The Expectant Secretary

Three

Brody is not the new man in my life!

Jillian didn’t need a man.

Didn’t want one.

Certainly not Brody.

She repeated that mantra throughout the rest of the week, especially when she was in his presence. She refused to let him affect her. Negatively or temptingly as he once had. He did not make her feel things she shouldn’t. He did not make her feel anything at all.

Carrying a tray with a couple of sandwiches, bags of potato chips and ice-cold drinks, she fortified her resolve and, pushing open the door with her hip, backed into his office. Either he was starving or he was expecting company for lunch.

Brody sat at his desk, his leather chair swiveled to face the panoramic view, and spoke in hushed tones into the phone. From her angle she could glimpse his autocratic profile, his sharply slanted nose, his chiseled jaw. As she moved to his desk she fortified herself to ignore the fact that he’d tugged loose his canary-yellow silk tie and unbuttoned the top button of his starched white shirt, allowing a tuft of dark hair to peek out. Earlier in the day he’d discarded his navy jacket and folded his cuffs up to his elbows. Seeing the dusting of black hair over his tanned forearms hadn’t fazed her in the least.

Proving her sister had been wrong in saying Brody was affecting her, Jillian set the tray on his desk, careful to not spill the drinks or knock over the brass picture frame on the desk that held a photograph of a bloodred quarter horse, its shoulders well-muscled, its majestic head turned toward the camera. Probably one of his family’s prized studs.

Not at all interested in Brody’s hobbies, or that of his family, she turned to go. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Brody’s hand signal, motioning for her to wait until he finished his call. Anxious to get back to her desk and the financial report Brody had asked her to generate, to get away from him, she clasped her hands in front of her, shifted from foot to foot and stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the view of San Antonio.

The late summer sky shimmered like a turquoise stone, polished and smooth. Sunlight glimmered off a nearby high-rise. Down below, on Kingston Street, live oaks made shady patches in the park with their wide-stretching branches and jade-colored leaves.

“Why don’t you have dinner with me?” Brody said into the phone, his voice low, appealing.

Jillian’s attention boomeranged back to him. See-sawing a pen between his fingers, making it thump rapidly against his thigh, he elevated her anxiety level several notches. Great, she thought, this was just what she needed. She’d walked in while he was asking a woman out on a date.

Her stomach clenched, roiling with a number of indiscernible emotions. What did she care? And why did she want to hate the woman?

He cradled the phone between his neck and shoulder, leaning forward as if anticipating a positive response from the person on the other end. A sudden memory flash stung Jillian. She remembered dancing with Brody beneath a starlit sky. Slow, erotic music wrapping softly around them, cocooning them, binding them together in her mind. Her cheek rested against his chest. His chin propped on the top of her head, tucking her safely into the curve of his shoulder.

She slammed the brakes on those memories. Her emotions jackknifed, causing a pile-up inside her as longing, despair and irritation crashed into each other. He’d once made her feel cherished, given her the love and security she’d desperately needed. But the truth had twisted her insides into a heap of mangled metal. She’d never forget—or forgive—the humiliation she’d felt when she’d learned that the entire time he’d been dating her he’d also been seeing an old girlfriend.

Angry with herself for looking back, aching for strong arms to wrap around her with heart-stirring tenderness, she straightened her spine. It was a waste of time to yearn for what had once been between them. What had been only an illusion.

Amy was wrong. She didn’t feel anything for Brody. Not anymore.

Proving to herself it didn’t matter whom he dated, or what he did with some woman, she busied herself, rearranging his lunch on the tray, folding then refolding his napkin until the paper resembled a handmade fan. She wasn’t stalling, wasn’t waiting to find out if the woman on the other end of the phone would agree to have dinner with him. She was fixing his lunch.

She tore the paper off a straw and stuck it in his drink, sloshing some of the cola over the side. With each passing moment, her nerves twisted into fine knots. She refused to eavesdrop on his conversation. After all, she didn’t care who the woman was. Or what she looked like. It wasn’t any of her business.

But she couldn’t block out the way he said, “See you then, love.”

Furious at herself for paying attention, for the wave of disappointment that knocked her off her feet and the simmer of electricity that made the fine hairs along the back of her neck stand on end, she gritted her teeth. “Your lunch is ready.”

She slapped a sandwich down on a paper plate in front of him. Barbecue sauce shot out a slit in the paper covering the sandwich and speckled the front of his shirt. She gasped. “Oh, dear!”

He glanced down at his now spotted shirt, his brows slanting into a frown.

“I’m so sorry.” She grabbed a napkin and rounded the desk. She wiped at the mess she’d caused, but the tiny crimson spots smeared. “Oh, no.”

His hand folded around her wrist. Tiny fissures of heat spread along her nerve endings. “It’s all right,” he said, his voice warm, amused, that damn sexy Australian accent reminding her of balmy nights and hot kisses. “Don’t worry about it.”

Embarrassment branded her cheeks. Her skin tingled where he held her. “B-but I’ve ruined your shirt.”

