao.”

“But they think I’m something different from what I really am,” Jenny said. “Sal, Sal—” The line was dead. She was talking to nobody. Panic raced through her. She really was all alone on this. She would fail or succeed totally on her own efforts.

Self-doubt swelled in her throat. What if she couldn’t pull it off? After all her huffing and puffing and diva pretense, what if she fell flat on her face?

She took a deep breath and looked at the evening shoes she’d drawn during the last couple of hours. It’s not world peace, she told herself. It’s just shoes.

Most workers skedaddled out of the building by 5:30 p.m., so she decided to take advantage of the quiet to doodle some more shoes. Doodling, she’d decided, was less threatening than designing.

Some time later, her stomach growled and she glanced up at the clock, surprised that nearly two hours had passed. Taking a second look at her sketches, she was pleased with her start. Time to go, she thought and debated which takeout she would grab on the way home.

She stepped outside the building’s back door to rain falling in sheets. She hadn’t brought an umbrella, so she would get soaked. Better at the end of the day than at the beginning, she thought philosophically and ran toward her car. She got inside and shook some of the moisture off her, then pushed her key into her ignition and turned it.

A grinding sound followed.

Jenny made a face. Not a good sign. She tried again and was rewarded with the same grinding sound, only weaker. Sighing, she stepped out of the car and walked to the hood. Lifting it, she stared at it, looking for answers.

MARC STEPPED INSIDE his vehicle and pulled down his compact umbrella. He slid it just behind the front seat so he could easily reach it when he arrived home. He’d worked late today due to an out-of-office appointment tomorrow. And because he didn’t want to face an interrogation from Gino over last night’s date. If he evaluated his date strictly by the list he’d created, she should have been perfect.

Marc eased his car out of his assigned space close to the building and headed down the lane. In his peripheral vision, he caught sight of a pair of dim headlights. He glanced to the side and saw a figure standing over a car with the hood open.

Poor fool, he thought. This was what OnStar was for. This was what AAA was for. Rain beat against his windshield and he felt an attack of conscience. The parking lot was deserted except for his car and that one. Grumbling under his breath, he made a hard turn and drove toward the vehicle.

He lowered his window and peered out. “Need me to make a call for you?”

The dark figure turned around and Marc immediately recognized her. Sal’s assistant.

She met his gaze and he watched her eyes widen in an expression that looked like horror. Hell, he thought, he wasn’t that much of a sonovabitch, was he?

“Mr. Waterson,” she said.

“You can call me Marc,” he said, irritated at how she continued to stand there in the rain. “Listen, why don’t you get into my car and we’ll figure out what to do about your car, Ginger.”

She blinked and swiped her hands across her face. “Jenny,” she said, still hesitating. “I’ll get your seat wet.”

“I’ve got towels. Come on.”

She reached inside her vehicle, turned off her lights, then darted to the passenger side of his car and slid inside. She smelled like rain and peppermint and chocolate.

His stomach growled. “What have you been eating?”

“Peppermint patty. I keep a few in my purse for emergencies.”

“But no AAA card?” he asked.

“Doesn’t taste as good. Want one?”

“Yeah, thanks,” he said, accepting the candy. With her hair plastered to her head and her eyes wide behind those weird glasses, she reminded him of a nearly drowned puppy. He reached behind his seat and handed her a towel. “Here. What do you think is wrong with your car?”

She pulled off her jacket and rubbed herself with the towel. “Battery, alternator or starter. Or if I’m really unlucky, all three.” She made a face. “I guess I need to get it towed. I knew I should have renewed my AAA service.”

He noticed a piece of her hair was sticking straight up in front. “I’ll call a towing service. Do you have a garage—”

“Yep, Ron’s Garage on Peachtree.”

Marc made the call for the tow then hung up. “Is Ron’s Garage open this late?”

“No, but there’s a key drop-off,” she said.

“And how will you get home?”

She bit her lip. “Oops. Hadn’t thought of that. There’s bound to be someone I can call.”

“Or not,” Marc said. “I’ll take you.”

She met his gaze for a long moment. “That’s very nice of you.”

There was no artificial flattery in her voice. “You sound surprised.”

“Uh, well.” She cleared her throat. “I thought you would have something else more important to do.” Her eyes widened as if something came to mind. “Don’t you have a date?”

“That was last night. How did you know?”

“I was in your office when you were talking about it on the phone.”

He nodded. He needed to be more careful about discussing his plan in front of other people. Lord help him if everyone at work started talking about it.

“How’d it go?”

Surprised at the question, he looked at her. “Okay. She was pretty, nice, a good listener. High maintenance,” he couldn’t help adding.

“Ah,” she said with a knowing nod. “You’d prefer no maintenance.”

“Low or medium,” he corrected her.

“You should probably start with a dog,” she said.

The suggestion seemed to come out of nowhere. “Why?”

“It would be like training. If you’re not used to maintaining, dogs are very forgiving. They won’t make you sleep on the sofa or freeze you out, but if you ignore them too long, they make themselves known.”

“With a mess on the floor,” he said and shook his head. “I don’t want a puppy.”

“I wouldn’t recommend a puppy for you. Older dog.”

“Are you with some kind of animal shelter group or something?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I was just suggesting a solution for your problem with maintenance.”

“Who said I had a problem?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it as if she were editing herself.

That irritated him. He wanted to know what she’d been about to say.

She dug around in her bag. “Want another peppermint patty?”

“A diversion?” he asked.

