Feet First
- -
- 100%
- +
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.
CHAPTER THREE
THE NEXT DAY Jenny’s promotion felt more than ever like a pretend promotion. She fielded calls for Sal, filed and did everything she used to do, plus now she also needed to design.
During the lunch she took at her desk, the phone rang again. She frowned at it and almost didn’t pick up. Mentally grumbling, she answered the phone. “Jenny Prillaman for Sal Amoré.”
“Take the Tarantino job, Jenny. You can do it,” Sal said.
She nearly dropped the phone in shock. “Sal! Where are you?”
“In rehab. I had to sneak this call. I won’t be able to call again. Just do the job.”
“But Marc Waterson thinks I have a degree from a design school.”
“In this case, what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Sometimes upper management doesn’t understand the way an artist creates.”
“But I’m not an artist,” she protested. “I’m a doodler.”
“Don’t diminish your talent. You’re an assistant designer now, Jenny. Do your job. I’ll call you after I get out. Ciao.”
“But they think I’m something different from what I really am,” Jenny said. “Sal, Sal—” The line was dead. She was talking to nobody. Panic raced through her. She really was all alone on this. She would fail or succeed totally on her own efforts.
Self-doubt swelled in her throat. What if she couldn’t pull it off? After all her huffing and puffing and diva pretense, what if she fell flat on her face?
She took a deep breath and looked at the evening shoes she’d drawn during the last couple of hours. It’s not world peace, she told herself. It’s just shoes.
Most workers skedaddled out of the building by 5:30 p.m., so she decided to take advantage of the quiet to doodle some more shoes. Doodling, she’d decided, was less threatening than designing.
Some time later, her stomach growled and she glanced up at the clock, surprised that nearly two hours had passed. Taking a second look at her sketches, she was pleased with her start. Time to go, she thought and debated which takeout she would grab on the way home.
She stepped outside the building’s back door to rain falling in sheets. She hadn’t brought an umbrella, so she would get soaked. Better at the end of the day than at the beginning, she thought philosophically and ran toward her car. She got inside and shook some of the moisture off her, then pushed her key into her ignition and turned it.
A grinding sound followed.
Jenny made a face. Not a good sign. She tried again and was rewarded with the same grinding sound, only weaker. Sighing, she stepped out of the car and walked to the hood. Lifting it, she stared at it, looking for answers.
MARC STEPPED INSIDE his vehicle and pulled down his compact umbrella. He slid it just behind the front seat so he could easily reach it when he arrived home. He’d worked late today due to an out-of-office appointment tomorrow. And because he didn’t want to face an interrogation from Gino over last night’s date. If he evaluated his date strictly by the list he’d created, she should have been perfect.
Marc eased his car out of his assigned space close to the building and headed down the lane. In his peripheral vision, he caught sight of a pair of dim headlights. He glanced to the side and saw a figure standing over a car with the hood open.
Poor fool, he thought. This was what OnStar was for. This was what AAA was for. Rain beat against his windshield and he felt an attack of conscience. The parking lot was deserted except for his car and that one. Grumbling under his breath, he made a hard turn and drove toward the vehicle.
He lowered his window and peered out. “Need me to make a call for you?”
The dark figure turned around and Marc immediately recognized her. Sal’s assistant.
She met his gaze and he watched her eyes widen in an expression that looked like horror. Hell, he thought, he wasn’t that much of a sonovabitch, was he?
“Mr. Waterson,” she said.
“You can call me Marc,” he said, irritated at how she continued to stand there in the rain. “Listen, why don’t you get into my car and we’ll figure out what to do about your car, Ginger.”
She blinked and swiped her hands across her face. “Jenny,” she said, still hesitating. “I’ll get your seat wet.”
“I’ve got towels. Come on.”
She reached inside her vehicle, turned off her lights, then darted to the passenger side of his car and slid inside. She smelled like rain and peppermint and chocolate.
His stomach growled. “What have you been eating?”
“Peppermint patty. I keep a few in my purse for emergencies.”
“But no AAA card?” he asked.
“Doesn’t taste as good. Want one?”
“Yeah, thanks,” he said, accepting the candy. With her hair plastered to her head and her eyes wide behind those weird glasses, she reminded him of a nearly drowned puppy. He reached behind his seat and handed her a towel. “Here. What do you think is wrong with your car?”
She pulled off her jacket and rubbed herself with the towel. “Battery, alternator or starter. Or if I’m really unlucky, all three.” She made a face. “I guess I need to get it towed. I knew I should have renewed my AAA service.”
