Читать книгу That Boss Of Mine - Elizabeth Bevarly - Страница 8

One

Wheeler Rush braced his elbows on the top of his desk, buried his face in his hands and bit back the barrage of obscenities he really, really wanted to shout. Loudly. On the other side of his desk, in the posh office on a very desirable block of Main Street in downtown Louisville—an office for which he’d signed a lease less than nine months ago—stood two men leaving scattered, colossal footprints in their wake. Two men, he noted as he looked up again, whose brawn genes had exceeded their potential.

The larger of the men, the one who had identified himself as Bruno—that was all, just...Bruno—shifted his massive weight from one beefy foot to the other and scratched the back of his head. At least, Wheeler thought it was the back of the man’s head. Having no neck that way, and with all that scruffy hair springing out from the open collar of his shirt, Wheeler supposed it could have been his back the man was scratching.

“Look, buddy,” Bruno said. “We don’ wanna hafta do this, but we got no choice. When you can’t pay the money you owe, this is what happens. It’s that simple.”

“I won’t submit to this kind of terrorism,” Wheeler insisted, feeling much less confident than he sounded. “Leave now, or I’ll call the police.”

“It ain’t terrorism,” Bruno assured him. “This is bidness, plain and simple. You can’t call the cops. You don’ have a leg to stand on.” He cracked his knuckles menacingly, suggesting that Wheeler really wouldn’t have a leg to stand on, once the other man broke it. “You hear what I’m sayin’?” Bruno continued. “Now stand up and move away from the desk. Hey, you brought this on yourself, pal. Be a man about it, for God’s sake.”

Wheeler narrowed his eyes, hating to hear his manhood impugned in such a way. The last thing he wanted to do was submit to these two goons, but what else could he do? Bruno and company had come for a specific purpose, and they weren’t going to leave until their work was complete. Sick to his stomach, he realized he had no choice but to do exactly as they had instructed. He simply should have shown better judgment in the beginning, when he’d gone into business for himself. Instead, he had played too fast and too loose with money that wasn’t his, and now he was going to have to face the consequences.

“Listen, buddy,” Bruno growled again when Wheeler still hadn’t risen, “I’m sorry for your unfortunate professional downturn, but I got a job to do like any other guy, okay? And me and Harry here got a long day ahead of us. Now stand up and move away from the desk. Don’t make us get ugly.”

Wheeler clamped his lips over the retort that threatened to leap from his mouth, then, reluctantly, he stood up and did as Bruno had requested. “Fine,” he muttered a bit more gruffly than he’d intended. He ran a restive hand through his dark brown hair, tugged anxiously on his necktie and jerked his dark suit jacket from the back of his chair. “Let’s just get this over with. Whatever you do, please...don’t get ugly.” Or rather, he amended to himself, uglier.

Bruno and his missing-link companion stepped forward, stretching their arms out fiercely, and instinctively Wheeler flinched and took a step in retreat. When he did, one man grabbed one end of his desk and the second hefted the other end. Then, effortlessly, the two of them lifted the massive, and very expensive, teakwood, art deco piece of furniture and carried it out the door, presumably into the waiting truck that held the rest of Wheeler’s expensive, teakwood, art deco ex-furniture.

He watched the repo men go, and sighed as if they’d just carried out a childhood friend, feetfirst. Now the contents of his desk and filing cabinets would have to remain against the wall in a long row of cardboard boxes cast off from the wine shop below his newly rented apartment.

The apartment, he recalled, that was barely a tenth the size of the elegant, old, brick Victorian he’d called home as recently as a few months ago. The old, brick Victorian on Tony St. James Court, he further reminded himself ruthlessly, that he’d been forced to sell for less than it was worth in an effort to save his fast-sinking business. Now Wheeler lived in a cramped studio on the top floor of a battered old Federal in the borderline Original Highlands neighborhood.

Damn.

He’d had such high hopes when he’d gone into business for himself. Now, barely nine months after having his name etched in the glass on the outer office door, Rush Commercial Designs, Inc. was already going belly-up.

“Mr. Wheeler?”

He turned his attention to the open door of his office. The unmistakably feminine voice that called out from the reception area beyond was unfamiliar.