“A sweet one,” she said.

He took the candy and narrowed his eyes at her. She was an odd one. Nice skin, he thought, and he could tell since any makeup she may have been wearing would have washed away. Her hair was trying to puff up from the humidity. Her eyelashes were long and black, her eyes true blue behind the red frames of her glasses. He wondered why she wore those glasses.

“Would you please not look at me?”

He felt a frisson of amusement. “Why not?”

“Because this is not how I want the hotshot vice president Marc Waterson to remember me.”

Curious, he studied her. “How is it that you want the hotshot vice president Marc Waterson to remember you?

“Pulled together, a terrific performer, someone you’d want to promote.”

His lips twisted at her lack of pretense. She laid all her stuff on the table. He leaned toward her. “Everyone has an off day every now and then.”

“Maybe,” she conceded. “But you make it look like you never do.”

He was surprised she noticed. “If that was flattery,” he began.

“It wasn’t,” she said before he could finish.

He felt a kick of something in his gut. Her directness unsettled him. He wasn’t sure if he liked it or not. Maybe it was a good thing that she wore glasses. Her eyes looked as if they could burn steel.

“There’s the tow truck,” she said, and he allowed the distraction.

After they followed the tow truck and car to the garage, she put her keys and information in the drop box and gave directions to her apartment.

He heard a little moaning sound at one point.

“What was that?” he asked, slowing.

“Nothing. Just me being silly. Take the next left.”

Marc didn’t like his questions not being answered. He pulled to the side of the road and stopped the car. “What?” he demanded. “You made a sound like a mewling cat.”

She groaned. “Couldn’t you have just ignored it?”

“It was distinctive,” he said, thinking there’d been something oddly sexual about the sound she’d made.

She covered her face. “We passed Chick Fil-A.”

“And?” he prompted, waiting for an explanation.

“Chick Fil-A is my favorite fast-food place.”

“If you’re hungry, why didn’t you just say so?” he asked and made a U-turn.

“Because you really don’t need—”

“Already on my way.”

“You’ve already done too much.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Yeah, but I bet Chick Fil-A isn’t your favorite.”

How would she know? “Okay, which do you think is my favorite?”

He felt her gaze on her for a long moment. “You’re big on delivered pizza, but if you’re forced to stop for fast food, you go for Arby’s.”

He stared at her as he pulled into the drive-through lane. “How do you know?”

“Just a lucky guess. I get these gut feelings every now and then. I’ll take an eight-piece chicken tender meal with waffle fries and a coke. And Polynesian sauce.”

He repeated the order, and they drove through. He paid and she put money in the center dash. “You’re a little anal about the paying thing, aren’t you?”

“Well, this isn’t a date.”

No it wasn’t, he thought, and wondered why he’d found this evening so much more interesting than last night.

She gave him the rest of the directions to her apartment and he stopped in front of it. “Thank you very much, Mr. Waterson,” she said, her face and tone serious.

“Marc,” he corrected and couldn’t resist the urge to fix the strand of her hair that was awry. She gave a quick little intake of breath, and he glanced at her mouth. Poufy and pink, it looked soft. And kissable.

Hell, where had that thought come from? He pulled back. “You’re welcome. Let me know when you find out what’s wrong with your car. Do you need a ride to work tomorrow?”

She shook her head quickly. “I have a neighbor who won’t mind at all. Thanks, though.” She dug into her purse and placed two peppermint patties in his hand. “Maybe these will hold you until you order your pizza.”

“Or stop by Arby’s,” he said. “You’re welcome.”

“G’night,” she said, and got out of the car. He watched her dash through the rain to the steps and disappear. Spooky woman, he thought. Not that pretty. Blatantly ambitious. He wondered what her body looked like. He didn’t think he’d ever noticed.

THE NEXT EVENING Jenny tossed another couple of spices into the chicken creole she and the Zatarains were making tonight. Stella had already gone home with her mother, so Jenny had decided to treat herself to her favorite boxed dinner.

A knock sounded on the door and she felt her mouth stretch into a half smile despite her bummed mood. Chad again.

He opened the door and gave a wolf whistle. “Look at her. She’s got legs!”

Jenny laughed and rolled her eyes. “What did you think I used for walking? Stilts?”

“You keep them covered up in jeans and slacks so much I’d forgotten,” he said and snatched the spoon from her to take a taste of the creole. “It needs something. Heat. It needs more heat.” He opened her cabinet and grabbed hot pepper seasoning.

“Would you like to join me for dinner?” she asked as he took over the cooking. Chad was a lovable combination of mooch and faithful friend. He never forgot her birthday and he’d brought brownies and sat with her through three viewings of the movie Oklahoma while Jenny had recovered from a disappointing love affair.

“Yes, I would. Charming of you to ask. Do you have any good bread, or are you still on that disgusting South Beach diet?”

“I brought home some fresh sourdough.”

He smiled in approval. “Very good.”

“Paul’s still on graveyard shift?” she asked.

He nodded. “I thought you and I could go out for a bite, but since you’ve already prepared the meal, it would be a shame to waste it.”

Cheapo. “You tried your neighbors first,” she concluded, sinking into a kitchen chair.

Unabashed, he nodded. “Two of them. I would have tried you first if you lived closer.”

“Real hardship to get in your car and drive three miles,” she said.

His eyebrows furrowed together. “You sound like a bitter shrew tonight. What’s your problem? Wasn’t something exciting supposed to happen at work?”

