The Boss's Daughter

“If the people who have offered you jobs really want you, surely they’ll wait. A few weeks, you said? They’d have to wait that long if they hired someone who had to give notice before leaving a job.”

“The museum would wait,” Amy mused. “And probably the college, too. But the magazine…I don’t think the editor of Connoisseur’s Choice will have much patience, and I can’t blame him. He needs a replacement for his roving expert before long.”

Beth shot her a shrewd look. “So you have made up your mind which job you want.”

Amy frowned. “I guess I have,” she said slowly. “I didn’t even know that I was leaning in that direction, until it was snatched away from me.”

“So you’re going to come back?”

“Do I have a choice? He’s still my father.” There was no need to go into the rest of it, she thought. The Sherwoods’ divorce settlement was not the world’s business.

“Talk to the people at the magazine. You might be surprised.” Beth sealed the box with tape and set it aside. “Or maybe there’s another way. Something you haven’t thought of yet.”

“Like turning myself into twins?” Amy said.

She went on up to the sixth floor, to the corner occupied by the executive offices. The lights were on, but the rooms seemed to be empty. Her father’s personal assistant was nowhere to be seen. Amy hesitated outside the half-open door of Gavin Sherwood’s corner office, remembering what had happened the last time she had come into this room. Her father, with Honey…The scene had scorched itself into her mind, and it still had the power to make her face burn with anger and embarrassment.

Don’t dwell on it, she told herself. It’ll only make the job harder. She gave the door a push and went inside. Two feet into the room, she stopped dead.

Behind her father’s enormous desk sat a man, dark head bent over an open drawer. Even half-hidden as he was by the desk, there was no mistaking the power and fitness of that lean frame. He looked up almost casually as she came in, but as his gaze fell on Amy, she thought she saw his body tighten, as if every muscle was coiling, ready for action.

Was he surprised to see her, then? If he hadn’t been warned, he must be even more startled at her sudden appearance than Robert and Beth had been. After all, neither Robert nor Beth had actually been a witness to that climactic confrontation between Amy and her father, while Dylan Copeland had.

Or perhaps he wasn’t surprised that she’d turned up, but he was bracing himself for what she might do.

Dylan stood up slowly, with a grace which looked effortless. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but the fact that he’d discarded his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt emphasized his powerful build and made her feel very fragile. Or was that just her imagination at work?

Not that she was fantasizing about Dylan Copeland’s body, Amy told herself tartly. Any inclination she might ever have had in that direction had dissipated within a week of his coming to work for Gavin—when it became apparent that Amy amused rather than intrigued him. It was just the uncomfortable position she’d suddenly found herself in that was making her feel so brittle, not some overwhelming masculine appeal of Dylan’s.

“Good morning, Amy,” he said mildly. “It’s a surprise to see you here. Last time you set foot in this office, you told your father you wouldn’t be back until hell froze over.”

“Is that what I said? I didn’t remember, exactly.”

“Not a very original expression, I must say. I was disappointed in you, because even under those circumstances I expected you to come up with something much more striking. But it seemed to make your point adequately.”

“And of course you were listening to every word.”

“I could hardly help it,” Dylan pointed out. “People in west Texas might have had to strain to hear you, but for anyone who was closer than that it was no effort at all. Have a seat and tell me why you’ve come back.” He sat down again.

“You weren’t expecting me?” Amy walked across the room and perched on the corner of the desk closest to him, pushing aside a pre-Columbian statuette that her father used as a paperweight. She’d chosen the position very carefully, so she could look down at him. “I thought perhaps Gavin had phoned to warn you I was on my way, and you’d come in to clear out the personal things that you’d already moved into his desk.”

“I see you still have an imagination. What a nice picture you’ve created of me—the moment I heard your father was tethered to a heart monitor, I made a slick play for his job.” He leaned back in Gavin Sherwood’s chair, appearing completely at ease.

“You’re twisting my words. That’s not what I meant.”

“Wasn’t it?” he said dryly. “So you’re here to take over. And whose idea was that, I wonder. Hasn’t the job hunt been successful?”