“It’s Mr. Rush,” he replied automatically, wearily, his irritation at having his last name used as his first rising nowhere near as quickly as it usually did when that happened. Which was often. “Wheeler Rush,” he added under his breath. When no one came forward at his summons, he cranked up the volume on his voice a few decibels. “I’m in here!”

Just as he shouted the announcement, a woman’s head appeared in the open doorway, about halfway down, as if she were bent at the waist. A shock of blue-black curls was caught at the very top of her head, a few errant corkscrews dangling about her face and neck, the rest of it bobbing wildly from the source of its confinement at her crown. Huge, round sunglasses covered her eyes, and her lips, the color of autumn apples, formed a perfect O.

“Can I help you?” he asked on a halfhearted sigh.

The woman smiled and straightened, then stepped into the doorway. He stifled a gasp when he noted her attire. A very brief, very snug, very red miniskirt hugged her hips, and an even briefer, even snugger, even redder sweater clung to her torso. The combination was big enough to cover what a woman needed to cover in polite society, but not big enough to hide a bare strip of creamy flesh that peeked out between the top and bottom parts of her ensemble. A huge red straw bag, sheer red stockings and red high heels completed the outfit

Wheeler blinked a few times, as if doing so might tone down the color a bit. But when he opened his eyes to consider the woman again, she was still...red. Really, really red.

“Actually,” she said, her smile growing broader, “I think it’s me who’s going to help you.”

Try as he might, he couldn’t for the life of him pull his gaze away from her legs. But then, seeing as how just about every inch of leg was visible—and quite a number of very shapely inches there were, too—that wasn’t altogether surprising.

“I beg your pardon?” he finally managed to ask.

As he watched, those legs began to approach him, the miniskirt at their tops hitching higher and higher with every step forward the woman took. When he darted his gaze back down toward her ankles, he noticed, too late, that she was heading straight for a bump in the lavender-and-yellow dhurrie rug that must have sprung up when Bruno and company left with the last of his repossessed furniture. Before Wheeler could warn the woman to watch her step, her toe connected with the bump, and her body went sailing forward.

She had been extending her hand to him in greeting when it happened, and as she fell, she must have instinctively bent her fingers as if groping for something to grab onto. The action resulted in what basically amounted to her punching Wheeler right in the stomach before she crashed to her knees before him.

He doubled over—more from surprise than from pain—at the impact of her fist driving into his belly right about the same time she began to push herself up from her position on the floor. As a result, their two heads collided with enough force to send the woman back down to her knees and Wheeler snapping backward.

With a quick shake of his head to clear it of its stars, he reached down—gingerly this time—to lend her a hand. But she chose that moment to glance up at him, an action that would have resulted in him poking her in the eye had it not been for her ridiculous sunglasses. Instead he only knocked them from her face, and they went clattering to the floor between them.

Wow.

That was the only thought that came into Wheeler’s head when she looked up at him again. Whoever this red woman was, she had the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. Pale green, like the shallowest part of the ocean, but deep enough to drown a man if he wasn’t careful. Framed by long, sooty lashes and topped with elegant ebony brows, they completely overpowered the rest of her face.

For a long moment he could do nothing but stare at those incredible eyes. Then finally he managed to recapture his balance and the presence of mind to take in the rest of her features, as well.

Pretty.

That was the second thought that went through Wheeler’s mind when he considered her. Really, really pretty. Her ivory complexion was smooth and flawless, a hint of pink riding high on her finely chiseled cheekbones. Her lips—as red and inviting as her outfit—were full and ripe and luscious. And something inside him knotted tight at the sight of her, kneeling there before him in a manner that was in no way appropriate for two strangers. With no small effort, he finally kicked himself into gear and extended a hand cautiously toward her.

As if she were feeling just as wary as he was, she scooped up her sunglasses, then slowly lifted her hand to tuck her fingers into his. Gently, Wheeler tugged her back to a standing position, then pretended he wasn’t noticing as she shoved her skirt and sweater back into place. But he couldn’t quite ignore the scant inch of bare skin that peeked out at him from between the waistband of her skirt and the hem of her sweater. And whatever had knotted tightly inside him grew even more taut, nearly cutting off his breath, wrenching a strangled sound from deep inside him.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly as she gave her sweater one final yank.

Something inside him rejoiced, however, when the sweater bobbed back up again, once more exposing that sleek line of flesh. “No problem,” he replied automatically.

