Читать книгу The Boss's Daughter - Leigh Michaels, Leigh Michaels - Страница 8

AMY felt as if he’d picked up the pre-Columbian statuette from her father’s desk and hit her over the head with it.

She stared at Dylan, unwilling to believe she’d heard him correctly. But his voice had been firm and absolutely level. He meant exactly what he’d said…or else he was the best poker player Amy had ever run into.

What would happen if she called his bluff? Or at least let him know that she wasn’t entirely convinced he was willing to burn his bridges so completely?

She smiled. “You won’t quit.”

His eyes narrowed, but his tone was cordial. “If you think I’m joking, try me.”

“I don’t believe you’d desert my father while he’s ill—and if you quit on me, it’s just the same as abandoning him.”

Dylan looked at her with a gleam of admiration in his dark-blue eyes. “You’re almost as good a manipulator as Gavin is, you know.”

“Besides, you can’t just walk away from this job. Okay, maybe you’re not charmed by the terms I’m talking about, but that’s perfectly understandable. I’m not delighted with them, either. But—”

“Get one thing through your head, dear. I don’t want your father’s job any more than you do.”

Doubt crept into Amy’s mind. “Don’t call me dear,” she said automatically.

“Why shouldn’t I? If we’re not going to be working together—”

“But you’d be crazy to quit now. You’ve put six months into this job, and by now you must be thinking of how you’d run the business if it was left in your hands. Any red-blooded male would. And this is your opportunity to prove yourself.”

Dylan shrugged. “I don’t happen to have anything to prove.”

“But you can’t quit.”

“Of course I can. Your father hired me, Amy. He didn’t purchase me.”

Amy’s doubts were rapidly being overwhelmed by panic. Even though she’d suggested to Gavin that he could rely completely on his assistant, she hadn’t realized how much she herself had depended on Dylan to be there as a sort of safety net. Even before she’d had the brainstorm of letting him take over entirely, she’d counted on him to lend her a hand, to bring her up to speed after her long absence.

It was bad enough that she was having to take over for her father at all. But it had never occurred to her that she might have to do it entirely by herself.

She’d been prepared for Dylan to resent her being boosted above him on the management ladder. She’d have bet her next paycheck—wherever it might come from—that he was too competitive not to object when he was passed over, especially in favor of a woman who had been gone so long she might as well be an outsider. But even then it had never occurred to her that he might actually quit.

“It never crossed my mind,” she said almost to herself, “that you might not even be ambitious enough to want Gavin’s job.”

Only when she saw his eyes grow chilly did she realize that it might not have been a wise thing to say. Come to that, she reflected, she didn’t entirely believe it even now.

But whatever his reasons were, they didn’t matter at the moment—because she simply couldn’t let him leave. At the same time, she could hardly let him see how desperate she was to have him stay, or he’d be waving a resignation letter at her any time things didn’t go his way.

“What on earth would you do instead?” she asked. “If you quit?”

His eyebrows rose. “I do have a few talents.”

“Of course,” she said hastily. “But—”

“And surely, after your dramatic exit, you’re in no position to tell me that it’s necessary to have a second job lined up before quitting the first one.”

Amy bit her lip. “No, but—”

“Especially when the boss has provoked the resignation.”

“I’m trying not to provoke you!”

“Really? I’m afraid I missed that part. And though it’s kind of you to worry about how I’ll make a living, Amy, it isn’t necessary. You just gave me three good leads. The college, the museum…Now what was the third one? Oh, yes, the magazine about antiques. Roving expert, hmm? That would look nice on my business card.”

“If you think six months in this business makes you an expert—” She saw his eyes turn to ice once more and stopped in midsentence. True as the comment had been, why take the chance of aggravating him even more? “You can’t just walk out of here, you know.”

“If your next move is to tell me that I have to give you a month’s notice, you can hardly hold me to a higher standard than you used for yourself.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “What’s it going to be, Amy?”

“What’s your hurry?” she asked irritably. “What difference does it make to you if I take a while to think about it?” Even though there was really nothing to think about—and it was apparent that Dylan knew it, too.

