Читать книгу Feet First - Leanne Banks - Страница 11

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.