He’s just trying to needle you, Amy told herself. And he’s succeeding. “Are you volunteering to advise me about which offer I should accept? Because if that’s the case, I should warn you—”

“That you’d rather flip a coin, I suppose.”

“Coins don’t have enough sides.”

His dark eyebrows arched. “More than two? You are in demand, I see.”

Amy held up a finger. “One, the art museum is considering me for a position as assistant curator in the textiles division.”

“Only an assistant?” Dylan murmured. “I’m disappointed.”

Amy ignored him and put up a second finger. “Two, I’ll probably be asked to join the art faculty at the college.”

“You should hold out for the dean’s job.”

She waggled her hand at him, three fingers extended. “And third, I could be the new roving expert for Connoisseur’s Choice.”

“A stuffy old magazine about antiques and collectibles.” Dylan shrugged. “No wonder you’re coming back here instead.”

“Look,” Amy said. “It’s already apparent that you’ve got a chip on your shoulder about me being here. So let’s get one thing straight. It wasn’t my idea to come back, because I don’t want this job. As far as I’m concerned, Gavin should have turned the whole works over to you till he’s back on his feet. You’ve been his personal assistant for six months now, and if you can’t run this business on your own for a while he ought to fire you.”

“Thank you,” Dylan said.

His tone was meek, but Amy saw a glint in his eyes that she thought must have been anger. But why should she be surprised? Of course he was irritated that Gavin had preferred to trust her—despite her long absence from the business—instead of him. And since Gavin wasn’t around, of course Dylan was taking that irritation out on her.

“At least,” he went on, “I think there may have been a compliment buried somewhere underneath all that.”

Amy wasn’t listening. She had suddenly remembered what Beth had said—Maybe there’s another way.

And maybe she didn’t have to turn herself into twins in order to have it all.

“I’ve got a proposition for you,” she said suddenly.

Dylan looked around the room. “Perhaps there’s something in the ventilating system,” he mused. “Because propositions seem to be part of the atmosphere in this office.”

Amy willed herself not to turn pink. “I’m certainly not talking about Honey’s kind of proposition. Gavin’s got a fixation that I’m the only one who can run this place, which is absurd.”

Dylan didn’t speak, but she thought she saw a gleam of agreement in his eyes.

“But frankly, I have a lot of things I’d rather do. So let’s make a deal. I’ll be enough of a figurehead to keep Gavin happy, but you’ll be the boss in everything but name. You can run the place as you see fit, I’ll go take on my new job, and we’ll both have what we want.”

Dylan was shaking his head.

“Why not?” Amy asked crossly. “If you’re holding out for the title of acting CEO, believe me, I’d give it to you if I could.”

“Titles never appealed to me much. And I’m not fond of being a sacrificial lamb, either.”

Amy gasped. “What on earth—”

“This plan of yours is a pretty nice setup—for you, that is. If I pull it off, you get the credit. But if I don’t, you can tearfully confess to your father that it wasn’t your fault because I was really the one at the helm all along.”

“He’d be furious at me for ignoring his wishes and putting you in charge.”

“Not as angry as he’d be if you screwed things up personally. No, Ms. Sherwood, you’re not dumping this one on me. Because if you try, I’ll hand you my keys—and quit.” He rocked a little farther back in the chair. “So what are we going to do about it?”

CHAPTER TWO

AMY felt as if he’d picked up the pre-Columbian statuette from her father’s desk and hit her over the head with it.

She stared at Dylan, unwilling to believe she’d heard him correctly. But his voice had been firm and absolutely level. He meant exactly what he’d said…or else he was the best poker player Amy had ever run into.

What would happen if she called his bluff? Or at least let him know that she wasn’t entirely convinced he was willing to burn his bridges so completely?

She smiled. “You won’t quit.”

His eyes narrowed, but his tone was cordial. “If you think I’m joking, try me.”

“I don’t believe you’d desert my father while he’s ill—and if you quit on me, it’s just the same as abandoning him.”

Dylan looked at her with a gleam of admiration in his dark-blue eyes. “You’re almost as good a manipulator as Gavin is, you know.”

“Besides, you can’t just walk away from this job. Okay, maybe you’re not charmed by the terms I’m talking about, but that’s perfectly understandable. I’m not delighted with them, either. But—”

“Get one thing through your head, dear. I don’t want your father’s job any more than you do.”