“Because if I’m going to be free for lunch, I still have time to make a date. So stop dithering and decide.”

Amy sighed and slid off the desk. “Get out of my chair,” she said. “I’ve got work to do.”

Dylan noted with interest that she’d landed with her neat little Italian sandals placed squarely between his outstretched feet, so close that it would be nearly impossible for him to stand up without brushing against her. He considered for a moment whether she could actually have intended to issue an invitation, and concluded that she’d been too annoyed even to think about where she was standing.

Just as well, he thought. The last thing he needed was to get tangled up with his new boss, and he’d better remember it. She’d already made a few uncomfortably shrewd comments. Accidentally, he was sure, but if he’d had any idea just how astute Amy Sherwood could be without even trying, he wouldn’t have left the decision of whether he stayed or left in her hands.

But he had offered her the choice, and he couldn’t back out now without causing the very curiosity he was trying to avoid. So the key was to keep her too busy to think. Too busy to ask questions.

“What’s first?” he asked as he stood up.

Amy turned at the same moment, and his cheek brushed against the dark brown cloud of hair. Obviously, he thought with a flicker of regret, he’d read her correctly, for she leaped back, bumping into the corner of the desk and almost staggering.

He put a hand on her shoulder to keep her from losing her balance. Yes, her hair was as soft as that fleeting touch had suggested. It lay like silk over his fingers.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she snapped, shrugging his hand away.

“Following orders,” Dylan said innocently. “You told me to get out of your chair.”

“I didn’t tell you to hug me.” She sat down with a thump.

“If that’s what you call a hug, it’s no wonder you…” He saw the gold sparks of anger in her eyes and prudently moved around the desk to a safer distance. “Which stack of folders do you want first? Do you want to bring yourself up to date on the auctions that are coming up next, or start with the list of people Gavin was cultivating?”

She looked thoughtful. “You’ve talked to the people he’s been working with, haven’t you?”

“Most of them, I suppose.”

“Then you can tell me much more about them than a bunch of dry notes can.”

She looked very small and fragile, sitting in Gavin’s too-big chair. Dylan told himself this was no time to get a Galahad complex. In fact, his best move would be to keep all the distance possible between him and Amy Sherwood.

But the message didn’t seem to get through from his brain to his tongue. “I’ll get the folders,” he heard himself say, “and we can go through them together.”

The once-neat surface of Gavin Sherwood’s desk looked like a filing cabinet had exploded on it. Untidy stacks of file folders nearly covered the polished teak. Those detailing Gavin’s dealings with prospective clients were piled on the southeast corner, while upcoming auctions occupied the southwest corner. Amy’s head was bent over her father’s desk calendar when Dylan pushed the door open and came in, carrying a large white paper bag.

“Don’t you believe in knocking?” she asked absent-mindedly. “I hope you can read the cryptic codes Gavin uses to keep his schedule straight, because I certainly can’t. He’s got something written on the page for today, but it could be either ‘confer with Rex’ or ‘confirm tickets.’ Or maybe it’s ‘conifer forest.”’

Dylan grinned. “As far as I know, he hasn’t taken up tree-hugging. If it’s for this evening, I expect he meant Rex Maxwell.”

Amy reached for a folder in the pile of prospective clients. “The one who’s thinking of selling his Picasso?”

“That’s the one.” He started to unload small waxed paper boxes from the bag.

Amy pushed the folder aside to make room. “How much do I owe you for lunch?”

“Nothing, but next time it’s your turn to buy.”

Amy glanced at the files stacked on the desk. At this rate, there were going to be plenty of “next times.” She hadn’t even made a dent in the piles.

“The Maxwells are having a cocktail party tonight,” Dylan went on. “The invitation is on my desk because I was just about to phone them with Gavin’s regrets when you came in.”

“You might let them know I’ll be coming instead.”

“I might let them know?” Dylan tipped his head to one side. “This,” he said, pointing to the telephone on her desk, “is an instrument of communication. Do you know why it’s here? Because you pick it up and press the buttons and talk to the person who answers.”

