Читать книгу That Boss Of Mine - Elizabeth Bevarly - Страница 9

Two

Wheeler assured himself during the week that followed that his initial introduction to Miss Audrey Finnegan must, without question, have been a fluke. No one, absolutely no one, could possibly be that inept, graceless and unfortunate. Her clumsiness had doubtless resulted from her being nervous about her first day on the job and nothing more. Once she caught on to the routine of his office, then everything would be okay.

Surely, on that first occasion, he told himself, Miss Finnegan had just been having One of Those Days. And surely, afterward, once she got the hang of things, a working relationship with her would ensue that, if not absolutely ideal, was certainly tolerable. That was what Wheeler told himself for the entirety of that first week.

Wheeler, however, was wrong.

Evidently, every day was One of Those Days when it came to Audrey Finnegan. And really, when he reflected back over those first five working days on this, the sixth working day, that first day with her had actually been her best to date. Because after one week of working with Miss Finnegan, Wheeler was fit to be tied. In a straitjacket. To a cement pylon. Near a very short pier.

As he strolled down Main Street toward his office the Monday after hiring his new—and thankfully temporary—secretary, he gradually slowed his pace and eyed his front door with much trepidation. In only five working days, the illustrious Miss Finnegan had managed to upstage every catastrophe that had befallen Wheeler in nine long months.

On Monday she crashed the office computer. Tuesday she trashed the office copier. Wednesday she bashed the office microwave. And Thursday she thrashed the office phone. On Friday, to top the week off, she wrecked her car. Or, rather, her friend’s car, which she had borrowed for the day. Worse, she had wrecked it by slamming it into the back of Wheeler’s car as they were leaving a nearby parking garage for the day. So now he was going to have to ride the bus to work for a while, until he could cough up the two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar deductible to have his car fixed.

And when Miss Finnegan hadn’t been crashing, trashing, bashing and thrashing, she had been working at her desk, which really caused trouble. Simply put, Wheeler’s new secretary had her own way of doing everything, and that way scarcely made sense to anyone other than Miss Finnegan.

At one point, when Wheeler asked her where she had filed the particulars for a design project he was bidding on for a local minimart—whose name began with the letter W—his new secretary retrieved it from where she had filed it under L. And when he had asked her what the letter L had to do with design or minimart or W for that matter, she had looked at him as if he were a complete moron, and then had explained to him, in a tone of voice that indicated she thought he was a complete moron, that L stood for lottery. Miss Finnegan, it would appear, always bought her lottery tickets at a minimart. Thus, it made sense—to her, at least—to file the plans in such a way.

And as for his new secretary’s coffee... Well, suffice it to say that Wheeler never asked for a second cup. In fact, after that first day he’d pretty much foregone the first cup, too. He saw no reason to sample Miss Finnegan’s coffee, unless, perhaps, he would have some reason to be awake for seven hundred hours straight.

Now as he pushed his troubling thoughts aside, he forced his feet to move forward again, carrying him through the brisk morning, past the other pedestrians hurrying to their respective places of business. No one else seemed to be too worried about what the day ahead held for them. No one else seemed to be frightened of what might greet them at their jobs. On the contrary, everyone else seemed to be remarkably bored by whatever might be going through their brains.

Then again, nobody else had to face the day ahead with Audrey Finnegan.

Oh, come on, Rush, he chastised himself as he quickened his step a bit It can’t be as bad as you think Miss Finnegan couldn’t possibly be as horrific as you’re recalling. You just had a rough week yourself, and you’re looking to pin it on her. Be fair.

That’s what Wheeler told himself as he gripped the handle on the office door and inhaled a deep, fortifying breath before entering. Because he’d spent his weekend brooding over his ill fortune, he was naturally starting off his week now feeling more morose and defeated than the average person, and he wanted to blame someone other than himself. It was as simple as that.

So Miss Finnegan had taken out a couple of office machines, he recalled. So what? Wheeler had managed to undo whatever damage she had done, hadn’t he? And sure, it had taken a big bite out of his day to act as computer repairman... and phone repairman... and copier repairman...and microwave repairman. But, seeing as how he hadn’t had any real work to occupy his time anyway, that wasn’t so bad, was it?