Doubt crept into Amy’s mind. “Don’t call me dear,” she said automatically.

“Why shouldn’t I? If we’re not going to be working together—”

“But you’d be crazy to quit now. You’ve put six months into this job, and by now you must be thinking of how you’d run the business if it was left in your hands. Any red-blooded male would. And this is your opportunity to prove yourself.”

Dylan shrugged. “I don’t happen to have anything to prove.”

“But you can’t quit.”

“Of course I can. Your father hired me, Amy. He didn’t purchase me.”

Amy’s doubts were rapidly being overwhelmed by panic. Even though she’d suggested to Gavin that he could rely completely on his assistant, she hadn’t realized how much she herself had depended on Dylan to be there as a sort of safety net. Even before she’d had the brainstorm of letting him take over entirely, she’d counted on him to lend her a hand, to bring her up to speed after her long absence.

It was bad enough that she was having to take over for her father at all. But it had never occurred to her that she might have to do it entirely by herself.

She’d been prepared for Dylan to resent her being boosted above him on the management ladder. She’d have bet her next paycheck—wherever it might come from—that he was too competitive not to object when he was passed over, especially in favor of a woman who had been gone so long she might as well be an outsider. But even then it had never occurred to her that he might actually quit.

“It never crossed my mind,” she said almost to herself, “that you might not even be ambitious enough to want Gavin’s job.”

Only when she saw his eyes grow chilly did she realize that it might not have been a wise thing to say. Come to that, she reflected, she didn’t entirely believe it even now.

But whatever his reasons were, they didn’t matter at the moment—because she simply couldn’t let him leave. At the same time, she could hardly let him see how desperate she was to have him stay, or he’d be waving a resignation letter at her any time things didn’t go his way.

“What on earth would you do instead?” she asked. “If you quit?”

His eyebrows rose. “I do have a few talents.”

“Of course,” she said hastily. “But—”

“And surely, after your dramatic exit, you’re in no position to tell me that it’s necessary to have a second job lined up before quitting the first one.”

Amy bit her lip. “No, but—”

“Especially when the boss has provoked the resignation.”

“I’m trying not to provoke you!”

“Really? I’m afraid I missed that part. And though it’s kind of you to worry about how I’ll make a living, Amy, it isn’t necessary. You just gave me three good leads. The college, the museum…Now what was the third one? Oh, yes, the magazine about antiques. Roving expert, hmm? That would look nice on my business card.”

“If you think six months in this business makes you an expert—” She saw his eyes turn to ice once more and stopped in midsentence. True as the comment had been, why take the chance of aggravating him even more? “You can’t just walk out of here, you know.”

“If your next move is to tell me that I have to give you a month’s notice, you can hardly hold me to a higher standard than you used for yourself.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “What’s it going to be, Amy?”

“What’s your hurry?” she asked irritably. “What difference does it make to you if I take a while to think about it?” Even though there was really nothing to think about—and it was apparent that Dylan knew it, too.

“Because if I’m going to be free for lunch, I still have time to make a date. So stop dithering and decide.”

Amy sighed and slid off the desk. “Get out of my chair,” she said. “I’ve got work to do.”

Dylan noted with interest that she’d landed with her neat little Italian sandals placed squarely between his outstretched feet, so close that it would be nearly impossible for him to stand up without brushing against her. He considered for a moment whether she could actually have intended to issue an invitation, and concluded that she’d been too annoyed even to think about where she was standing.

Just as well, he thought. The last thing he needed was to get tangled up with his new boss, and he’d better remember it. She’d already made a few uncomfortably shrewd comments. Accidentally, he was sure, but if he’d had any idea just how astute Amy Sherwood could be without even trying, he wouldn’t have left the decision of whether he stayed or left in her hands.

But he had offered her the choice, and he couldn’t back out now without causing the very curiosity he was trying to avoid. So the key was to keep her too busy to think. Too busy to ask questions.

“What’s first?” he asked as he stood up.