The woman lifted a hand—which he noted absently was decorated with long, red nails and two big Band-Aids—to the curls still dancing wildly about on her head. Then she smoothed her fingers ineffectually over the mass, which bounced right back the moment she completed the gesture, and smiled. “I’m Audrey. Audrey Finnegan? I’m the office temp you requested.”

Wheeler was so caught up in contemplating her flat abdomen that he scarcely heard what she said. “Office temp?” he repeated idly.

“From One-Day-at-a-Timers,” she clarified. “You called them Friday needing someone to start on Monday? Today, I mean?”

It was a question not a statement, and vaguely, way back at the back of his brain, he realized she was waiting for an answer. But, still far too preoccupied by the sight of Miss Audrey Finnegan, all he could manage in that respect was, “I called them Friday?”

Somehow he nudged his gaze from her body to her face, and he realized he’d been doing her a grave disservice to focus on her midsection. As appealing as her torso was—and mind you, it was extremely appealing—her face was infinitely more interesting. Even when she was squinting at him in utter confusion the way she was now.

“Didn’t you call them Friday?” she asked. “Isn’t this Monday? And isn’t this Rush Commercial Designs, Inc.? Or did I come to the wrong place again? I’m pretty sure this is Monday? Isn’t it?”

Did he? Had she? Was it? Oh, yeah, Wheeler finally recalled, shoving his libido to the side. This was definitely Monday, and she’d certainly come to Rush Commercial Designs, Inc. At least, it was still Rush Designs, Inc., for the time being. And he had called for a temp Friday. Right after he’d given his regular secretary, Rosalie, her walking papers and two weeks’ severance. That on the heels of letting go his two associates last month.

As much as he’d hated to lose his staff, Wheeler simply wasn’t able to pay their full salary and benefits anymore. Hell, he couldn’t even pay his own salary and benefits anymore. It was going to strain his newly reworked—and very minuscule—office budget just to have a temp working. But he didn’t have a hope in hell of salvaging his failing business by himself. He was going to need someone to run the day-to-day basics of the office while he focused on his clients and accounts, even if that someone was just a temp.

Clients and accounts, he muttered to himself. Yeah, right. Like he was going to have any of those left by month’s end. They were disappearing faster than leisure suits.

He still couldn’t figure out where he’d gone wrong. When he’d been employed as a commercial designer by a much larger conglomerate, Wheeler had had more work to keep him busy than anyone else at the firm. His designs had been very much in demand, and he’d risen fast and far on the corporate ladder. So fast and so far, in fact, that one day, a year ago, he’d decided to strike out on his own. Hey, he’d built himself an excellent reputation, he’d reasoned then. Why give all the credit to a company that wasn’t his own?

So he’d struck out solo, bringing a number of his old firm’s clients with him. And at first, everything had gone fabulously well. He’d exploded with creativity, had introduced design after design that was cutting edge and savvy. He’d garnered new clients in addition to the old, and had expanded to handle all the new business, hiring two associates to help field their accounts. Rush Commercial Designs, Inc. had left the starting gate at an amazing pace and had been trotting effortlessly right toward the finish line. Until a few months ago, the future had been rosy and warm.

Then...

Well, Wheeler still wasn’t sure what exactly had gone wrong. He’d come home from a long business trip with the flu and had been out of the office for two weeks. In his absence, however, his associates had fared just fine. At least he’d thought they were faring just fine. But upon his return, things hadn’t seemed to run quite as smoothly as they had before. Granted, it had been January, something of a slow month for the business, but still...

His work shouldn’t have come to such a grinding halt the way it had. He’d tried to tell himself it was just one of those slumps that occurred in all types of businesses every now and then, and that they would ultimately pull through it none the worse for wear.

But they didn’t pull through it. The slump became a downturn, and the downturn became a stagnation. One by one Wheeler’s clients had become disenchanted with his ideas. And with every parting account, he had started to feel less and less creative. Ultimately his brain—once a playground for generating original, clever ideas—started to dry up. What few concepts emerged from the muddled pool of his creativity were tired, standard, cliched. And then, even his most faithful clients began to slink quietly away.