“It did,” she said. “Kinda. I got a promotion and raise.”

“Fantastic! You should be celebrating.” He grinned engagingly. “You should take me out.”

“It’s complicated. There are conditions with the position. It’s mine, but not really mine,” she said, and realized that didn’t make sense. “It’s temporary.”

“So take the money and enjoy the moment.”

“I will, after I pay for the new battery for my car,” she said, and sighed. “It just made me start thinking. Do you realize everything I have isn’t really mine? I keep a great kid after school almost every day, but she’s not mine. I have a new position, but it’s not really mine. I have a friend who takes me salsa dancing, but he’s not my boyfriend.”

Chad looked stricken. “I didn’t know you felt that way about me.”

Jenny rolled her eyes. “I don’t. I’m just venting. My apartment isn’t even really mine. I sublet it.”

“Then get a different one.”

“I like the price and location.”

“Then quit griping.”

“Plus my boss can’t remember my name.”

“I thought you said your boss was a nice guy. Sal Somebody.”

“Different boss. The vice president.” She sighed again. “He’s so hot, and he can’t see me.”

Chad gave her a double take. “Oh, my. Unrequited love?”

“Unrequited lust.”

His eyes widened. “Jenny, I never knew. You always seemed so…so…”

She covered her ears. “If you say sexless, I’ll scream.”

He removed her hands from her ears. “I was going to say shy, inhibited.” He paused. “Don’t you ever get tired of not going after what you want? If this VP is so hot, then why don’t you just bed him and get it over with?” He shrugged. “If your job isn’t really yours, then I don’t see the problem.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you’re saving yourself for Prince Charming. You’re not a virgin, are you?”

She glowered at him and pulled her hands from his. “It’s really none of your business, but no.”

“Must not have been a great experience based on your expression,” he taunted.

“It was more than once,” she said, then stopped herself. She’d made love with two men and neither experience in bed had rocked her world. “Besides, this situation isn’t that easy. This man is going out with a beauty pageant winner.”

Chad’s eyes rounded as he spooned servings of creole and rice onto plates. “A beauty pageant winner,” he echoed. “I wonder what kind of plastic surgery she’s had.”

Jenny laughed despite herself. “Maybe none. Maybe she’s just naturally beautiful.”

“Honey, natural and beautiful rarely go together in the same sentence.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not beauty pageant material.”

Chad took a seat. “Well, not looking like that you aren’t.”

Affronted, she pursed her lips. “What do you mean, not looking like this? This skirt is above my knees and the sweater is fitted. This is office sexy,” she told him.

“If you’re my mother,” he muttered, and took a bite. He immediately fanned his mouth. “Oooh, too hot.”

“You went overboard with the seasoning.”

“Stop fussing and get me some bread.”

Jenny grabbed the fresh loaf from the counter and pinched off a large piece. Chad immediately put the bread in his mouth and chewed it. “Thanks,” he said, and added more rice to the creole. “That’s not office sexy. Your skirt should be shorter, although it doesn’t have to be skintight. I like the idea of one that flips a little as you walk. You need to show more cleavage.”

“I don’t have a lot of cleavage.”

“Then create it.” He shook a piece of bread at her. “If men can create cleavage, then women can, too. And you need to wear sexier shoes.”

“Not if I’m on my feet all day.”

“I thought the objective was to get off your feet and into VP boy’s bed,” he retorted without batting an eye. “And you need to lose the red glasses and do something different with your hair.”

“I like my red glasses,” she said, touching the lenses, comforted by the fact that she’d worn them for six years and successfully irritated the living daylights out of her sister with the glasses.

“They’re not seductive. They’re weird.”

“Well, maybe I’m weird.”

“You don’t need to advertise the fact if you want to bonk VP boy.”

“That’s a crass way of putting it.”

He shot her a sideways glance. “Would you like to be Mrs. VP?”

Jenny felt the back of her neck itch and gave an involuntary shudder. Marc would be a demanding husband. A woman would have to build her world and schedule around his, and since he was type A to the core, he would probably be a pain in the butt to live with. “That would be a nightmare,” she confessed.

“But you find him attractive.”

Ohhhhh, yeah. She nodded. “Everything that makes him unappealing as a husband makes him irresistible as a lover. He’s got this whole power thing going on and he’s got a great body. His lips are sort of full, but a little hard at the same time. He’s intense in a passionate kind of way. It makes you wonder how he would be if he cut loose and—” She broke off and cleared her throat, self-conscious.

Chad studied her for a long moment. “I’ve never seen your hormones in full throttle before. Pity,” he added. “This could be fun, but I don’t think you’re enough of a risk taker.” He patted her hand. “I’ll get you a good vibrator for Christmas.”

SO THE FOLLOWING DAY Jenny bought a new pair of heels, Bellagio, of course. Even with her employee discount, she flinched at the cost. The weekend after her shoe purchase, she brooded over Chad’s advice. Her fantasies about Marc Waterson had always seemed like harmless fun until now. She’d never spoken to him except over the phone. The man couldn’t even remember her name. Was she really such a wuss that she wouldn’t go after him? It wasn’t as if she wanted to marry him. She just wanted to borrow him. She just wanted his undivided attention and lust for once. She was twenty-six. Wasn’t she due at least one hot affair in her life? This was starting to feel way overdue.

She lunched and shopped with her friend Liz at Lennox Mall. Liz had been a cocktail waitress at the same club where Jenny worked, but Liz had parlayed the job into an introduction, affair, engagement and marriage to a very wealthy older man named Frank Colburn.