And, okay, so now his insurance company was canceling his policy because he was rear-ended by his secretary. He was probably going to have to sell his car soon, anyway, for the few thousand bucks it would bring in.

And, yeah, his files were in such a complete mess that he would probably never be able to figure them out for himself, should Miss Finnegan step in front of a bus and go to her final reward, which, considering the woman’s luck, was not outside the realm of possibility.

There were worse things in life, right?

Right.

So chin up, he told himself further. Hey, after all, when things were this bad, they could only get better, couldn’t they?

In spite of his little pep talk to himself, though, Wheeler felt anything but reassured when, very, very cautiously, he pushed the front door open. He hesitated a moment before entering, just to get a feel for things. No smell of smoke, he noted, heartening some. No strange sounds of mechanical upheaval. No power outages that he could readily discern...

Okay, so everything was fine, he realized with a long sigh of relief. See? He really had been overreacting when it came to memories of the previous week. Heartened some more, Wheeler strode into his outer office with all the confidence of a brass band, and found...

...chaos.

Truly. Chaos. What else could it be called when one’s secretary had one’s number-one client—the very, absolute last of one’s reliable accounts—in a choke hold, clearly striving to throttle the life right out of the man? Because that was exactly what was happening. Audrey Finnegan stood behind and had both arms wrapped resolutely around the neck of Otis Denby, CEO of Denby Associates, and Mr. Denby was turning blue as he fought for his very life. He had gripped both hands around Miss Finnegan’s forearms, but she clearly had the upper hand, pumping his body back and forth as she was with much abandon.

And all Wheeler could think was that he couldn’t possibly allow her to murder Mr. Denby. Denby was, after all, the only client Wheeler had left who paid his bills on time.

“Miss Finnegan!” he shouted at the top of his lungs as he rushed forward. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

Without awaiting a response, he gripped her wrists fiercely and yanked her hands free of his client’s throat, pushing her backward as he pulled the other man forward. Immediately Mr. Denby curled one hand around his nape, stretching his neck tight as he rolled his shoulders forward, then back. His face and bald pate were red and mottled, but he didn’t seem to be struggling. Well, not too much, anyway. His barrel chest rose and fell as he inhaled great gulps of breath, and his pale blue eyes widened in what could only be a combination of relief and terror.

And then, much to Wheeler’s surprise, the other man expelled a bark of delighted laughter. “Well I’ll be damned, Miss Finnegan,” he said with a chuckle. “That really did the trick. You’re absolutely amazing. I never would have suspected that a woman of your, uh...your attributes... could have such a gentle touch. Thank you.”

Thank you? Wheeler echoed to himself. Gentle touch? What the hell was going on here?

“What the hell is going on here?” he cried. He glanced first at his client, then at Miss Finnegan, further demanding an explanation.

She shrugged. “I worked for a chiropractor for a while,” she said. She waved a hand negligently through the air. “You pick up little things on your jobs. For example, everything I know about fashion accessories, I learned from just two weeks at The Limited.”

And speaking of fashion accessories, Wheeler noted through narrowed eyes that Miss Finnegan was in a blue mood today. Sapphire blue, to be specific. Her sapphire miniskirt was topped by a sapphire sweater that actually covered her hips. Sapphire hose ended in sapphire boots, and sapphire earrings swung from her ears. Her black hair, as always, was caught atop her head in a riot of curls, but even they seemed to be touched with blue.

Whatever she had learned about fashion during her time at The Limited, it must have been, well...limited. Because one thing he could definitely say about his temp—she was a color palate just waiting to happen. If she ever learned how to mix colors.

Wheeler pushed the thought away. “Just what the devil is going on?” he demanded again.

Before Miss Finnegan could add anything to her earlier explanation, Mr. Denby turned to him instead. “Your new secretary just fixed a back problem I’ve had for decades, Rush. Decades. I can’t tell you how much money I’ve spent on specialists over the years, only to have Miss Finnegan fix me up—” he snapped his fingers merrily “—like that.”

She shrugged again. “My father suffered from the exact same thing,” she said, sidestepping the accomplishment. “You just have to know where to look, that’s all.”

Where Wheeler decided to look was at the ceiling, while he tried not to think about the potential bodily damage his new secretary could have done to Mr. Denby. What on earth was he going to do with her? he wondered. Do with her that wasn’t illegal, he meant.