“I’ve survived worse.” Standing, he continued holding her arm, his hand encircling her wrist like a heavy, iron band. His height made her tilt her head back to meet his solid-marble gaze. “No worries.”

His husky tone sent tiny sparks along her spine and electrified her insides. As quickly as he’d grabbed her arm, he released her and stepped away, leaving her unable to take a breath or clear her head.

With his gaze steady on her, his eyes darkening to the color of charcoal, he began to remove his tie, then untucked his shirt, yanking the tails out of his slacks.

Stunned, she swallowed hard. “W-what are you doing?”

“Changing.” Without unbuttoning his shirt, he grabbed the back of the collar and pulled it over his head, turning the fabric inside out and her right along with it.

Blood drained out of her head. Oh, Lord!

With his shirt off, his chest bare, his shoulders were as wide as she remembered. And just as overwhelming. His rugged, outdoor tan had faded with the years, as if he’d been stuck behind a desk too long. But it hadn’t diminished the hard, lean edge of his muscles. Or his effect on her.

She tried to focus…on anything but his hard, chiseled body. She shifted her gaze to the brass frame. Maybe that’s why he kept a picture of a horse on his desk, to remind him of more carefree days, when he had time to ride in the wind, feel the sun on his face, heat on his skin.

What are you doing? Was she trying to analyze this man? She didn’t care why he kept a picture of a horse on his desk. She didn’t care who he talked to on the phone, who he dated, who he kissed. She couldn’t care less about his faded tan or the way his black hair swirled around his nipples.

But she hated the wisps of heat stirring inside her.

“There a problem?” he asked, his voice as rough as her breath was ragged.

“P-problem?” Her gaze shot back to his face.

“I need a shirt,” he prompted. “Grab me an extra, will you?”

She took the shirt he held in his hands and then gave it back to him. What was she doing?

“A clean shirt. I can’t go to my meeting this afternoon with barbecue sauce all over me.”

“Right.” She blinked as if to turn on the ignition in her mind. “You want me to go buy one?”

“Look in the closet.” He nodded toward a far door.

“Right. Closet. Shirt. A clean one.” Turning on her heel, she moved toward the far door and almost fell over one of the suede chairs.

“Careful,” he cautioned, his voice warm and sexy, with a touch of humor that grated on her raw, exposed nerves.

Without glancing back at him, she walked stiffly toward the closet. She gave herself a mental shake. Get a grip, Jillian! Good God, you’re acting as though you’ve never seen a man half-dressed…er, undressed.

She’d certainly seen Brody’s chest before. But it had been years, ten to be exact. Comparing him now to her memory, she remembered his boyish frame with its slim, wiry lines and buffed, tanned skin. Now his muscles looked cut out of stone. A thick mat of dark hair covered his chest, arrowing down toward the waistband of his slacks. His abdomen had the strength and washboard texture of a swimmer’s. He might not lounge in the sun anymore, but he definitely found time to work out.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to erase his image. Grabbing a shirt covered in a cleaner’s plastic bag, she turned and almost bumped into him. Unbalanced, she blamed the swirling sensations on the baby growing inside her. After all, it had been a couple of hours since she’d nibbled on that blueberry bagel. Brody had made it a habit to leave one on her desk each morning.

Hunger. That’s all these feelings were. Pure and simple deprivation.

But what kind? her mind asked. It was definitely physical. But she sensed it was something unrelated to being pregnant. Something hot, sensual. Something related to Brody.

Refusing to look closer at her traitorous emotions, she took a step forward and stubbed the toe of her shoe on the carpet. Before she could fall, Brody reached forward and caught her against his bare chest. The shirt fluttered to the floor. Her hand flattened squarely over his heart. She could feel it pounding, falling far behind the racing of her own. The mat of hair covering his chest was softer than she’d imagined, a provocative contrast to the strength of his muscles, the heat of his skin.

Her gaze collided with Brody’s. Heat sizzled between them, like lightning skittering across a summer sky. His eyes were dark, compelling, pulling her to him, making her remember the warmth of his kiss, the passion in his arms. Staring up at him, his arms locked around her waist, she could no longer run from the truth. She wanted—needed Brody to kiss her.

Shocked at her thoughts, at the desire boiling inside her, she curled her fingers toward her palm and pushed away from him. “Um—” She stumbled toward the door. “I’ll let you get dressed now. I’ll be at my desk. I’ll let you know when your lunch guest arrives.”

He picked the shirt up off the floor and removed the plastic covering and cardboard from beneath the collar. The play of muscles beneath his taut skin mesmerized her. “I’m not expecting anyone.”

“Aren’t you?” She glanced at the extra sandwich, chips and soda on his desk.

He shrugged into the heavily starched shirt then fastened each button methodically. “I ordered the extras for you.”

“But I—”

“Did you have other plans?” His brow compressed into fine lines.

“No, it’s just that…well, I…”

“You don’t eat lunch, either?” He winked, giving her heart a lurch.

A smile tugged at her lips but she resisted. Still, his thoughtfulness touched her. Did he notice everything? “Actually, I am starving.”