“And then I told him I wasn’t ready to be a golf widow at age twenty-five.”

“So where are you going next?” Jenny asked, because she’d heard a similar story from Liz before.

Liz smiled. “The French Riviera. I’ve always wanted to go. After this trip, I can either mark it off my list or add it to my revisit list.”

Liz was big on lists. “What about your degree?”

Liz was blond and cute with big blue eyes that worked like calculators and big boobs that made men forget their names. “I’m working on that, too. Two classes this fall. I have no idea how long this will last with Frank. Marrying him was like winning the lottery.”

“Does it bother you that you don’t have any romantic feelings for him at all?”

“Only at certain times, and those are rare. I care a great deal for Frank. I remind him to take his medication and to go for his doctor appointments. I even set up dinners to include his children. But you gotta remember, Jenny. I was raised in a single-wide. Frank is my ticket to financial security.”

“But don’t you miss having some kind of passion for him?”

Liz paused and sighed. “I have a different kind of passion for Frank. It’s a passion of gratitude for changing my life. If you’re talking about sex, well, I’ve had some really hot lovers. And I imagine that someday in the future I will again.”

Jenny sipped her soda and thought about how different she was from Liz. Sometimes Liz’s callous attitude to her marriage made Jenny cringe. Other times, she admired the woman’s practical approach.

“You’ve been quiet too long,” Liz said. “This is when you’re thinking I’m a she-devil going straight to hell.”

Jenny laughed and shook her head. “No, I just wish my conscience wasn’t so noisy.”

Liz patted her hand. “Your conscience is part of your charm, and I wouldn’t want you to lose it.” She smiled. “But couldn’t you just stuff it in the hall closet every now and then? Like, remember that guy you had a crush on and you wouldn’t go after him because that other flaky waitress couldn’t get over him?”

“It would have felt mean to flaunt it in her face.”

“And remember that guy who offered to take you to the Super Bowl?”

“He was married,” Jenny said.

“Not much longer,” Liz corrected.

Liz patted her hand again. “I can tell something is bothering you. Tell Liz about it.”

Liz was a strange combination of survivalist and everyone’s favorite aunt.

“It’s stupid,” Jenny said, shaking her head. Stupid, but she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

“Does it involve man, money or job?”

“All three in a way,” Jenny said.

Liz’s eyes rounded. “Oh, my. Spill it.”

“There’s nothing to spill. I got a promotion to work on a special project which means more money, for a while. But the project will go away in a few months, so the promotion may really be temporary. One of the problems is the VP thinks I have a degree and I don’t.”

“And the angel side of you is hurting,” Liz said with a nod. “Frank has told me about this kind of thing, and you know he’s a very experienced entrepreneur. It’s the fake-it-till-you-make-it principle. I hear they even teach it at the community college, so get over yourself. You’ve been given an opportunity. Make the most of it. Where does the man come in?”

“The man is a VP at the company where I work.”

“Oh, really,” Liz said. “And have you—”

Jenny shook her head. “No. He doesn’t even know my name.”

Liz frowned. “I don’t understand. Do you want to get him to give you a permanent promotion or do you want to get him—” she shrugged “—naked?”

“Both, except I’m ninety-nine percent sure there’s no way I can get a permanent promotion.” She thought about her résumé that Sal had doctored and felt her stomach tighten. With her luck, there was no way the truth wouldn’t come out about that sometime. She would just ride this wave until it crashed.

“Okay, so you want the VP to marry you? I bet he’s loaded,” she said with approval.

“No. I don’t want to marry him. I just want to—” Her throat closed up and she lowered her voice. “Have him once, or maybe twice.”

“Omigod, is he that hot?”

“Yes,” Jenny said in a crisp voice.

“Is he married? Engaged?”

Jenny shook her head.

“Well this is so easy. You just seduce him and—” She broke off and sighed. “Easy for everyone but you. Okay, the first thing you must do is give yourself permission to have VP stud. Second step, give yourself permission to go after him. You’re an adult. He’s an adult. This will all be done by choice.”

This actually sounded somewhat logical. “So he can be my one hot lover.”

Liz blinked. “One?”

“I think that every woman should have one hot love affair, don’t you?”

“I think we can and should have more,” Liz said. “And if you include celebrity crushes, my list is a mile long and I probably started working on it when I was three years old and my babysitter introduced me to Huey Lewis. I went on to The Backstreet Boys and Rob Thomas. Collin Farrell’s the current fave. But it all started with Huey.”

Jenny laughed in agreement. “My older sister was crazy about Huey. I guess she made me have a crush on him, too.”

“See? There you go. But back to your—” she cleared her throat “—one hot love affair, since your conscience will only allow you one. VP stud will be the hot love affair you remember with a naughty smile even when you’re eighty. Put it on your list.”

CHAPTER FOUR

THE FOLLOWING THURSDAY Jenny finally set aside her beloved red glasses and put disposable contact lenses into her eyes. She slid her feet into her new heels, left her hair swinging freely at her shoulders and wore a little red sweater and the black skirt. She added a pair of Foot Peta footpads to keep her feet from declaring mutiny by midday.

Feeling conspicuous, she hid in her office for the better part of the day until she worked up the nerve to show Marc some drawings of evening shoes she’d designed.

Her palms damp, she took the elevator three flights up and walked to his assistant’s desk.

