The Bedroom Business. Sandra Marton
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she hid in the folds of her tweed skirt. “But I am not your property. You may assume I have no life away from this office, but that does not give you the right to—”
“Emily,” Jake said unhappily, “please—”
“Emily.” Pete’s voice was soft. Smarmy, Jake thought. Gentle, Emily thought, and looked at him. “Emily,” Pete said again, and smiled, “I’m sorry we have to meet under such difficult circumstances.”
“You two were talking about me,” she said stiffly.
Pete walked towards her. “We were, yes. I was telling Jake—Mr. McBride—that I’d just passed you in the hall.”
Jake made a choked sound. “You mean, the woman you were talking about really was—”
“And that I wanted to meet you,” Pete went on, as if Jake hadn’t spoken. He held out his hand. “My name is Pete Archer.”
Emily ignored his outstretched hand. “Why did you want to meet me?”
“Because I’d like to take you to dinner.”
“Nonsense.” Jake’s voice was too loud, too sharp. He knew it but hell, this was his office and his exec. What right did Archer have to…“She can’t go with you,” he said, as he stalked towards the two of them. “She doesn’t want to go with you. She—”
“I’d be delighted,” Emily said firmly.
“Emily, don’t be a fool. Pete’s not really interested in…” Jake bit his lip. If looks could kill, the one she’d just given him would have left him stone-cold and on the way to the mortuary. “For heaven’s sake, where’s your common sense? You, and this man…?”
She shot him a look more vicious than the first, and then she swung towards Pete.
“Shall we go, Mr. Archer?”
“Archer,” Jake roared, “you son of a—”
“The lady’s made her decision, Jake.”
“I have, indeed. You pay my salary, Mr. McBride, but you do not own me. I do as I wish after office hours. If I want to go out on a date, I will.” Her eyes narrowed. “Unless you’d rather I tendered my resignation…?”
Emily waited. Pete did, too. And Jake, totally helpless for the first time in his adult life, could do nothing except stand in the center of his office and watch his former friend and his little brown sparrow flutter her wings as she headed for a night on the town.
CHAPTER TWO
THE city awoke to snow the next morning.
Heavy wet flakes drifted down from the skies.
Fine, Jake thought. Let the sky turn to lead, for all he cared. He was in a mood almost as foul as the weather. Snow that would soon turn to gray slush was just about right this morning.
The doorman greeted him cheerfully. Jake muttered a response, waved off his offer of a taxi. Traffic in Manhattan always verged on gridlock; it would be even worse in weather like this. Besides, walking to work might be a good idea. He figured that the cold air, a brisk pace as he headed crosstown, would improve his mood.
It didn’t.
Some bozo trying to get his truck through a blocked intersection sent a spray of wet, dirty snow flying onto the sidewalk and over Jake’s shoes; a guy on Rollerblades—Rollerblades, on a day like this—damned near rode him down.
By the time he reached Rockefeller Center, Jake’s mood had gone from glum to grim. He gave a cursory look around as he strode into the building but he knew Brandi would be a no-show on a day like this. Not even her sudden determination to keep their affair alive would stand up to the possibility that her hair or makeup might get damaged. It was an unkind thought but, dammit, he was in an unkind frame of mind.
That was what staying awake half the night did to a man. Left him ill-tempered and mean-natured, especially when there was no good reason for him to have spent more time pacing the floors than sleeping.
It had to be the caffeine, Jake thought, as he stepped from the elevator onto the pale gray marble floor and walked to his office. The health food pundits made him edgy, with all their doomsaying. He liked coffee, and steak, and if he’d ever accidentally consumed a bite of tofu in his life, he didn’t want to know it.
Still, what else could have kept him up until almost dawn, if it wasn’t caffeine? Or maybe that Chinese takeout he’d picked up for supper had done him in. Not that he’d eaten much of it. Jake frowned as he reached his office. A hell of a night he’d put in, not eating, not sleeping…
The kid who delivered the mail came skidding around the corner.
“Morning, Mr. McBride,” he said cheerfully. “Here’s your mail.”
Jake, in no mood for cheerful banter or a stack of mail, scowled at the kid.
“What’s the matter?” he growled. “Don’t you deliver it anymore?”
“I am delivering it. See?” The kid shoved an armload of stuff at Jake, who took it grudgingly.
“This goes to my P.A., not to me.”
“Your what?”
“My P.A. My E.A….” Jake’s scowl deepened. “My secretary,” he said. “You’re supposed to hand her the mail.”
“Oh. Emily.”
For reasons unknown, Jake felt his hackles rise. “Her name,” he said coldly, “is Miss Taylor.”
“Uh-huh. Emily, like I said.” The kid grinned. “Nice lady. Pretty eyes.”
What was this? Did every male who walked in the door have to make an appraisal of Emily? What about her eyes? She had two of them. So what? Most people did.
“I always hand the mail right to her. But the door’s locked. It looks like nobody’s home.”
Jake’s scowl turned to a look of disbelief. He shot back the cuffs of his Burberry and his suit jacket, checked his watch and looked at the kid.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course someone is home.” He grabbed the doorknob. “It’s after nine. Miss Taylor’s always at her desk by—”
The knob didn’t move. The kid was right. The door was locked.
Jake’s mood, already in the cellar, began digging its way towards China. He shifted the armload of envelopes and magazines, dug out his keys and let himself into his office.
“If Emily is sick or something,” the kid said, “when you talk to her, tell her that Tommy sends—”
Jake slammed the door, stalked across the office and dumped the mail on Emily’s desk. It was, as always, neat as a pin. Even when she was seated behind it, not so much as a paper clip was ever out of place. Still, he could tell she wasn’t there. Her computer monitor stared at him with a cold black eye. The office lights were off, too, and there was no wonderful aroma of fresh coffee in the air.
E.A. or not, Emily had no feminist compunction against making coffee every morning.
Jake turned on the lights, marched into his private office, peeled off his wet coat and dumped it on the back of his chair.
Sick? Emily?
“Ha,” he said.
She hadn’t been sick a day since she’d come to work for him. Yeah, she’d said she felt as if she were coming down with a cold yesterday afternoon but it couldn’t have been much of a cold because not an hour later, she’d leaped at Archer’s invitation to dinner like a trout going after a fly.
“Sick,” Jake muttered.
Sleeping off her big night out, was more like it. Who knew where Archer had taken her for dinner, or what