Читать книгу Feet First - Leanne Banks - Страница 8

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.