“He’s gone for the afternoon. You didn’t have an appointment, did you?” Cynthia asked, clicking her computer mouse and checking her screen.

“No,” Jenny said, feeling foolish. How anticlimactic. She should have made an appointment, but she’d been too chicken yesterday.

“He leaves early on either Tuesday or Thursday afternoons to visit his grandfather. Do you want to set up an appointment for tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Jenny said.

“Hey, Cynthia. I need to talk to Marc about the new marketing initiative with retailers,” a man said from behind Jenny.

“You know he’s not here, Will,” Cynthia said. “It’s Thursday afternoon.”

Jenny glanced around and saw Will wince. “Damn, I forgot. Gone to see the grandfather.” He shot Jenny and Cynthia a sly look. “That’s the official explanation. Underground is that he’s out for a quickie.” He gave Jenny a once-over. “You must be new here. I don’t believe we’ve met.” He extended his hand. “I’m Will Turnbull.”

They hadn’t met, but she knew who he was. He, of course, had never noticed her. He was so full of himself she was surprised he noticed her now. “Jenny Prillaman. I work with Sal in design.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Good for you. He’s a legend. Haven’t seen much of him lately, though.”

“He’s very busy with the designs for Brooke Tarantino’s wedding.”

“Yeah, that’s a hot job. Maybe you and I could get together for dinner sometime. I’ll give you a call,” he said, assuming her agreement and strutted away.

She turned back to Cynthia, who was eyeing her with curiosity. “I’d say he likes your new look,” Marc’s assistant said.

Jenny pulled at her sweater self-consciously. “Maybe it’s too much. Or too little,” she said and bit her lip.

“No, it isn’t,” Cynthia said. “If I were younger and forty-five pounds lighter, I’d wear a skirt like that.” She glanced at Jenny’s feet and shook her head. “I’ve had three kids and my feet couldn’t take those heels. Wear them while you can.”

“Thanks,” Jenny said. I think.

“It’s none of my business, but you might want to be careful with Will.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He likes to think of himself as a player.”

Jenny lowered her voice. “Thinking is the only thing he’s going to do with me.”

Cynthia laughed. “Smart girl. What time do you want to meet with Marc tomorrow? He’s got time for a fifteen-minute appointment first thing in the morning, or I can squeeze you in for ten minutes in the afternoon.”

“Afternoon,” Jenny said, thinking she needed coffee before she faced Marc Waterson. Maybe a doughnut, too.

MARC OPENED THE DOOR to the home for the elderly and inhaled a combination of oranges and antiseptic cleaner. The orange scent was trying hard, but the antiseptic was winning. He didn’t like the smell, but he figured a clean smell was better than a dirty one. He’d carefully reviewed more than a dozen nursing homes for his grandfather Waterson and chosen this one based on a comprehensive checklist. Despite his numerous responsibilities at Bellagio, he’d felt the heaviest burden in choosing a home for his grandfather. Since his own father had passed away and Grandpapa’s other children lived on the other side of the country, he’d been the only one to do the job. He was the only one to visit, too.

Marc showed his identification to the receptionist and she pressed a button to allow him entrance through the locked door. The security feature had been important to Marc because Grandpapa had a tendency to wander sometimes. Doctors blamed the old man’s increasing peculiarities on dementia.

Marc never knew what to bring, and he hated to come empty-handed. Today he brought a photo book of beautiful gardens. Grandpapa and Grandma had tended a garden together when they’d both been healthy.

He found his grandfather sitting in the day room looking out the window. “Grandpapa?”

His grandfather turned, and his blue eyes lit with recognition. “Marc, boy, it’s good to see you.”

Marc felt an easing inside him. He hadn’t realized he’d been tense. It was a good day. His grandfather had remembered him immediately. He extended his hand and his grandfather grabbed it with both of his.

“I brought you a book,” Marc said, sitting beside him. “Some nice gardens in there.”

Grandpapa flipped through the pages with his gnarled hands. “Pretty pictures. You didn’t need to bring me anything.”

“I wanted to. How are you feeling today?”

“Pretty good. I can tell it’s gonna rain.” He wiggled his fingers. “My joints are a little stiff.”

“Who needs the weatherman when you’ve got arthritis, right?”

Grandpapa grinned. “That’s right. What about you? Done any fishing? Gone to any Braves games lately?”

Marc shook his head, remembering the many times he’d gone fishing with his grandpapa when they’d both been younger. Since his grandfather had broken his hip last year, Marc feared he was too frail for field trips. “Too busy at work, but I saw one the other night on television.”

“Same one I saw. That shortstop needs to get his act together.” He looked at Marc and nodded. “You found a wife yet?”

Marc shook his head and smiled. His grandfather had been asking him the same question for at least five years. “Not yet. But I’m looking.”

“You need a wife. A wife is a good thing,” Grandpapa said.

“As long as it’s a good wife,” Marc added, thinking about Miss Brunswick County, the woman he’d met for dinner the other night. She was a knockout who had hung on his every word. Perfect wife material. And he couldn’t remember feeling so bored in his life. He was starting to wonder if his plan needed some modification. Especially the celibacy part.

“Humph. Your trouble is that it’s too easy for you. You don’t have to work at it,” Grandpapa said.

“What do you mean?” Marc asked, his mind naturally turning to Bellagio. “I know what hard work is,” he said. “I work sixty hours a week or more at Bellagio.”

“I’m not talking about the shoe company,” his grandfather said, wagging his finger at Marc. “I’m talking about women. You get them too easily. You don’t have to work for them, so you don’t appreciate them.”