Amy stared at him in disbelief. “What difference does it make if you call the Maxwells about Gavin or about me?”

“You’re not confined to a hospital bed.”

“You mean you don’t make calls for Gavin when he’s here? What kind of personal assistant refuses to use the telephone?”

“One who is not a secretary.” He handed her a pair of chopsticks.

How ridiculous could he be? “You didn’t object to going downstairs to wait for the deliveryman. That’s pretty secretarial.”

“Oh, but that’s different.”

“Why? Because you were hungry?”

“You got it in one try. Congratulations. Anyway, it’ll be your turn tomorrow.”

Amy dipped her chopsticks into a container of sweet and sour chicken. “Take a letter, Mr. Copeland. To whom it may concern—that’s you, of course. This is to inform you that there has been a change in policy concerning the duties of personal assistant—that’s also you—to the acting CEO—that’s me—”

Dylan was still wielding his chopsticks. “Sorry, boss. I don’t do dictation, either. If you’d like to get someone up here from the secretarial pool, call extension seventy-two.”

Amy fixed him with a look. “And how would you know that, if Gavin does all his own telephoning?”

“Because whenever I need typing or photocopies, I call them.”

Of course. “It’s a shame you don’t do shorthand. It wouldn’t be nearly as fun dictating a character reference for you if you’re not enjoying every word along with me.” She set the chicken aside and investigated a container that seemed to hold mostly broccoli. “Gavin made a note on tomorrow’s schedule, too. It’s something about running an errand, I think, but I don’t have any idea what.”

Dylan glanced at the calendar. “Not running an errand. Just running.”

“You mean like jogging? My father doesn’t jog.”

“Maybe he didn’t in his previous life.”

Another thing we have to thank Honey for, Amy thought. I wonder if that’s why he had the heart attack. She kept her voice level. “How often does he do this?”

“Whenever he thinks it’s time to once again nudge Mitchell Harlow into thinking about getting rid of his family’s autograph collection.”

“I should have known it wasn’t for the exercise,” Amy said glumly.

“Mitchell runs through Country Club Plaza every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday morning starting at 6:00 a.m. sharp. Rain or shine, he’s religious about it—and it’s the only time you can rely on catching him. So about once a week Gavin’s been going, too.”

“And this collection of autographs is worth it?”

“Gavin hasn’t actually seen it, but someone who has told him it includes Martin Luther and Catherine the Great.”

Amy sighed. “Then I guess I’m going jogging in the morning.”

“Your father would be proud of you.”

His face was perfectly straight, but Amy was certain she detected a note of suppressed laughter in Dylan’s voice. What she wouldn’t give to make him swallow his amusement…but once she started to think about ways to get even, the answer was obvious. “Of course, I wouldn’t know Mitchell Harlow if I tripped over him, so I’ll need you to come along and introduce me. Six in the morning, you said? Shall I pick you up?” She was pleased to see that his face had tightened just a little.

Dylan began gathering up the debris of their lunch. “No, thanks. I’ll meet you at the fountain.”

“Wait a minute—the Plaza has at least a hundred fountains.”

“The big one. Neptune and the seahorses. I’ll get you the Maxwells’ invitation so you can let them know you’re coming.”

Amy bit her lip to keep from smiling at the resigned note in his voice. That evens things up a little, she thought. And about time, too.

It took Amy all afternoon to make a perceptible dent in the stacks of files Dylan had sorted out for her to look at, and the experience had left her with a new appreciation of the challenges of her father’s job. Then, just as she was congratulating herself for everything she’d accomplished, Dylan appeared with yet another stack.

Amy wanted to groan. “What are those?”

“More prospects that I found lurking on top of a filing cabinet. Gavin must have left them there instead of putting them back.”

“Let me guess. You don’t file, either.”

“Of course I file, but only the things I pull out myself.”

“Good. You’ll know right where to put all these back when I’m finished with them.”

He didn’t comment, but Amy had the feeling he’d like to. Instead, he said, “Perhaps I should warn you that the Maxwells are sticklers for punctuality.”