He noticed a piece of her hair was sticking straight up in front. “I’ll call a towing service. Do you have a garage—”
“Yep, Ron’s Garage on Peachtree.”
Marc made the call for the tow then hung up. “Is Ron’s Garage open this late?”
“No, but there’s a key drop-off,” she said.
“And how will you get home?”
She bit her lip. “Oops. Hadn’t thought of that. There’s bound to be someone I can call.”
“Or not,” Marc said. “I’ll take you.”
She met his gaze for a long moment. “That’s very nice of you.”
There was no artificial flattery in her voice. “You sound surprised.”
“Uh, well.” She cleared her throat. “I thought you would have something else more important to do.” Her eyes widened as if something came to mind. “Don’t you have a date?”
“That was last night. How did you know?”
“I was in your office when you were talking about it on the phone.”
He nodded. He needed to be more careful about discussing his plan in front of other people. Lord help him if everyone at work started talking about it.
“How’d it go?”
Surprised at the question, he looked at her. “Okay. She was pretty, nice, a good listener. High maintenance,” he couldn’t help adding.
“Ah,” she said with a knowing nod. “You’d prefer no maintenance.”
“Low or medium,” he corrected her.
“You should probably start with a dog,” she said.
The suggestion seemed to come out of nowhere. “Why?”
“It would be like training. If you’re not used to maintaining, dogs are very forgiving. They won’t make you sleep on the sofa or freeze you out, but if you ignore them too long, they make themselves known.”
“With a mess on the floor,” he said and shook his head. “I don’t want a puppy.”
“I wouldn’t recommend a puppy for you. Older dog.”
“Are you with some kind of animal shelter group or something?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I was just suggesting a solution for your problem with maintenance.”
“Who said I had a problem?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it as if she were editing herself.
That irritated him. He wanted to know what she’d been about to say.
She dug around in her bag. “Want another peppermint patty?”
“A diversion?” he asked.
“A sweet one,” she said.
He took the candy and narrowed his eyes at her. She was an odd one. Nice skin, he thought, and he could tell since any makeup she may have been wearing would have washed away. Her hair was trying to puff up from the humidity. Her eyelashes were long and black, her eyes true blue behind the red frames of her glasses. He wondered why she wore those glasses.
“Would you please not look at me?”
He felt a frisson of amusement. “Why not?”
“Because this is not how I want the hotshot vice president Marc Waterson to remember me.”
Curious, he studied her. “How is it that you want the hotshot vice president Marc Waterson to remember you?
“Pulled together, a terrific performer, someone you’d want to promote.”
His lips twisted at her lack of pretense. She laid all her stuff on the table. He leaned toward her. “Everyone has an off day every now and then.”
“Maybe,” she conceded. “But you make it look like you never do.”
He was surprised she noticed. “If that was flattery,” he began.
“It wasn’t,” she said before he could finish.
He felt a kick of something in his gut. Her directness unsettled him. He wasn’t sure if he liked it or not. Maybe it was a good thing that she wore glasses. Her eyes looked as if they could burn steel.
“There’s the tow truck,” she said, and he allowed the distraction.
After they followed the tow truck and car to the garage, she put her keys and information in the drop box and gave directions to her apartment.
He heard a little moaning sound at one point.
“What was that?” he asked, slowing.
“Nothing. Just me being silly. Take the next left.”
Marc didn’t like his questions not being answered. He pulled to the side of the road and stopped the car. “What?” he demanded. “You made a sound like a mewling cat.”
She groaned. “Couldn’t you have just ignored it?”
“It was distinctive,” he said, thinking there’d been something oddly sexual about the sound she’d made.
She covered her face. “We passed Chick Fil-A.”
“And?” he prompted, waiting for an explanation.
“Chick Fil-A is my favorite fast-food place.”
“If you’re hungry, why didn’t you just say so?” he asked and made a U-turn.
“Because you really don’t need—”
“Already on my way.”
“You’ve already done too much.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“Yeah, but I bet Chick Fil-A isn’t your favorite.”
How would she know? “Okay, which do you think is my favorite?”
He felt her gaze on her for a long moment. “You’re big on delivered pizza, but if you’re forced to stop for fast food, you go for Arby’s.”
He stared at her as he pulled into the drive-through lane. “How do you know?”
“Just a lucky guess. I get these gut feelings every now and then. I’ll take an eight-piece chicken tender meal with waffle fries and a coke. And Polynesian sauce.”