“You should give her a raise, Rush,” Denby suggested, answering that question, if none of the other numerous ones parading through his brain. “Hell, I might just hire her away from you myself. She’s delightful.”

When Wheeler looked down again, it was to find Miss Finnegan blushing furiously and shaking a teasing finger—one encased in what appeared to be a Scooby-Doo Band-Aid—at Otis Denby. “Oh, now, Mr. Denby, that’s very sweet of you,” she said. “But I couldn’t possibly come to work for you. My first commitment right now is to Mr. Rush. It’s not the One-Day-at-a-Timers’ way to shirk our responsibilities to our employers.”

Shirk, Wheeler commanded her silently. Please. By all means. Shirk to your heart’s content.

But what he said was, “Mr. Denby, did we have an appointment this morning?”

The other man shook his head. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.” He glanced anxiously at Miss Finnegan, then back at Wheeler. “Can we, uh...can we speak privately, Rush?”

Here it comes, Wheeler thought with another sigh. The big kiss-off. Otis Denby, his last, best client, was about to take a powder. “Is that really necessary, sir?” he asked halfheartedly.

Denby nodded fatalistically. “I’m afraid it is,” he said. “We’re long overdue for this... uh...discussion.”

Wheeler sighed heavily again before nodding, and was about to open his mouth to accept defeat, when Miss Finnegan stepped in to interrupt him.

“Mr. Denby,” she said, “do you by any chance know anything about monopodial orchids?”

As questions went, it wasn’t one Wheeler might have expected from his secretary. Or anyone else on the planet, for that matter. But Denby perked right up at the query.

“Why, yes, I do, Miss Finnegan. As a matter of fact, growing orchids is an absolute passion of mine. That’s amazing that you’d share an interest like that, too.”

She nodded. “Actually, it’s more my mother’s hobby than my own, but I think it’s more common than you realize,” she assured him. Then she hurried on, “Before you talk to Mr. Rush, do you mind if I ask you a few questions? Mom is having such a hard time trying to figure out what she’s doing wrong with her Phalaenopsis.”

Denby nodded sagely. “Oh, those are tricky little bastards, aren’t they?”

“Boy, you said it.”

He launched into what promised to be a very technical discussion about the plant in question, then, almost as an afterthought, turned to Wheeler. “You don’t mind, do you, Rush?” he asked in a voice that pretty much answered his own question in the negative. “This won’t take but a minute.”

Wheeler nodded wearily. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Denby. Just come into my office whenever you and Miss Finnegan are finished. My morning’s pretty much clear.”

Hoo-boy, was that an understatement.

But Denby wasn’t listening to Wheeler, because he had lost himself completely in his conversation with Miss Finnegan. She was pouring him a cup of her infamous coffee—as if Wheeler hadn’t already done enough to terminate his business relationship with Otis Denby—and nodding at something the other man was saying, when Wheeler closed the door behind himself and made his way to the bar stool and drafting table that constituted what was left of his work station.

For some reason, he had the “Death March” stuck in his head, and he just couldn’t shake it. Go figure. That didn’t, however, prevent him from sitting down, making himself comfortable and pretending he had a really good idea as he stared at a blank piece of paper.

Oddly, though, he suddenly did have a really good idea. A remarkably good idea. A startlingly good idea. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more the idea grew. It was revolutionary, truly. The kind of idea he hadn’t had for a very long time. And it would be just perfect for what Otis Denby was looking for in a commercial design. Quickly, before the idea could escape, Wheeler gathered his pens and began to sketch.

What Denby had promised wouldn’t take a minute, in fact, did not take a minute. It took about thirty minutes. But Wheeler scarcely noticed, because he spent the entire length of time sketching madly and enjoying a brainstorm that made Godzilla look like a cute little newt. And when that length of time finally had passed, it wasn’t Denby who entered Wheeler’s office—it was Miss Finnegan. She was humming under her breath an off-key rendition of what sounded like The Flintstones theme song, and carrying two cups of coffee, which, naturally, led Wheeler to believe that one of them was for him.

Damn.