It made no sense. In addition to being talented, smart, ambitious and driven, Wheeler Rush had always been just about the luckiest man alive. He’d been born into a close-knit, loving family, one that had never hurt for financial well-being, one whose members were all intelligent, successful, attractive. Not a day of his life had passed that he hadn’t reflected on what a genuinely fortunate person he was. He’d never wanted for anything. He’d always achieved whatever he set his mind to achieving, effortlessly at that. Never once had it crossed his mind that he would be anything but a massive success in life.

At least, it hadn’t crossed his mind until his business had started to go belly-up. Then he hadn’t been able to avoid thinking about his potential for failure. Miserable, humiliating, vicious, rotten, crummy failure.

But that was all about to end, Wheeler told himself now. He was sure of it. Well, pretty sure, anyway. Sort of. In a way. Yes, he’d had to make some serious sacrifices to keep himself from going under. He’d been too overconfident in the beginning, and he wasn’t going to make that mistake twice. He’d pared down what had been an excessive office budget from the start. Hey, you had to spend money to make money, right? Wrong. His newly adopted motto was you had to save money to make money. And that was what Wheeler would do.

Hence, Miss Finnegan. At minimum wage and no benefits, she was a real bargain. The minute he got his business up and running again—and Wheeler vowed then and there that he would get his business up and running again—he could hire back his old staff at their old salaries, provided they were available. If not, he’d hire some new blood. Hey, maybe if Miss Finnegan worked out, he thought magnanimously, he could keep her and Rosalie both.

For now, however, Rush Commercial Designs, Inc. was going to have to work with a two-man team. Or rather, a two-person team. If there was one thing Audrey Finnegan most definitely was not, it was masculine.

“So, where should I start?” she asked when he still had offered no clear answer to her question. Evidently she had decided for herself that she was needed here.

Wheeler looked around. Yeah, he could understand how she would feel that way. No furniture, no clients in the waiting room, no phones ringing off the hook. He definitely needed something. Or somebody.

What the hell, he thought further. For now, Audrey Finnegan would do.

As Audrey stood waiting for an answer to her question—and an answer to any of her questions would do, she thought as she waited some more—she took in her new boss from the tips of his Italian loafers to the tousled dark brown hair atop his head.

What a cutie, she thought. Truly tall, dark and handsome, with broad shoulders, trim hips and chocolate-brown eyes to just curl up and die for. Maybe after twenty-eight years her luck was about to change.

Nah. Who was she kidding? Audrey Finnegan was the most totally jinxed person on the planet, and a new job wasn’t likely to change that. She should know. She started a new job just about every month, and they all ended the same way—badly. But she’d been unlucky all her life—at cards and at love and at everything else—so she wasn’t going to stand here and try to kid herself that things would ever change in that department.

Just this week alone she’d lost her job, her boyfriend, her apartment, her car and her cat. Roxanne, the silver tabby she’d adopted a few months ago, had taken up with a no-good tomcat and hadn’t come back. Audrey’s car had been totaled after the emergency brake had finally given out when she’d parked on a too-steep hill—the old VW bug had rolled downdowndown, crashed into a power pylon and gotten fried into blackened Beetle au gratin.

Then, as if that weren’t enough, her basement apartment had been flooded during a surly spring downpour, ruining all her furniture and forcing her to shack up temporarily with her best buddy, Marlene, with whom she’d never really gotten along. And although Audrey thought she’d been doing great at her job as a grocery store cashier, coming up short fifteen thousand dollars and change that night just didn’t look good on a person’s permanent record.

And as for her boyfriend, well, she would just as soon forget about him. There was nothing like having a guy tell you you were cold as a dead fish to make you think twice about getting involved again. Of course, Brad hadn’t exactly been a pep-rally bonfire himself, Audrey reminded herself, which was only one of the many reasons she’d avoided becoming too intimately involved with him. Still, a woman liked to think that a man would have some regrets about dumping her. But Brad, evidently, would always think of her as sushi.

So with all her bad luck of late—and of her whole life—Audrey didn’t really expect that a change of jobs would do anything about the dark cloud of misfortune that had followed her everywhere she’d ever gone from the day she’d been born—breech and thirteen days late. It was a family curse, common knowledge. All the Finnegans were unlucky, all the way back to her great-grandmother Fiona Finnegan, who fell off the boat that arrived in New York Harbor at the turn of the century.