Marc wanted to protest, but his grandfather’s words were too close to the truth.

“You don’t want a woman who will upset your applecart, but that’s exactly what you need.”

Marc shook his head. “I know what I need. I need a nice, lovely, nondemanding woman who will be happy to be Mrs. Waterson and be the mother of no more than two children.”

“And what are you going to contribute to this besides money and your seed?” his grandfather asked.

The question got under his skin.

“Your trouble is you don’t know how to take care of a woman for more than a weekend.”

Marc scowled. Too close again. “I admit I need some work in that area. Why does everyone feel the need to tell me where I need to improve? One of my employees told me I should get a dog to prepare me for making a commitment to a woman.”

Grandpapa gave a rusty-sounding laugh. “Good idea. Don’t get a puppy, though. You’re not ready for a puppy.”

Marc gave his grandfather a double take. “That’s exactly what my employee said.”

Grandpapa raised his eyebrows. “This employee a woman?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Is she young?”

Marc nodded.

“Pretty?”

Marc shrugged. “I don’t know if you’d call her pretty. She’s got nice eyes, nice skin, pretty hair, but—” He broke off at the gleam in his grandfather’s eye. “Oh, no way. She’s too ambitious. Plus she’s an artist, and trust me, they can be kooky.”

“But she’s smart,” his grandfather said.

“I guess you could say that,” Marc conceded. The way Jenny had handled Sal and Brooke showed she was people smart, and she was obviously talented.

“She bothers you,” his grandfather said. “That’s good.”

Marc mentally disagreed and shelved the subject once and for all.

THE NEXT DAY Jenny wore the same skirt and shoes and a different sweater. She didn’t own a lot of business-sexy clothes, and her raise hadn’t shown up in her paycheck yet. She’d had to fight the urge not to wear her red glasses, but the memory of Chad’s words had goaded her, You’re not a risk taker.

The truth was she wasn’t much of a risk taker. There hadn’t been anything she wanted enough to take risks. But this job was different. She liked it. Even though Bellagio wasn’t likely to give her a signature line of her own, she could take her experience and go somewhere else. And even though she wasn’t marriage material for Marc Waterson, she wondered if she had what it took to at least get his attention.

Not likely, she thought as she cooled her heels in his office while his other meeting ran long. She’d already put a small, masculine-looking leather box filled with peppermint patties on the corner of his desk as a thank-you for helping her out the other night when her battery had died. Feeling fidgety, she rose to her feet and meandered around the room, taking in the polished, gleaming furniture. She noted and approved the artwork on the wall. Spying some photos on shelves behind his desk, she couldn’t resist the urge to check them out.

She saw a photo of a dark-haired woman and man with Marc in a cap and gown. Mom and Dad, she thought taking in the family resemblance. She spotted another photo of a silver-haired couple. Grandparents, she supposed. Then another of a toddler with the originator of Bellagio, Antonio Bellagio. She looked closer and studied the photo. Bet the toddler was Marc. Cute kid, she thought, and glanced at his desk.

The desk was neat with only a couple of files on top of it. She noticed a drawer left open and spotted a jewelry flyer on top. Feeling nosy, she bent closer and glimpsed a page filled with diamond engagement rings. Gaudy diamonds piled with more diamonds, they reminded her of something she’d seen in a sci-fi flick. She wrinkled her nose. Jenny had nothing against a nice big rock, but those rings were ugly. She would have thought he’d have better taste.

Hearing his voice outside the door jolted her. She quickly stepped around his desk next to her chair.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. Board meeting ran long,” he said as he breezed through the doorway.

“No problem,” she said, thinking it was a crime for a man to look that good in a black suit.

Pushing the door closed behind him, he took a seat. “Okay, you have something you want me to look at, Gena?” he asked.

Jenny bit back a groan. “Jenny, my name is Jenny,” she corrected with a little more bite in her voice than she’d intended.

He finally met her gaze. “Jenny,” he repeated, and gave her a once-over. “Sorry.”

“Uh-huh,” she said in a noncommittal tone and placed the sketches she’d drawn for evening shoes on his desk.

He glanced at the drawings, then back at her. Then back to the drawings. He looked at her again. “Excuse me, but are you doing something different with your hair or something? You look different.”

“Yes,” she said, and felt suddenly self-conscious. She nodded toward the sketches. “Which do you like the best?”

“I like it this way,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Your hair. I like it down.” He furrowed his eyebrows as if he couldn’t quite figure out what else was different.

Feeling a quick rush of adrenaline, she decided to let him figure it out for himself. “The shoes,” she said, pointing at the sketches. “Which do you like the best?”

He glanced down at the sketches. “This one,” he said of the cutout velvet pump. “But this one has potential, too,” he said of the red strappy leather sandal with a stiletto heel. “Good start,” he said, and looked up at her again.

She felt his gaze linger on her mouth, then lower to where the sweater’s top two buttons were undone to reveal a glimpse of her cleavage. Another rush of adrenaline mixed with self-consciousness. She automatically reached to adjust her glasses, but they weren’t there, so she pushed her hair behind her ear instead.

“I’ll sketch some more,” she said.

“Good id—” He broke off when the intercom buzzed and picked up the phone. “Brooke. Okay, I’ll take it.”

“Hi, Brooke,” he said.

Jenny could hear a feminine tone, but no words.

