The Bedroom Business. Sandra Marton
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he wondered what effect Emily’s perfect stance had on her figure. Did it tilt her breasts forward? He couldn’t tell; summer and winter, she always wore suits. Tweed, for the most part, like this one. Brown tweed, to match her brown hair, with the jacket closed so that her figure was pretty much a mystery. For all he knew, her breasts were the size of Ping-Pong balls. Or casaba melons. Who knew? Who cared? Not him. Yes, it was a definite pleasure to work with a woman who was both efficient and unattractive.
“I mean it,” he said. “You’re the best P.A. I’ve ever had.”
Emily cleared her throat. “In that case, sir…”
“Yes?” Jake grinned. Evidently, the raise he’d just given her wasn’t enough. That surprised him a little; Emily was never pushy but if she thought she deserved more money, she could have it. “Give yourself two hundred more a week. Is that better?”
A light blush suffused her cheeks. “One hundred is fine, Mr. McBride.” She stepped back, her chin lifted, her eyes on his. “But I would much prefer to be called your E.A. instead of your P.A.”
“Huh?”
“Your executive assistant, instead of your personal assistant. It’s a more accurate description of my duties.”
“My exec,” Jake mused. “Well, sure. You want to be called my E.A., that’s fine.”
“Thank you again, sir.”
‘‘You’re welcome.” Jake smiled. “Just as long as you assure me you aren’t changing your title to make your résumé look better.”
“Sir?”
“You’re not thinking of going job-hunting, are you?”
Emily looked horrified. “Certainly not, sir. I merely want an appropriate title.”
Well, well, well. His little sparrow had an ego. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all.
“And you deserve it.”
Oh, the sickly-sweet benevolence in his tone. Emily smiled, not an easy thing to do when what she felt like doing was throwing up on Jake McBride’s shiny black shoes. The egotistical goon. If only she could tell him what she thought of him. But she couldn’t. Jobs as good as this one were impossible to find. She had lots of responsibility; the pay was excellent; and, she supposed, as men went, McBride was easy enough to work for. She just wondered if he had any idea, any actual idea, of how invaluable she was to him. Of what a mess he’d be in, without her.
Why wonder? She knew that he didn’t. He was as dense as every other man she’d ever known, as foolishly arrogant as the endless succession of idiots who’d trooped through the house when she was growing up, every last one of them thinking he knew what he was doing and why he was doing it when, in reality, her gorgeous sisters had been leading the jerks around by their…hormones.
Jake McBride was just like those silly stud puppies. He might be rich, he might be handsome—assuming you liked the type, which she certainly didn’t—but he was as much a victim of his hormones as the tongue-tied idiots who’d filled her sisters’ teenaged lives.
His problems with the latest twit was proof of that.
McBride had broken things off. No surprise there. Emily had sensed it coming, long before he had. And, she had to admit, he’d done it with his usual flair. Roses. A little bracelet from Tiffany’s that she knew—after all, she’d placed the order—set him back six thousand dollars. But the brunette with the ditzy name wouldn’t, couldn’t, accept The End. She sent gifts. Notes. She phoned. She’d even taken to dropping by the office.
I’m here to see Jake, she’d whisper, in a voice Marilyn Monroe would have envied.
And Emily would pick up the phone, tell her boss that Miss Carole was here. And McBride would say, oh Lord, just get rid of her, please, Emily.
Emily almost felt sorry for the woman. She certainly didn’t feel sorry for Jake. As if she had nothing better to do than clean up after his messes. Bad enough she’d cleaned up after messes that involved her sisters.
Em, are you sure Billy hasn’t called? Or, Em, I’m so unhappy. Jimmy’s dating another girl. And then, after they both got married, she’d been expected to soothe them through their other disasters. Em, I think Billy’s fooling around. Em, Jimmy just doesn’t love me the way he used to…
They hadn’t learned anything, either, not even after marriages and divorces and affairs…
Ridiculous, the way women set out to snare men and ended up in the trap, themselves.
That had never been what she wanted out of life. A man? A lot of embarrassing slobbering to be endured and then, maybe, a wedding ring and promises of forever-after that wouldn’t even last as long as it took a slice of good-luck wedding cake to go stale, and for what?
For companionship, Emily. For those long winter nights when you think you’ll die if you have to curl up with another book…
Emily bit her lip.
Okay. So, maybe she wasn’t getting any younger. Maybe it might be nice to know what it was like to go on an occasional date. To have some man send her flowers, the way McBride—correction. The way she sent flowers, to his women. It might even be nice to get to see all those elegant New York restaurants from the inside, instead of just telephoning to make reservations for her boss and his latest interest.
What would such an evening be like? To have a man smile across the table at you, have him pick up your hand and bring it to his lips? Even if she really wanted to find out, where would she find a date? Lately, she’d started reading through the Personals in the back of GOTHAM magazine. Just for laughs, of course. She couldn’t imagine ever bringing herself to answer an ad. Or running one. What would she say?
Average-looking mouse searching for gorgeous, sexy, exciting man but will settle for plain, nonsexy, unexciting, av-erage-looking rat…
No. That wouldn’t do at all. Then again, neither would the truth.
Average-looking female interested in average-looking male. Object: to find out what a date is like because said female hasn’t had one in forever. In fact, not since the night of her senior prom, when one of her beautiful sisters conned a would-be boyfriend into being said female’s date and everybody knew it and laughed…
“Emily?”
Okay. That was it. She would run an ad. After all, she wasn’t eighteen anymore. She wasn’t Serena and Angela Taylor’s poor little sister, the one with all the brains and none of the looks. She wasn’t one of Jake McBride’s women, either, with the kind of face and figure men dreamed of, but she could still manage to find herself a date—
“Emily? Are you okay?”
A large, warm hand settled on her shoulder. Emily blinked, focused her eyes on her boss. He was standing a breath away from her, staring at her with a little furrow just between his eyes. And what eyes they were. Dark. Deep. So deep…
“Are you all right? For a minute there, you seemed to drift away.”
“I’m fine,” she said briskly. “Just, uh, just a cold coming on, perhaps.”
His hand slid to her elbow. “Go home,” he said gently, as he propelled her towards the door. “Take a nice hot bath. Make yourself some tea.”
“Honestly, Mr. McBride…”
“Do it,” he said, with a polite, teasing smile, “or I’ll take you home and do it for you.”
An image swam into her head. McBride, in her tiny apartment, so big and masculine against her chintz-covered furniture. McBride, smiling down at her, his hands warm and gentle as he unbuttoned her tweed jacket, unbuttoned her silk blouse. Or, perhaps, his hands not so gentle. Hard, in fact. Rough, maybe, as he ripped the blouse from her and took her into his arms…
Color flooded her face as she stepped