“I’m on my way right now.” She dug her handbag from the bottom drawer.

“I’ll leave these here on the desk so they’ll be ready when you come in tomorrow.”

“Don’t turn the lights out when you leave,” Amy ordered, “just in case those folders act like coat hangers and multiply in the dark.”

Downstairs, the sales room was still quiet, with no auction scheduled until the weekend. But under the watchful eye of the sales staff, a half-dozen people were studying the furniture displayed in the showrooms, browsing through the catalog and even measuring the pieces.

The waiting room was half-full of people waiting their turn to inspect the merchandise, and at the desk Robert was looking harried. He paused as Amy passed the desk, however, and called her name. When she turned, he stretched out a hand to her.

“I didn’t know when you came in this morning that you were staying, Ms. Sherwood,” he said. “Things have been a little uncertain around here for the past few days, with your father so sick. But now—well, the whole staff is thanking heaven that you’re back where you belong.”

Amy could have sworn his eyes were misty. “I’ll try not to destroy your faith in me,” she said, keeping her voice as light as she could.

She rushed home to change her clothes and found the red light blinking madly on her answering machine. Remembering how the simple act of picking up her messages that morning had fractured her life, she almost ignored this batch. But habit made her push the button anyway, turning the volume up so she could listen from her bedroom while she changed.

Her mother had called. Just to chat, she’d said, and to invite Amy to stop in over the weekend and see her new furniture. She sounded almost normal, Amy thought. Only someone who knew her very well would have detected strain in Carol’s voice.

The second call was from the head curator of the museum. She swore under her breath. Dylan had kept her so buried in files that she’d completely forgotten to make the necessary calls to warn her prospective employers of the sudden hitch in her plans.

Funny, she thought, how it had taken that speed bump to help her see what it was she really wanted to do. She didn’t mind calling the museum and the college to let them know that she wouldn’t be available after all. But the magazine…the magazine was a little different.

Connoisseur’s Choice was far from being the stuffy old publication that Dylan had suggested it was. It was a glossy, sophisticated monthly magazine which covered an enormous range of both genuine antiques and interesting collectibles. A sort of reference book which happened to be published in segments, the magazine had actually become a collectible itself, for there was a brisk demand for secondhand issues—even ten-year-old ones. If in doubt, buyers and collectors consulted Connoisseur’s Choice, and they ignored its suggestions at their peril. Just to be associated with the magazine was to become an instant authority.

As for the position of roving expert, it might have been fashioned especially for Amy. “We’re looking for someone who has experience with everything,” the editor had told her. “Not just priceless paintings or hand-hammered silver or Tang horses. Our readers are interested in those things, certainly, but not many of them will ever own one. We need someone who’s interested in, and knowledgeable about, things like political buttons and movie posters and patent medicine bottles.”

“Someone exactly like me, Brad,” Amy had said. And though Brad Parker hadn’t committed himself at the time, he had seemed to agree.

Earlier in the week, he had called to tell her that the publisher liked her credentials and he expected to be able to make her an offer within a few days. And now she was going to have to tell him that she wouldn’t be able to take the job for a month at least—and hope that he wanted her badly enough to wait.

It was a rotten shame, she thought, that Dylan Copeland hadn’t jumped at the chance to prove himself by taking over the helm at Sherwood Auctions. Odd, too. The one thing she would never have suspected of him was a shortage of initiative.

She hailed a cab to take her to the Maxwells’ apartment tower rather than risk finding a place to park, because she’d cut things a little finer than she’d planned. She was still trying to catch her breath as she rang the Maxwells’ doorbell on the top floor just a couple of minutes after the hour specified on the invitation.

A bluff, hearty man greeted her, and Amy apologized for being late. “I’m afraid I didn’t allow time for a security check, but the guard downstairs was quite troubled over the fact that I don’t look like a Mr. Sherwood.”

Rex Maxwell laughed heartily. “I’m glad to know Pete doesn’t need his eyes examined,” he said and guided her over to the bar. Immediately the doorbell chimed again and he moved off to answer it.