“Uh-huh,” he said. “And when is this?” His mouth tightened. “Short notice, Brooke. Okay, okay,” he said and pinched the bridge of his nose. “And you want Sal’s assistant there, too. Yeah. See you there.” He hung up the phone. “Brooke wants us to come to a party at the house Saturday night. It’s a prereality show gathering before the cameras start rolling. She says it’s mandatory.” He paused. “It’s glasses. You used to wear glasses.”

He seemed pleased with himself, as if he’d solved a puzzle. “Yes, I did. What time is the party?”

He stood, still staring at her. “Eight o’clock. When did you get contacts?”

“I’ve had them. I misplaced my glasses, so I had to wear the contacts today. Do you know what the dress will be for the party?”

“You should misplace your glasses more often,” he said in a deep voice that did something weird to her tummy. “You have amazing eyes.”

“Thank you. So do you,” she blurted without thinking, immediately horrified.

His gorgeous eyes widened with surprise. “I do?”

She felt the temperature in her face rise at least fifteen degrees. She figured she’d turned tomato red and that made her feel very grumpy. “Yes, of course you do. Just like you have gorgeous hair and awesome bone structure and a killer body, but you already knew that, so I’m sure I’m providing unnecessary duplicates of the information.”

He blinked. “Thank you, I think.”

“You’re welcome,” she said as briskly as she could. “What type of dress for the party?”

“Cocktail,” he said, his gaze still on her like radar on a car clocking 95 in a 55 mph zone.

“Okay, thanks for your time,” she said, and scooped up her sketches. “I guess I’ll see you Saturday night.”

“Sure. Don’t you need directions to the house?” he asked.

“Good point,” she said, eager to get out of the room. Wasn’t this what she’d wanted? Hadn’t she wanted him to notice her? But her heart was beating too fast, and she felt out of her depth. “Could your assistant e-mail them to me?”

“Yes, that’ll work. How’s your car?”

Oh, no, now he was being nice again. She immediately slowed and met his gaze. “It’s fine. Thank you for asking. It was the battery. Thank you again for helping me out.” She bit her lip. “I put a little something on your desk as a token of my gratitude.”

He glanced down and saw the leather box and opened it. His lips tilted in a smile. “Peppermint patties.”

“Your emergency stash,” she said.

He looked at her, and she felt the flicker of understanding shimmer between them, as if they were both on a secret team. Her heart stuttered.

“Thanks,” he said. “I can’t remember the last time a woman gave me candy.”

Oh, no. Did he think she was flirting with him with peppermint patties? Coming on to him? Which she would if she knew how. But this was really just a thank-you. She’d thought it was, anyway. Jenny bit her lip and strained to dream up a flirty comeback. “Maybe that will make them taste even better,” she managed, surprising herself.

“Maybe,” he said, and she saw the slightest spark of sexual challenge in his eyes. “You’ll need to keep me well supplied.”

Feeling as if she were stepping into untried waters, she resisted the urge to back out. “I’ll have to find out what your appetite is. For peppermint patties.”

“Yeah, you will.”

Her throat swelling from the tension, she decided to run before she did something stupid. She cleared her throat. “I’ll do that. Thanks again for your time, and please don’t forget to have your assistant send me the directions to the party.”

“Will do. Thanks again for the candy.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, and felt his gaze on her as she exited his office. Holding her breath until she reached her office, she closed the door behind her and sank against it.

Omigoodness, Marc Waterson had actually looked at her and even kinda flirted with her. Her heart was still racing, and she knew her face looked as if she’d spent the day in the sun.

A dozen thoughts raced through her head. Okay, so this Marc Waterson thing had been a fun, unrequited fantasy like Huey Lewis. Did she really want to make it come true? And sheesh, were men really so superficial that they couldn’t notice a woman until she raised her hemline and took off her glasses? Ridiculous, she thought, frowning in disgust.

Right, her conscience prodded her. And was she so superficial that she noticed Marc Waterson because of his bone structure and body?

Jenny mentally stuck her tongue out at herself and decided to call Chad. Whether or not she had the guts to go through with her fantasy with Marc, she would still need some help getting ready for the cocktail party.

Two hours later she got ready to leave work, and her e-mail alert went off. She checked her in-box and found a message from Marc. “J—No need for both of us to drive. I’ll pick you up at 7:45 p.m.—M”

AFTER SPENDING THREE HOURS shopping with Chad on Saturday, Jenny was still grumbling as the two entered her apartment. “The hem is way too short. I’m going to end up hurting someone in those spike-heeled sandals. You wait and see.”

Chad gave a bad boy smile. “That might not be all bad. Maybe VP guy is into a little S&M. Besides, you’re wearing a jacket. The color is dark purple instead of the red I chose. You could almost wear this as a business suit.”

“If I were a hooker,” she retorted in disbelief. She was so nervous she was considering canceling.

“I still think you should go no panties,” Chad said and looked in her refrigerator. “I’m opening this bottle of wine. You need a glass or two. I do, too.” He opened the bottle of Chardonnay, filled a glass and gave it to her.

Jenny took a big gulp then a second. “I don’t know about this, Chad. This isn’t me.”

Chad filled his glass and groaned. “Maybe your ‘me’ needs to expand a little bit. Besides this is my big opportunity to do my queer eye for the straight girl. Don’t blow it for me,” he said, then put his arm around her. “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

“I’ll do something stupid,” she said.

“I’ll have you looking so stunning it won’t matter what you do.”

“What if he thinks I look like a slut?”