Amy turned at the same moment, and his cheek brushed against the dark brown cloud of hair. Obviously, he thought with a flicker of regret, he’d read her correctly, for she leaped back, bumping into the corner of the desk and almost staggering.

He put a hand on her shoulder to keep her from losing her balance. Yes, her hair was as soft as that fleeting touch had suggested. It lay like silk over his fingers.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she snapped, shrugging his hand away.

“Following orders,” Dylan said innocently. “You told me to get out of your chair.”

“I didn’t tell you to hug me.” She sat down with a thump.

“If that’s what you call a hug, it’s no wonder you…” He saw the gold sparks of anger in her eyes and prudently moved around the desk to a safer distance. “Which stack of folders do you want first? Do you want to bring yourself up to date on the auctions that are coming up next, or start with the list of people Gavin was cultivating?”

She looked thoughtful. “You’ve talked to the people he’s been working with, haven’t you?”

“Most of them, I suppose.”

“Then you can tell me much more about them than a bunch of dry notes can.”

She looked very small and fragile, sitting in Gavin’s too-big chair. Dylan told himself this was no time to get a Galahad complex. In fact, his best move would be to keep all the distance possible between him and Amy Sherwood.

But the message didn’t seem to get through from his brain to his tongue. “I’ll get the folders,” he heard himself say, “and we can go through them together.”

The once-neat surface of Gavin Sherwood’s desk looked like a filing cabinet had exploded on it. Untidy stacks of file folders nearly covered the polished teak. Those detailing Gavin’s dealings with prospective clients were piled on the southeast corner, while upcoming auctions occupied the southwest corner. Amy’s head was bent over her father’s desk calendar when Dylan pushed the door open and came in, carrying a large white paper bag.

“Don’t you believe in knocking?” she asked absent-mindedly. “I hope you can read the cryptic codes Gavin uses to keep his schedule straight, because I certainly can’t. He’s got something written on the page for today, but it could be either ‘confer with Rex’ or ‘confirm tickets.’ Or maybe it’s ‘conifer forest.”’

Dylan grinned. “As far as I know, he hasn’t taken up tree-hugging. If it’s for this evening, I expect he meant Rex Maxwell.”

Amy reached for a folder in the pile of prospective clients. “The one who’s thinking of selling his Picasso?”

“That’s the one.” He started to unload small waxed paper boxes from the bag.

Amy pushed the folder aside to make room. “How much do I owe you for lunch?”

“Nothing, but next time it’s your turn to buy.”

Amy glanced at the files stacked on the desk. At this rate, there were going to be plenty of “next times.” She hadn’t even made a dent in the piles.

“The Maxwells are having a cocktail party tonight,” Dylan went on. “The invitation is on my desk because I was just about to phone them with Gavin’s regrets when you came in.”

“You might let them know I’ll be coming instead.”

“I might let them know?” Dylan tipped his head to one side. “This,” he said, pointing to the telephone on her desk, “is an instrument of communication. Do you know why it’s here? Because you pick it up and press the buttons and talk to the person who answers.”

Amy stared at him in disbelief. “What difference does it make if you call the Maxwells about Gavin or about me?”

“You’re not confined to a hospital bed.”

“You mean you don’t make calls for Gavin when he’s here? What kind of personal assistant refuses to use the telephone?”

“One who is not a secretary.” He handed her a pair of chopsticks.

How ridiculous could he be? “You didn’t object to going downstairs to wait for the deliveryman. That’s pretty secretarial.”

“Oh, but that’s different.”

“Why? Because you were hungry?”

“You got it in one try. Congratulations. Anyway, it’ll be your turn tomorrow.”

Amy dipped her chopsticks into a container of sweet and sour chicken. “Take a letter, Mr. Copeland. To whom it may concern—that’s you, of course. This is to inform you that there has been a change in policy concerning the duties of personal assistant—that’s also you—to the acting CEO—that’s me—”

Dylan was still wielding his chopsticks. “Sorry, boss. I don’t do dictation, either. If you’d like to get someone up here from the secretarial pool, call extension seventy-two.”

Amy fixed him with a look. “And how would you know that, if Gavin does all his own telephoning?”

“Because whenever I need typing or photocopies, I call them.”