Literally. She fell off the boat, right into the water. It had been the beginning of a looong line of Finnegan bad luck. Klutzy, ditzy, jinxed, hexed—those were all words that Audrey had heard used to describe her family over the years. And, carrying on the family tradition, she, too, was little more than a bad-luck charm. Wherever she wenteth, mishap followedeth. To put it in the vernacular, she, like the rest of her family, was not exactly a child of fortune. Nothing ever went right for the Finnegans.

Still, she reconsidered as she eyed her new employer, maybe she was due for a spurt of good luck for a change. If nothing else, Mr. Wheeler would be infinitely more appealing to look at than Manny the bag boy had been.

“Um,” he said, by way of response to her earlier question about where to begin. “I suppose I could show you around the office.”

Audrey arced her gaze around the room, taking in one elevated design table with halogen lamp, one high stool of unmistakable saloon origin and numerous boxes holding numerous files. It wasn’t much different from what she’d encountered in the outer office—one generic desk with off-off- off-brand computer, and more boxes full of files. “Okay,” she said, wondering what more there might be to Rush Commercial Designs, Inc.

“This,” Mr. Wheeler said, throwing his arms open wide, “is my office. That—” he waved a hand toward the design table “—is my work area and is not to be touched under any circumstances. Those—” he gestured toward the boxes “—are my files, likewise to be left alone. Out there—” he pointed toward the door through which she’d entered “—is the reception area, where you’ll be working. Beyond that and down the hall—” this time he waved his hand, as if striving to indicate great distance “—there’s a small washroom. It’s near the door to the street, where you first came in.”

That evidently concluded the tour, Audrey thought, because Mr. Wheeler didn’t say anything more.

“Mind if I take a closer look at my desk?” she asked. “My telephone? My computer terminal?”

He must have misunderstood the question, because his expression became absolutely crestfallen, and he dropped his hands to his sides in a posture she could only describe as thoroughly defeated. “Didn’t you see them when you first came in? Don’t tell me Bruno took those, too. Hell, those were paid for.”

“Who’s Bruno?” she asked as she scrambled to follow Mr. Wheeler out of the office, thinking it was the only remark he’d made that she didn’t quite understand.

Too late she realized he had halted only a few steps beyond the door, and, having hastened her step to catch up with him, she barreled into him at a pretty fast clip. Upon impact Mr. Wheeler went bolting forward, stumbling, landing on all fours on the floor. Audrey moved immediately to help him up, but she twisted her ankle just as she was reaching out to him and went hurtling forward herself. Before she knew what has happening, she had landed on his back, straddling him, perched the way a child might be when sitting astride a favorite uncle for a pony ride.

For one split second neither of them moved. Then Mr. Wheeler abruptly spun his body around, landed deftly on his fanny and caught Audrey capably in his lap. He narrowed his eyes at her, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to make of a woman who would ride her boss like a horse. And as she met his gaze, Audrey’s heart went pitty-pat, pitty-pat, pitty-pat. And then he smiled, a halfhearted little smile that indicated he wasn’t all that put off by their situation. After that, her heart went zing-zing-zing-zing-zing.

Oh, my.

He had caught her by the waist, and now his hands were planted firmly atop each of her hips. Only then did Audrey notice that his thumbs were idly grazing the bare skin revealed between her skirt and her top. Braving a glance down, she realized that her clothing was too revealing for mixed company given her new posture. Her skirt was hiked up far enough on one side to reveal the lace of her red panties through the hose beneath. Her sweater, too, was riding high, though thankfully not high enough to underscore the scant red brassiere beneath it.

Thinking back, she supposed she could have chosen something a little less revealing for her first day on the job. But the late-March morning had been surprisingly balmy, and after months of cold, damp winter, she’d longed to feel the warm breeze on as much of her body as she could. Plus, she’d wanted to make a good impression on her new boss. Plus, she’d really been in a red mood today.

Then again, there wasn’t much in her wardrobe that wasn’t revealing. Having started off as a chunky kid, then having bloomed into a chubby adolescent, Audrey had worked and sweated for most of her adult years to drop her weight. Now at twenty-eight years, five feet nine inches, and 127 pounds, she liked to show herself off.

Hey, if you’ve got it, flaunt it, right? she’d thought. Especially if you didn’t have much else going for you. Now, however, she was beginning to think that maybe she shouldn’t have flaunted it quite so majorly in Mr. Wheeler’s direction.