Surprisingly, she only stumbled once as she entered, and even at that, she spilled just a few drops of coffee—merely enough to slightly enlarge two of the half-dozen or so coffee stains that had appeared on his rug over the past week. But he was still preoccupied by the last few drizzlings of his idea, so he barely registered the new stains. When she extended a cup toward him, he noticed that she had an ace bandage wound about her wrist. He was about to ask her what had happened when she spoke up, scattering his thoughts.

“Mr. Denby is a very nice man,” she said.

Wheeler nodded dispassionately, curling his fingers around the coffee cup, which just went to show how suicidal he began to feel at the mention of his former client. “Yep. Denby’s account was the best one I had. I’m hoping maybe this sketch I’m working on now will win him back.”

“Had?” Miss Finnegan echoed. “Win him back? What are you talking about? He’s still your client.”

Wheeler glanced up, surprised. “He is?”

His secretary shrugged. “Sure.”

“Then...why was he here this morning? Other than acting as your orchid mentor, I mean?”

She shrugged, clearly unconcerned by his worry. “He just needed to get a few things straightened out about the new design you’re doing for him, that’s all. Why did you think Mr. Denby wouldn’t be your client anymore?”

He hesitated before answering. Naturally, it hadn’t escaped his notice that Audrey Finnegan wasn’t the most observant human being in the world. But surely even she could see how badly Rush Commercial Designs, Inc. was foundering. He had, after all, pretty much spelled it out for her that first day. And then there was that small matter of him having virtually no furniture, nor any clients. That seemed to him as if it would be kind of a dead giveaway. But then, that was Wheeler. Always assuming the obvious.

“Well,” he began slowly, speaking his thoughts aloud, “there is that small matter of my having lost nearly every other client I have. I shouldn’t think Mr. Denby would be too different in that respect.”

“Oh, that,” Miss Finnegan said as she sipped her coffee. Amazing. She didn’t grimace once. “Mr. Denby is different, actually. And you didn’t need those other clients, anyway.”

Wheeler rather begged to differ, and didn’t hesitate to tell her so. “Oh, I think, Miss Finnegan, that I did need those other clients. Desperately, in fact. I do have bills to pay.” And lots of them, he recalled.

She wrinkled her nose as she shook her head, and Wheeler couldn’t help but think, for some reason, that the gesture was really...very...well, cute came to mind.

“No, you didn’t need them,” she insisted lightly before enjoying—enjoying—another sip of her coffee.

“I didn’t?”

She shook her head again. “Nah. They were alarmists.”

“They were?”

This time she nodded. “Those kinds of people are ready to bail at the slightest sign of adversity. They have no staying power whatsoever. You would have lost them anyway, eventually.”

“I would?”

She offered him an expression that assured him he was dreaming if he thought otherwise. “Oh, yeah. I’ve been going over your files as I’ve been rearranging them, and—”

Wheeler sat up straight at that, eyeing her in a panic. “You...you’ve been rearranging my files?”

She enjoyed another unconcerned sip of coffee. “Well, of course I’ve been rearranging your files. They were a mess—all alphabetical and everything. They made no sense at all. With all due respect to your former secretary, she could have learned a thing or two about filing.”

Wheeler closed his eyes. Rosalie, his former secretary, had been an absolute whiz at organizing his accounts. Although she wasn’t the biggest people person on the planet—okay, so she’d been abrasive, gruff and borderline obnoxious—her filing system would have been the envy of the Pentagon and the IRS. His associates had always considered her a file Nazi, but Wheeler had been a bit more charitable, thinking her more of a file queen. No, scratch that. What Rosalie had been was a file goddess. And now Miss Finnegan, the pretender to the throne, had “fixed” those files.

Oh, no...

“Anyway,” she went on, “I’ve been trying to familiarize myself with your different clients, and, in my opinion at least, a lot of them were just fly-by-nights. I mean, I know you were starting up a new business, so you had to take whatever came your way, but some of these people, Mr. Rush...they just weren’t the kind of clients you need. What you need to do is focus on attracting a more reliable, more stable account base.”

Wheeler narrowed his eyes at her. She sounded, almost, like she knew what she was talking about. “How so?” he ventured.

She waved a negligent hand through the air. “Don’t you worry about that,” she said. “You just focus on your designs. I’ll handle your accounts.”