Just as well, Amy thought. She could hardly ask him straight off whether he’d decided to auction the Picasso.

With a glass in her hand, she began to wander through the apartment. The rooms were huge and bare-looking, with blocky steel furniture and the occasional modern painting on the walls. She saw nothing of the caliber of a Picasso, though. Did they keep it in a vault somewhere? If so, she understood why they were thinking of selling it, because there was little point in owning a painting like that if you couldn’t see and enjoy it.

Or had the painting already gone to some other auction house?

Until now, her feelings about Gavin’s fears of losing his clients had been almost academic, but suddenly the threat had become much more personal. She felt her chest tightening.

Remember the size of that stack of files, she reminded herself. Her father must have been working on a hundred prospective clients. Some of them simply had to come through; the percentages were in her favor.

Still, the sheer size of the number was not as reassuring as Amy would have liked it to be. If—despite all his experience and contacts—Gavin needed to work on a hundred prospects in order to end up with just a few auctions, then how could she hope to snare enough business to satisfy his needs?

She saw a familiar face here and there in the crowd, mostly people that she’d happened to notice when they had attended auctions but a few that she’d worked with directly in the last couple of years.

One of them, a blue-haired matron, came up to her. “How’s your mother doing these days, Amy?”

Amy flinched. Why, she wondered, did people insist on asking her about Carol’s health and Gavin’s marital plans? Because they felt uncomfortable calling up Carol or Gavin, she supposed. But did they honestly expect Amy to spill the gory details?

“I haven’t talked to her for a few days,” she said honestly.

The woman sniffed. “I suppose that shouldn’t be a surprise, now that you’ve taken sides with your father.”

Unbelieving, Amy stared at her. “What on earth makes you think that?”

“My friend called me a few minutes ago. Cell phones are wonderful things, aren’t they?” She patted her handbag. “Our whole bridge club has them now. She was in the waiting room at Sherwood Auctions a few minutes ago and heard that you’ve started working there again.”

“News certainly travels quickly,” Amy said.

“And what does Carol think of you making up with your father?”

If she knew the whole story she’d probably be thrilled.

“Why don’t you ask her?” Amy said coolly. “I’m sure she’d love to hear from her friends.”

The matron fixed her with a stare. “I don’t know what your father is thinking of, the old goat,” she said. “Taking up with a bimbo, at his age. No wonder his heart attacked him.”

She’s just fishing, Amy told herself. Trying to get a reaction. “Shall I tell him you’re devastated that another obligation will prevent you from attending his wedding?” she asked gently. “Excuse me, I see someone I must speak with.”

She moved through the crowd, nodding and smiling at people she didn’t even see, still shaken by the encounter.

She’d known, of course, that the Sherwoods’ friends would be startled by the divorce and stunned by Gavin’s choice of a new wife. And not only their friends objected, either—on the night of his heart attack, Amy had heard one of Gavin’s nurses mutter something about Honey being so dim she couldn’t spell CPR. But it hadn’t occurred to Amy that so many people would take the matter personally, much less feel they had a right to comment.

That very direct animosity wasn’t going to make her job any easier, Amy reflected. It wasn’t only Gavin’s heart attack that had threatened his business.

She reached the far end of the room and turned back, and her gaze snagged on the Picasso. It was hanging alone on a stark white wall, and nearby stood a woman who looked as much like the figure in the painting as it was possible for a living human to resemble the modernistic form. Her face was all sharp angles and shadows, and the individual features—though not unpleasing—didn’t seem to belong together. As Amy watched, the woman waved a hand casually toward the painting and spoke animatedly to the man standing next to her.

Amy studied the man and, recognizing him, allowed herself to breathe again. He was a bright light of local industry, not an appraiser or art expert or auctioneer, as she’d feared. For the moment at least, the Picasso was still within her reach.

“It’s a very nice painting,” said a man standing next to her. “But you shouldn’t look at it with that covetous expression, Amy. Mrs. Maxwell might object.”

Amy looked up at the editor of Connoisseur’s Choice. “Hi, Brad,” she said, trying not to sound breathless. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Oh, we get invited to all the best parties. It’s one of the perks of working for the magazine.”