“Good. Then have a seat.” He indicated the copper-colored suede chair she’d almost run over earlier then looped his tie around his neck. As he stepped into the private bathroom to tuck in his shirt and use the mirror to adjust his tie, he continued through the open doorway, “I thought we could go over some of those figures while we eat.”

Disappointment shot through her, followed by irritation. What did she expect? What exactly had she wanted from Brody? A date? She could have laughed at the absurdity of that thought. This was business. He was her boss. Nothing more.

“Do you like barbecue?” he asked, returning to his desk fully dressed, his tucked-in shirt accenting his trim waist. He unwrapped the paper-covered sandwich and the tangy aroma filled the room.

“Almost as much as chocolate,” she answered.

He grinned, and she realized she hadn’t seen him smile, really smile, since she’d started working for him. The way the elongated brackets surrounding his mouth creased his cheeks made her toes curl.

“You’re a real Texan, then.”

“Nothing but.” She opened her sandwich and poured an extra amount of sauce over the chopped beef.

“You didn’t grow up in San Antonio,” he said, taking a bite out of his sandwich.

“That’s right. Amarillo.” Sensing his unanswered question, she added, “It’s in the Panhandle. A good ways from here.”

“Were you homesick for Texas?” His pensive gaze made her feel restless inside her own skin. “Is that why you left Winslow so suddenly?”

She almost choked on a bite but washed it down with a deep pull on her soda. Her mind spun. She’d never told Brody why she’d left. Now it seemed too late, too petty, too painful to bring up what should have been forgotten. Even if she’d never gotten over Brody, never forgotten him, never forgiven herself for giving her heart so completely. But she didn’t want him to know how he’d hurt her. Not now. Not when it didn’t matter.

Reverting to the excuse and truth that she’d given the scholarship board for why she’d returned to the States early from her studies in Australia, she answered carefully, “My mother was sick.”

He gave a thoughtful nod. “Your letter said she passed away not long after you returned home.”

“That’s right.” It still gave her a strange, empty feeling that she couldn’t pick up the nearest phone and call her mother. She didn’t think the gaping hole in her heart would ever close from that traumatic loss. The loneliness had been unbearable during her marriage to James, when she’d longed to call her mother for advice. Now a sharp twist constricted her heart. She couldn’t share her pregnancy with her mother, either.

He paused for a moment as if to pay tribute to her long-ago buried mother. When he next spoke, his tone had hardened. “And then you married your old boyfriend.”

“Yes. James.”

His mouth pulled to the side as if he couldn’t make himself say the name. Several moments passed as they each concentrated on their sandwiches. Then he pinned her with a fine-pointed stare. “Has he made you happy, Jillian?”

Startled by the question, by the concern in his voice, her mind spun. Happy? Had James made her happy? Words clogged her throat. Her engagement had made her dying mother happy. The match had pleased James’s folks. She wasn’t sure what James had wanted. Another conquest? A Stepford wife to help him climb the ladder of success?

And her? What had she wanted? Security? Comfort? Escape from memories…and gnawing pains of regret and loneliness. Had it brought her happiness? No. Her marriage had only made things worse.

It was an answer she couldn’t readily admit. Especially to Brody. Her marriage to James had been a mistake from the start. But still the admission tasted bitter.

Instead, she skirted the topic completely with, “James is dead.”

Jillian Hart Tanner. A widow?

That description didn’t compute. Brody’s mind replayed her words over and over, as if trying to make sense of an illogical equation. It seemed simple. But the implications were mind-boggling. Finally the answer clicked and shifted his universe.

She’s not married.

She doesn’t have a husband.

She’s available!

A surge of unreserved, unabashed optimism flooded his soul. His pulse quickened, his blood pumped, hot and fast.

He stared at her, seeing her as he once had, beautiful, intelligent, single. But something in her eyes had changed. Sadness darkened, swirled in those aqua depths like storm clouds. He imagined her tears as she cried for her dead husband. Those tears poured over him, dousing his inappropriate excitement.

You fool, can’t you see she’s hurting? Can’t you be sensitive, instead of thinking of yourself?

Guilt saturated him, made him focus on Jillian. Her pain. Her loss.

“I’m sorry, Jillie.” Not sorry that James was dead. He’d never liked James Tanner. Hell, he hadn’t even met the bloke. But he’d despised him for taking Jillian away…for marrying the only woman he’d ever loved. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s not something I talk much about.”

He nodded. “Doesn’t come up in conversations easily, does it?”

She shook her head and stared down at her hands. Her fingers turned white. He wondered if it was a struggle every day for her to wrestle her composure, to combat the anguish.

Like a slap, the truth hit him, the sting resonating through him, making a part of him he’d thought long dead tremble. She’d chosen James. Not him. No matter how sharp the truth, he couldn’t forget or ignore that fact.

He looked at her from across the desk and read the shadowy pain darkening her eyes. So many questions spun around his mind. How long had she been alone? What had happened to James, a young man of their own age? Too young to die. Too young to leave a beautiful wife.

“When did he…?”

“Two months ago.”

“Hell, Jillie.” Shock brought the words too fast. “What happened?”