He repeated the order, and they drove through. He paid and she put money in the center dash. “You’re a little anal about the paying thing, aren’t you?”
“Well, this isn’t a date.”
No it wasn’t, he thought, and wondered why he’d found this evening so much more interesting than last night.
She gave him the rest of the directions to her apartment and he stopped in front of it. “Thank you very much, Mr. Waterson,” she said, her face and tone serious.
“Marc,” he corrected and couldn’t resist the urge to fix the strand of her hair that was awry. She gave a quick little intake of breath, and he glanced at her mouth. Poufy and pink, it looked soft. And kissable.
Hell, where had that thought come from? He pulled back. “You’re welcome. Let me know when you find out what’s wrong with your car. Do you need a ride to work tomorrow?”
She shook her head quickly. “I have a neighbor who won’t mind at all. Thanks, though.” She dug into her purse and placed two peppermint patties in his hand. “Maybe these will hold you until you order your pizza.”
“Or stop by Arby’s,” he said. “You’re welcome.”
“G’night,” she said, and got out of the car. He watched her dash through the rain to the steps and disappear. Spooky woman, he thought. Not that pretty. Blatantly ambitious. He wondered what her body looked like. He didn’t think he’d ever noticed.
THE NEXT EVENING Jenny tossed another couple of spices into the chicken creole she and the Zatarains were making tonight. Stella had already gone home with her mother, so Jenny had decided to treat herself to her favorite boxed dinner.
A knock sounded on the door and she felt her mouth stretch into a half smile despite her bummed mood. Chad again.
He opened the door and gave a wolf whistle. “Look at her. She’s got legs!”
Jenny laughed and rolled her eyes. “What did you think I used for walking? Stilts?”
“You keep them covered up in jeans and slacks so much I’d forgotten,” he said and snatched the spoon from her to take a taste of the creole. “It needs something. Heat. It needs more heat.” He opened her cabinet and grabbed hot pepper seasoning.
“Would you like to join me for dinner?” she asked as he took over the cooking. Chad was a lovable combination of mooch and faithful friend. He never forgot her birthday and he’d brought brownies and sat with her through three viewings of the movie Oklahoma while Jenny had recovered from a disappointing love affair.
“Yes, I would. Charming of you to ask. Do you have any good bread, or are you still on that disgusting South Beach diet?”
“I brought home some fresh sourdough.”
He smiled in approval. “Very good.”
“Paul’s still on graveyard shift?” she asked.
He nodded. “I thought you and I could go out for a bite, but since you’ve already prepared the meal, it would be a shame to waste it.”
Cheapo. “You tried your neighbors first,” she concluded, sinking into a kitchen chair.
Unabashed, he nodded. “Two of them. I would have tried you first if you lived closer.”
“Real hardship to get in your car and drive three miles,” she said.
His eyebrows furrowed together. “You sound like a bitter shrew tonight. What’s your problem? Wasn’t something exciting supposed to happen at work?”
“It did,” she said. “Kinda. I got a promotion and raise.”
“Fantastic! You should be celebrating.” He grinned engagingly. “You should take me out.”
“It’s complicated. There are conditions with the position. It’s mine, but not really mine,” she said, and realized that didn’t make sense. “It’s temporary.”
“So take the money and enjoy the moment.”
“I will, after I pay for the new battery for my car,” she said, and sighed. “It just made me start thinking. Do you realize everything I have isn’t really mine? I keep a great kid after school almost every day, but she’s not mine. I have a new position, but it’s not really mine. I have a friend who takes me salsa dancing, but he’s not my boyfriend.”
Chad looked stricken. “I didn’t know you felt that way about me.”
Jenny rolled her eyes. “I don’t. I’m just venting. My apartment isn’t even really mine. I sublet it.”
“Then get a different one.”
“I like the price and location.”
“Then quit griping.”
“Plus my boss can’t remember my name.”
“I thought you said your boss was a nice guy. Sal Somebody.”
“Different boss. The vice president.” She sighed again. “He’s so hot, and he can’t see me.”
Chad gave her a double take. “Oh, my. Unrequited love?”
“Unrequited lust.”
His eyes widened. “Jenny, I never knew. You always seemed so…so…”
She covered her ears. “If you say sexless, I’ll scream.”
He removed her hands from her ears. “I was going to say shy, inhibited.” He paused. “Don’t you ever get tired of not going after what you want? If this VP is so hot, then why don’t you just bed him and get it over with?” He shrugged. “If your job isn’t really yours, then I don’t see the problem.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you’re saving yourself for Prince Charming. You’re not a virgin, are you?”