“Speaking of the magazine,” Amy began, “I was going to call you tomorrow.”

“Getting anxious? It does seem to have taken the publisher forever to make up his mind. But he finally gave me the go-ahead this afternoon to offer you the job at the salary we discussed. When can you start?”

“That’s the problem, I’m afraid. Until my father’s back on his feet…”

She tried to explain why she was needed so badly at Sherwood Auctions for a while, but the hollow feeling inside her expanded as she watched Brad’s face darken.

“I was hoping to have a new roving expert on board next week,” he said. “Waiting a month or more…I don’t know what the publisher’s going to say, Amy.”

“He’s the one who’s taken three weeks to make up his mind that he wanted me at all,” she argued.

“As far as that goes, Mr. Dougal’s getting old and a bit unpredictable these days. We’ve learned not to expect him to make snap decisions. But when he does make up his mind—”

“But what’s the difference if it’s a little longer before I can start? Almost everyone you hire must have some loose ends to tie up before they can start work.”

Brad swirled the ice cubes which were all that remained of his drink. “I’ll have to run it past him again and let you know.” He turned toward the bar.

“Good,” Amy called after him. “By the time he gets back to you, I’ll be free. In the meantime, you can find me at Sherwood Auctions—working hard so I can get out of there in a hurry.”

With a sigh, she set her own glass on the tray of a passing waiter. The party was already starting to break up, she realized. The Maxwells, it seemed, not only expected their guests to arrive punctually but to depart the same way.

Amy hung back till the crowd thinned, hoping for a chance to have a private word with her hosts. If they were thinking of selling the Picasso…

Now that she’d seen it, she had no doubt of the painting’s value. It was a major work which would bring millions at auction, and the commission for Sherwood Auctions would be a significant chunk of cash.

She multiplied the figures in her head and concluded that this one deal could produce enough money to solve Gavin’s financial crunch in one blow. She wouldn’t even have to wait for the auction to actually be held. As soon as the Maxwells had signed an agreement, Amy could turn all the arrangements over to Dylan and go off to Connoisseur’s Choice with a clear conscience. She’d be happy and Gavin would be ecstatic. Dylan might not be thrilled, but he was certainly capable of carrying out the details.

If only she could pull it off.

Eventually there was a moment when the Maxwells were standing alone by the front door, and Amy seized her chance. “Thank you for letting me come in my father’s place tonight.” She held out her business card. It was part of the outdated supply that she should have thrown away after she resigned from the auction house. It still listed her as an appraiser—but at least the Maxwells would have her name right. “Gavin will be back to work in a few weeks, but he’s asked me to tell you that if you make a decision about the Picasso in the meantime he’s authorized me to act for him in arranging the sale.”

Mrs. Maxwell stared at the business card she was holding as if it had abruptly turned into a cockroach. She suddenly looked even more like the impossible woman of the painting, and her voice had turned to ice. “What are you talking about?”

Rex Maxwell shifted from one foot to the other. “Now, my dear…a mistake…anyone could misunderstand…Gavin must have thought…”

His wife turned on him. “You talked to Gavin Sherwood about selling my Picasso?” The accusation cut sharply across the remaining party conversation.

Rex Maxwell glared at Amy, but his voice was mild, almost pacifying. “The possibility came up,” he admitted. “I didn’t say yes or no.”

He was lying, and Amy knew it. The glare he’d sent her way told her that he and Gavin had seriously discussed the sale—but Rex Maxwell had never consulted his wife about it.

She felt unsteady on her feet, as if the apartment tower had suddenly begun swaying in a high wind.

Now it made sense that Gavin’s note had mentioned only the husband. The only remaining question was whether he had known his friend was working behind his wife’s back. Had he even suspected it, or had he been as innocent as Amy herself?

Not that it mattered now what Gavin might have known, because the cat was most definitely out of the bag.

It was too bad the apartment tower was entirely air-conditioned and the windows were all the tightly sealed sort, Amy thought. Because right now would be a perfect time to throw herself out of one.