Of course. “It’s a shame you don’t do shorthand. It wouldn’t be nearly as fun dictating a character reference for you if you’re not enjoying every word along with me.” She set the chicken aside and investigated a container that seemed to hold mostly broccoli. “Gavin made a note on tomorrow’s schedule, too. It’s something about running an errand, I think, but I don’t have any idea what.”

Dylan glanced at the calendar. “Not running an errand. Just running.”

“You mean like jogging? My father doesn’t jog.”

“Maybe he didn’t in his previous life.”

Another thing we have to thank Honey for, Amy thought. I wonder if that’s why he had the heart attack. She kept her voice level. “How often does he do this?”

“Whenever he thinks it’s time to once again nudge Mitchell Harlow into thinking about getting rid of his family’s autograph collection.”

“I should have known it wasn’t for the exercise,” Amy said glumly.

“Mitchell runs through Country Club Plaza every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday morning starting at 6:00 a.m. sharp. Rain or shine, he’s religious about it—and it’s the only time you can rely on catching him. So about once a week Gavin’s been going, too.”

“And this collection of autographs is worth it?”

“Gavin hasn’t actually seen it, but someone who has told him it includes Martin Luther and Catherine the Great.”

Amy sighed. “Then I guess I’m going jogging in the morning.”

“Your father would be proud of you.”

His face was perfectly straight, but Amy was certain she detected a note of suppressed laughter in Dylan’s voice. What she wouldn’t give to make him swallow his amusement…but once she started to think about ways to get even, the answer was obvious. “Of course, I wouldn’t know Mitchell Harlow if I tripped over him, so I’ll need you to come along and introduce me. Six in the morning, you said? Shall I pick you up?” She was pleased to see that his face had tightened just a little.

Dylan began gathering up the debris of their lunch. “No, thanks. I’ll meet you at the fountain.”

“Wait a minute—the Plaza has at least a hundred fountains.”

“The big one. Neptune and the seahorses. I’ll get you the Maxwells’ invitation so you can let them know you’re coming.”

Amy bit her lip to keep from smiling at the resigned note in his voice. That evens things up a little, she thought. And about time, too.

It took Amy all afternoon to make a perceptible dent in the stacks of files Dylan had sorted out for her to look at, and the experience had left her with a new appreciation of the challenges of her father’s job. Then, just as she was congratulating herself for everything she’d accomplished, Dylan appeared with yet another stack.

Amy wanted to groan. “What are those?”

“More prospects that I found lurking on top of a filing cabinet. Gavin must have left them there instead of putting them back.”

“Let me guess. You don’t file, either.”

“Of course I file, but only the things I pull out myself.”

“Good. You’ll know right where to put all these back when I’m finished with them.”

He didn’t comment, but Amy had the feeling he’d like to. Instead, he said, “Perhaps I should warn you that the Maxwells are sticklers for punctuality.”

“I’m on my way right now.” She dug her handbag from the bottom drawer.

“I’ll leave these here on the desk so they’ll be ready when you come in tomorrow.”

“Don’t turn the lights out when you leave,” Amy ordered, “just in case those folders act like coat hangers and multiply in the dark.”

Downstairs, the sales room was still quiet, with no auction scheduled until the weekend. But under the watchful eye of the sales staff, a half-dozen people were studying the furniture displayed in the showrooms, browsing through the catalog and even measuring the pieces.

The waiting room was half-full of people waiting their turn to inspect the merchandise, and at the desk Robert was looking harried. He paused as Amy passed the desk, however, and called her name. When she turned, he stretched out a hand to her.

“I didn’t know when you came in this morning that you were staying, Ms. Sherwood,” he said. “Things have been a little uncertain around here for the past few days, with your father so sick. But now—well, the whole staff is thanking heaven that you’re back where you belong.”

Amy could have sworn his eyes were misty. “I’ll try not to destroy your faith in me,” she said, keeping her voice as light as she could.

She rushed home to change her clothes and found the red light blinking madly on her answering machine. Remembering how the simple act of picking up her messages that morning had fractured her life, she almost ignored this batch. But habit made her push the button anyway, turning the volume up so she could listen from her bedroom while she changed.