She glowered at him and pulled her hands from his. “It’s really none of your business, but no.”
“Must not have been a great experience based on your expression,” he taunted.
“It was more than once,” she said, then stopped herself. She’d made love with two men and neither experience in bed had rocked her world. “Besides, this situation isn’t that easy. This man is going out with a beauty pageant winner.”
Chad’s eyes rounded as he spooned servings of creole and rice onto plates. “A beauty pageant winner,” he echoed. “I wonder what kind of plastic surgery she’s had.”
Jenny laughed despite herself. “Maybe none. Maybe she’s just naturally beautiful.”
“Honey, natural and beautiful rarely go together in the same sentence.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not beauty pageant material.”
Chad took a seat. “Well, not looking like that you aren’t.”
Affronted, she pursed her lips. “What do you mean, not looking like this? This skirt is above my knees and the sweater is fitted. This is office sexy,” she told him.
“If you’re my mother,” he muttered, and took a bite. He immediately fanned his mouth. “Oooh, too hot.”
“You went overboard with the seasoning.”
“Stop fussing and get me some bread.”
Jenny grabbed the fresh loaf from the counter and pinched off a large piece. Chad immediately put the bread in his mouth and chewed it. “Thanks,” he said, and added more rice to the creole. “That’s not office sexy. Your skirt should be shorter, although it doesn’t have to be skintight. I like the idea of one that flips a little as you walk. You need to show more cleavage.”
“I don’t have a lot of cleavage.”
“Then create it.” He shook a piece of bread at her. “If men can create cleavage, then women can, too. And you need to wear sexier shoes.”
“Not if I’m on my feet all day.”
“I thought the objective was to get off your feet and into VP boy’s bed,” he retorted without batting an eye. “And you need to lose the red glasses and do something different with your hair.”
“I like my red glasses,” she said, touching the lenses, comforted by the fact that she’d worn them for six years and successfully irritated the living daylights out of her sister with the glasses.
“They’re not seductive. They’re weird.”
“Well, maybe I’m weird.”
“You don’t need to advertise the fact if you want to bonk VP boy.”
“That’s a crass way of putting it.”
He shot her a sideways glance. “Would you like to be Mrs. VP?”
Jenny felt the back of her neck itch and gave an involuntary shudder. Marc would be a demanding husband. A woman would have to build her world and schedule around his, and since he was type A to the core, he would probably be a pain in the butt to live with. “That would be a nightmare,” she confessed.
“But you find him attractive.”
Ohhhhh, yeah. She nodded. “Everything that makes him unappealing as a husband makes him irresistible as a lover. He’s got this whole power thing going on and he’s got a great body. His lips are sort of full, but a little hard at the same time. He’s intense in a passionate kind of way. It makes you wonder how he would be if he cut loose and—” She broke off and cleared her throat, self-conscious.
Chad studied her for a long moment. “I’ve never seen your hormones in full throttle before. Pity,” he added. “This could be fun, but I don’t think you’re enough of a risk taker.” He patted her hand. “I’ll get you a good vibrator for Christmas.”
SO THE FOLLOWING DAY Jenny bought a new pair of heels, Bellagio, of course. Even with her employee discount, she flinched at the cost. The weekend after her shoe purchase, she brooded over Chad’s advice. Her fantasies about Marc Waterson had always seemed like harmless fun until now. She’d never spoken to him except over the phone. The man couldn’t even remember her name. Was she really such a wuss that she wouldn’t go after him? It wasn’t as if she wanted to marry him. She just wanted to borrow him. She just wanted his undivided attention and lust for once. She was twenty-six. Wasn’t she due at least one hot affair in her life? This was starting to feel way overdue.
She lunched and shopped with her friend Liz at Lennox Mall. Liz had been a cocktail waitress at the same club where Jenny worked, but Liz had parlayed the job into an introduction, affair, engagement and marriage to a very wealthy older man named Frank Colburn.
“And then I told him I wasn’t ready to be a golf widow at age twenty-five.”
“So where are you going next?” Jenny asked, because she’d heard a similar story from Liz before.
Liz smiled. “The French Riviera. I’ve always wanted to go. After this trip, I can either mark it off my list or add it to my revisit list.”
Liz was big on lists. “What about your degree?”
Liz was blond and cute with big blue eyes that worked like calculators and big boobs that made men forget their names. “I’m working on that, too. Two classes this fall. I have no idea how long this will last with Frank. Marrying him was like winning the lottery.”