Feet First. Leanne Banks
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“It’s stupid,” Jenny said, shaking her head. Stupid, but she couldn’t stop thinking about it.
“Does it involve man, money or job?”
“All three in a way,” Jenny said.
Liz’s eyes rounded. “Oh, my. Spill it.”
“There’s nothing to spill. I got a promotion to work on a special project which means more money, for a while. But the project will go away in a few months, so the promotion may really be temporary. One of the problems is the VP thinks I have a degree and I don’t.”
“And the angel side of you is hurting,” Liz said with a nod. “Frank has told me about this kind of thing, and you know he’s a very experienced entrepreneur. It’s the fake-it-till-you-make-it principle. I hear they even teach it at the community college, so get over yourself. You’ve been given an opportunity. Make the most of it. Where does the man come in?”
“The man is a VP at the company where I work.”
“Oh, really,” Liz said. “And have you—”
Jenny shook her head. “No. He doesn’t even know my name.”
Liz frowned. “I don’t understand. Do you want to get him to give you a permanent promotion or do you want to get him—” she shrugged “—naked?”
“Both, except I’m ninety-nine percent sure there’s no way I can get a permanent promotion.” She thought about her résumé that Sal had doctored and felt her stomach tighten. With her luck, there was no way the truth wouldn’t come out about that sometime. She would just ride this wave until it crashed.
“Okay, so you want the VP to marry you? I bet he’s loaded,” she said with approval.
“No. I don’t want to marry him. I just want to—” Her throat closed up and she lowered her voice. “Have him once, or maybe twice.”
“Omigod, is he that hot?”
“Yes,” Jenny said in a crisp voice.
“Is he married? Engaged?”
Jenny shook her head.
“Well this is so easy. You just seduce him and—” She broke off and sighed. “Easy for everyone but you. Okay, the first thing you must do is give yourself permission to have VP stud. Second step, give yourself permission to go after him. You’re an adult. He’s an adult. This will all be done by choice.”
This actually sounded somewhat logical. “So he can be my one hot lover.”
Liz blinked. “One?”
“I think that every woman should have one hot love affair, don’t you?”
“I think we can and should have more,” Liz said. “And if you include celebrity crushes, my list is a mile long and I probably started working on it when I was three years old and my babysitter introduced me to Huey Lewis. I went on to The Backstreet Boys and Rob Thomas. Collin Farrell’s the current fave. But it all started with Huey.”
Jenny laughed in agreement. “My older sister was crazy about Huey. I guess she made me have a crush on him, too.”
“See? There you go. But back to your—” she cleared her throat “—one hot love affair, since your conscience will only allow you one. VP stud will be the hot love affair you remember with a naughty smile even when you’re eighty. Put it on your list.”
CHAPTER FOUR
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