As if he’d read her mind, he cleared his throat indelicately, scattering her thoughts. But with her mind emptied, her insides went all muddled and warm, because she realized he still had both hands around her naked waist. Even more troubling, she had tangled her fingers in the crisp white fabric of his shirt, and beneath her fingertips his heart fairly hummed with anticipation. As discreetly as she could, Audrey unwound the fingers of one hand and moved them to his shoulder. But that only brought into stark, raving focus the chiseled, well-defined musculature lurking beneath.

Simply put, her boss was built. And somehow she found herself wondering if maybe they couldn’t just spend the rest of the day sitting in the middle of the floor this way, just exploring each other’s bodies. Hey, it gave a whole new meaning to employee orientation.

“We, uh, we don’t seem to be having a good day, do we?” he said softly, breaking the odd spell that had begun to descend around them.

Speak for yourself, Audrey thought. This had been the best day she’d had in a long, long time. However, she did concede, “I guess we’re not really starting off as well as we could be.”

He nodded at that but did nothing to alter their position on the floor. Instead, he only continued to gaze into her eyes as if he were looking for something very important there. A warmth spread through her that had nothing to do with the warble of the spring breeze rippling through the open door and everything to do with the gentle back-and-forth motion of her employer’s thumbs across her bare skin.

Her employer. Oh, gosh. Oh, no. Oh, jeez.

Finally it registered on Audrey just how badly she had started off her first day on the job. With as much grace as she could manage, which, granted, under the circumstances wasn’t much, she pushed herself up from her boss’s lap. That, unfortunately, left her kneeling before him—pretty much the second worst position to be in with one’s employer, right after riding him like a pony. Hurriedly she tugged her skirt back down around her thighs as best she could.

Mental note, Audrey, she told herself. Shop for trousers. Big, loose trousers

Unfortunately such a purchase would have to wait until she had more money in her bank account. Or some money, for that matter, since $36.47 wasn’t even enough to earn interest.

She shoved that thought away, too, and with only a marginally more graceful effort, managed to push herself up to standing. Mr. Wheeler, she noted, however, remained on the floor, and she hoped he wasn’t trying to cop a peek up her skirt. Then again, she wondered, why would he bother after the free show she’d just given him?

Finally he rose, too, smoothing his hands down the front of his shirt once he was standing again. Somehow, though, Audrey got the feeling he performed the gesture not because his shirt was wrinkled, but because his palms were sweaty. Then, noting that she was suffering from that exact same malady herself, she gave her skirt one final tug, wiping her own hands dry in the bargain.

Only when they stood facing each other like two—relatively—normal human beings did her new employer speak again.

“Your desk,” he said, throwing a hand to the left in a motion she supposed was meant to look nonchalant

Audrey trained her gaze in the direction he indicated, noting again the cheap-looking piece of furniture accessorized by a chair that appeared to be far from comfortable. The computer terminal atop it was making some very dubious noises, as if it were on its last legs and just waiting for someone to push the right button that would put it out of its misery. She swung her attention back to her boss, not quite able to hide her astonishment at the appalling lack of amenities claimed by Rush Commercial Designs, Inc.

“That’s it?” she asked. “You’ll pardon me for asking, Mr. Wheeler, but—”

“Rush,” he interrupted her.

“What?” she asked, confused.

“It’s Mr. Rush, not Mr. Wheeler. Wheeler is my first name. Rush is my last name. Hence the name of the company being Rush Commercial Designs, Inc.”

She thought about that for a moment. “Oh. Okay. Sorry.”

“No problem.”

“You’ll pardon me for asking,” she said again, “but shouldn’t there be a little more to the office than, well...this?”

He nodded, the gesture clearly one of resignation. “Yes, there should be. But there’s not. You’ve come to work for a failing business that I’m doing my damnedest to save, Miss Finnegan. My luck of late has been quite bad. I apologize for that, but I hope you’re up to the task of working for someone who appears to be jinxed.”

She straightened proudly, throwing her shoulders back, smiling as she smoothed a hand over the tuft of curls atop her head. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Wheeler,” she said, feeling confident for the first time in her entire life. “You and I should get along just fine. Because when it comes to bad luck, Audrey Finnegan wrote the book.”