“A dream come true,” Chad said.

Jenny scowled at him.

“You will be classy but sexy. Okay, we’re obviously going at this from the wrong angle. What’s the best thing that could happen?”

That was easy. “He’ll remember my name.”

“During or after sex?”

Jenny gave a double take. Despite the sexy dress and the condoms Chad had insisted she put in her purse, she knew there was no way she was having sex with Marc Waterson. No way. She had to take this step by step. “I really don’t think Marc and I are going to have sex at this party. I would just be happy if he remembered my name, period.”

Chad shot her a look of pity and shook his head. “Oh, dear girl, you must learn to aim higher.”

“I’ve been hearing that my whole life,” she muttered, and took another long gulp of wine.

CHAPTER FIVE

MARC SLID OUT of his Porsche and squeezed the lock button on his remote key as he walked the two flights up to Jenny’s apartment. Climbing the stairs reminded him of his junior year in college and made him feel oddly nostalgic. Those had been simpler days before his father died, when his greatest concerns were acing a midterm and making it with a sorority sister at his fraternity’s keg party on Friday night. Now that he was older and wiser, his family expected him to be the responsible one. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if Brooke hadn’t been required to invite him. Her parties tended to end with uniformed officers hauling disorderly people off to jail.

Just as he lifted his hand to knock, the door flew open and Jenny appeared, her cheeks flushed with color, her hair hanging shiny and loosely to her shoulders. Her laser blue eyes skimmed him from head to toe and back again. Her gaze was so thorough his suit started to feel a little warm.

“Hi,” she said breathlessly. She smelled of mint and chocolate and some sort of sweet spice. “You look gorgeous.”

He couldn’t resist a chuckle. Her bold compliment reminded him of the same sensation he felt riding on a Harley. “I think that’s supposed to be my line,” he returned, taking in her short purple dress and jacket. She had great legs, he thought, noticing and appreciating her high-heeled sandals. “Those aren’t Bellagio,” he pointed out.

“No. Michelle K. These are my favorite shoes. They look great, don’t they?” she asked, glancing down at her sandals.

“Not bad,” he conceded. “Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, and turned to lock the door, which gave him a quick view of her rear end and made him wish she wasn’t wearing the jacket. Mentally swearing, he shook his head. It was the lack of sex. This woman wasn’t even his type.

She turned back around and gave him another quick-blast gaze, and her lips tilted in a smile that held at least a dozen secrets. “All I know about Brooke’s parties is what I’ve read in the papers. What should I expect?”

Marc groaned as he walked beside Jenny toward his car. “Hopefully not what you’ve read in the papers. No police, no vice squad. This is at the family house with members of the press, so it shouldn’t be as wild. Brooke likes team sports, so this will be her way of trying to get everyone playing on the same team.”

Marc opened the car door and watched Jenny slide her legs inside his low-slung vehicle like a well-trained debutante. He didn’t even get a microglimpse of her panties.

Inwardly swearing again, he slammed the door closed and rounded the car to the driver’s side.

“Do you think it will work? The team-building theory?” Jenny asked as he got in the car and buckled his seat belt.

“Depends on the goal. Will it work for Brooke or will it work for Bellagio?”

“Not one and the same,” she said, sliding her legs to the side, toward him.

“Unfortunately not.”

“So what’s your job at the party?” she asked.

He shifted gears, acutely sensitive to the proximity of her legs. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed her stroking her hand over her knee. If she were a different woman, in a different circumstance, he could slide his hand over her knee, up her thigh…and then pull his brains out of his pants.

“Sanity,” he said, shaking his head at the direction of his thoughts. “I’m there to provide the sanity.”

AFTER A SHORT DRIVE to the Tarantino Estate, Marc gave his keys to one of the valet attendants. The fact that he could hear the driving beat of the music before he ushered Jenny up the steps to the large porch was his first clue that the party was already rocking out of control.

Reluctant to face the noise within, he led Jenny along the length of the outside porch. “What do you think?” he asked, seeing her gaze swing from side to side as she took in the posh estate.

“It’s big, very grand. It reminds me of something from Gone with the Wind taken up several notches.”

“I’ve always thought it was on the ostentatious side. Not exactly homey,” he said.

“Homey’s not the goal,” she said, skimming her hand over a marble column. “This is for show. Art over the top.”

“Ah, the artiste speaks,” he said. “It’s good that you’re able to balance art with purpose. Some artists have difficulty with that. Did you go through a prima donna stage when you were in design school?”

She looked at him blankly for a moment, then glanced away. “Oh, in design school,” she said and bit her lip. “No, I’ve never been much of a prima donna. In fact, my salsa teacher told me I need to work on developing my inner diva.”

He laughed at her self-deprecation. “What made you take salsa lessons?”

“Well, it was a free lesson,” she said. “And I guess it’s one of those things on my mental list of things I want to do.” Her gaze slid over him briefly then she gave another smile full of secrets that made his gut feel weird. “Do you have that kind of list?”

“I may have at one time,” he said, but couldn’t remember. Between his father’s death and his position at Bellagio, the last few years had been a blur. “I guess I’ve been too busy.”

She gave a nod of understanding. “Hmm. Tough being the youngest VP sometimes. Too bad.”

“Yeah,” he said and felt as if she was looking deeper than his skin for that flash of a moment. He held his breath for an extra beat, then released it. “We should go in.”

“I guess so,” she murmured, sounding as if she had some ambiguous feelings of her own about the party.

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