Oh, no, no, no, no, no. I don’t think so. “Um, Miss Finnegan,” he began, striving for a diplomacy he was nowhere close to feeling in his surging panic, “I appreciate your wanting to take some of the heat, but honestly, I think you should tell me what you’re talking about.”

She smiled, those luscious lips that he just couldn’t quite ignore looking more tempting than ever. “Just trust me,” she said mildly. “I know what I’m doing.”

That, he thought, was open to debate. “But—”

“Is it okay if I take an extra half hour for lunch today?” she interrupted him. “I need to see about Marlene’s car.”

The change of subject nearly gave him mental whiplash. “No, before we talk about that, I think we need to talk about this other thing first.”

She studied him in confusion. “What other thing?”

“This thing with my accounts,” he prodded. “You’re not suggesting that you—”

“I’ll make the half hour up tomorrow,” she said, still not quite grasping the topic he wanted to put first. “I’ll only take thirty minutes for lunch, so it doesn’t mess up the time thing.”

“No, Miss Finnegan, before the time thing, back up to the other thing...the thing we were talking about a minute ago.”

She squinted at him. “Were we talking about another thing a minute ago?” she asked. “What was it? I can’t remember.”

“That thing,” he repeated emphatically. “That account thing. You know... That thing about how I should be attracting a more reliable account base. I want to talk about that.”

She squinted some more. “Did I say something about an account thing?”

He nodded. Vigorously. And he battled the urge to start pulling his hair out by the roots. “Yes. You did. Or, at least, you started to. And it sounded like what you were going to say about the account thing was going to make sense and be very helpful. What was it?”

She thought for a long moment, putting her entire body into the effort. She shifted her weight to one foot, an action that thrust one rounded hip to the side—and hitched up her skirt in a manner that Wheeler simply could not ignore. And then she crossed one hand over her midsection, a gesture that thrust her plump breasts up even higher, in another manner that Wheeler simply could not ignore.

His secretary might not be the most graceful person on the planet when she moved, he thought, but when she was standing still like this, she had the most elegant lines he had ever seen on another human being. And when she started nibbling her lip with great concentration... Well. Suffice it to say that, even though he was eager to hear her take on his state of business affairs, Wheeler was in absolutely no hurry for her to finish up whatever she might be thinking about.

But after several minutes of contemplation, the only comment she offered was, “Huh. How about that? I don’t remember what I was going to say.”

Wheeler closed his eyes again, feeling his last drop of hope dry up. Ah, well. It had probably just been a fluke, anyway. Miss Finnegan didn’t come across as too awfully savvy when it came to the business world. Without thinking, he lifted his coffee to his lips for an idle sip, and, as utter bitterness filled his mouth, he nearly choked to death.

Miss Finnegan immediately jumped to his rescue, which was unfortunate, because in doing so, she instinctively placed her own cup of coffee on his drafting table—his tilted drafting table—and the entire contents tipped over onto his truly revolutionary idea.

Wheeler watched with an almost detached feeling of defeat as what had promised to be the end of his worries was slowly obscured by a growing puddle of brown. And then, when his design was completely covered by the stain, the coffee, as if not quite finished ruining his life, spilled off the table and ran into his lap. Somehow the entire episode just seemed perfectly appropriate, and the only reaction he felt was one of vindication.

“Oh, no,” Miss Finnegan groaned. “I can’t believe I did that. Here, I can fix it. I swear I can.”

Before he had a chance to object, she was fleeing his office, only to return within moments with a massive collection of paper towels. And although Wheeler’s primary concern was for the design on his table, Miss Finnegan, evidently, was far more preoccupied by her concern for his lap. In any event, that was where she immediately focused her attentions.

And, my, but her attentions were...thorough. Nobody had ever gone after Wheeler’s lap quite the way Audrey Finnegan did.

For a moment he was simply too stunned by her actions to do anything to stop them. Then, for another—longer, more delirious—moment, he found himself not really wanting to do anything to stop them. Thankfully, though, sanity stepped in, in that next moment, and somehow he gathered his wits enough to react. Quickly he reached for her hands to remove them from where they had settled, in a place on his upper thighs that was far too likely to rouse suspicion—among other things—should she venture any farther. Then, as gently as he could, he nudged her away.

“Thank you, Miss Finnegan,” he said, “but I think you’ve done enough for one morning.” Or one lifetime, for that matter, he thought further.

“I am so, so sorry,” she told him.

Purely out of habit he replied, “No problem.”

He turned his gaze to the design on which he’d spent the last thirty minutes and sighed heavily. He could salvage it—it was only a rough draft, after all, and the coffee had merely turned it brown, not obliterated it. That, however, wasn’t the problem. The problem was that Miss Audrey Finnegan, with her clumsiness and gracelessness and appalling bad luck—even if she did have luscious lips and beautiful eyes and legs that wouldn’t quit—was going to drive home what few nails were left in Wheeler’s professional coffin. And she was going to do it in half the time it would take him to botch things himself.

He ought to let her go, he thought, strangely saddened by the realization. There really was no other way. He could call One-Day-at-a-Timers and make up some story about his and Miss Finnegan’s incompatibility—he didn’t want to get her into trouble, after all—and ask the temp agency to send someone else in her wake. At this point, anyone they sent would be an improvement.

But when he looked at her face and saw the abject apology and need for atonement in her expression, he couldn’t quite form the words necessary to tell her she was fired. For all her awkwardness and misfortune, she really was very nice. And in spite of her having wrecked most of his office equipment—not to mention the first good idea he’d had in months—she had rather brightened up the place over the past week. Literally, he thought, when he recalled some of her outfits.

And then, of course, there was the small matter of her aforementioned luscious lips and beautiful eyes and legs that wouldn’t quit, which he assured himself only marginally influenced his ultimate decision.

Wheeler sighed. He supposed it wouldn’t kill him to give her a second chance. Surely they’d hit rock bottom by now. Things could only improve from here.

He ignored the little voice in the back of his brain that reminded him how this was a conversation he’d had with himself pretty much daily since taking on Miss Finnegan. So, technically, she had already exhausted her second chances—more than once, in fact—and he had already watched things go from bad to worse—again, more than once.

Still, he did kind of like her. He didn’t know why, but he did. Maybe because both of them seemed to be in the same boat—one that was fast sinking—where misfortune was concerned. Perhaps if he gave her just one more chance....

“Go ahead and take the extra half hour for lunch today,” he said halfheartedly. “You can make it up tomorrow if you want.”

Her eyes widened, making them appear even larger and greener than before—which was saying something. “O-okay,” she replied, obviously confused by his reaction, but evidently unwilling to draw any more attention to her latest debacle than was absolutely necessary. “Um, thanks, Mr. Rush. For everything. I appreciate it.”

He told himself he should ask her to call him Wheeler. Rush Designs, Inc. had never been a particularly formal business. Even when it was a successful one. He and his former secretary had been on a first-name basis from day one. Of course, Rosalie had been a fifty-six-year-old grandmother of three, but that was beside the point. Still, there was no reason for him and Miss Finnegan to stand on ceremony.

Nevertheless, something prevented him from extending the invitation to call him by his first name, and he forced himself not to ask if he could call her by hers. He wasn’t sure why. It just seemed best to keep their relationship as professional as possible. And even an insignificant, invisible barrier like the use of surnames would remind Wheeler that she was, first and foremost, his employee. He told himself it was essential that he keep that reminder planted firmly in his brain.

In spite of that, when she smiled back at him, somewhere deep inside him, in a place he’d never explored before, a little bubble of heat went fizz. It was the oddest sensation he’d ever felt. Before he had a chance to think about it, though, Miss Finnegan spoke again.

“I am so sorry about the coffee,” she repeated her earlier apology. He had noted that first day her propensity for apologizing more than once. “I should have watched where I was putting it. It was an accident, I swear. I really didn’t mean to—”

“Please, Miss Finnegan, don’t worry about it,” he said, interrupting her. “Let’s just both make a pact to be more careful from here on out, all right? And then let’s just forget it ever happened.”

She nodded vigorously. “Okay. I will if you will. And I promise you that nothing like that will happen again. Ever. I won’t let you down, Mr. Rush. I can assure you of that From here on out, with you and me working together, Rush Commercial Designs, Inc., is headed for great, great things.”