Emmy And The Boss

She must have lost her mind—she had lost her mind—but she’d really liked the way he’d looked at her.

“He has a girlfriend.”

Emmy wiped the dreamy smile off her face, adding way too observant to Stella’s list of character traits, and crazy to her own.

She had no business thinking about Nick like that when she was still dealing with the aftermath of Roger—Okay, she allowed, that was a bit of an overstatement. She hadn’t thought of Roger more than once or twice in the last couple of days, and she couldn’t say she was all that broken up. It was more of an irritation, actually. Her real problem was the wedding guests. She didn’t know what to tell them. She’d thought about that a lot—until it occurred to her that almost all of them were from Roger’s side, and he could deal with his own friends and relatives.

That harmless bit of retribution felt so good she’d decided to take it another step, namely the wedding itself. She’d made all the arrangements for the ceremony and reception, and since Roger was the one who’d backed out, and the deposit checks had been written against his bank account anyway, he could unarrange it all. And since she was going to dump that unpleasant task on him, the truth was Roger didn’t really leave much of an aftermath.

But she had learned something from him. Stay away from men. She could barely form lasting friendships with women. What made her think she could have an actual long-term relationship with a man? Men were a whole other species.

Not that it was going to be an issue, because she’d already decided to keep her interaction with Nick Porter on a strictly business level. Polite but firm, that was the ticket. Cool and competent and professional. And the next time he looked at her like she was the only woman in the world, or smiled at her like she was the fulfillment of all his fantasies, she was going to tell him—

Nick walked through one of the two doorways beyond Stella’s desk, stopped in front of Emmy, and looked at her with that unnerving intensity. She couldn’t have finished her thought with paste-on letters and explicit instructions.

“Good, you’re here,” he said, and when she simply sat there, he gathered her papers and briefcase, took her by the elbow, and ushered her through the other door behind Stella’s desk. It led to his office, and he talked the whole way. “Tripod went missing this morning. He’s my next-door neighbor’s dog and he only has three legs—the dog, I mean. My neighbor has the usual two.”

He paused expectantly, but Emmy was speechless, and it had nothing to do with the combined leg count of Nick’s neighbor and his dog. She’d forgotten how darned handsome he was. And how warm she felt when he smiled at her.

“Anyway,” he continued, “by the time Tripod turned up I was blocked in because the Martins across the street were getting new dining-room furniture, and I didn’t have the heart to make them move the truck. They’ve been waiting forever for that furniture, so I figured it would be faster to help them unload it instead. And then I had to take another shower.”

And the truly amazing part, at least to Emmy’s mind, was that Nick knew the names of all his neighbors, and their pets and their furniture-buying habits. Nor was it confined to his neighbors.

“When I finally got here I realized Marty Henshaw was late—probably trouble with his car again—so line one was down, and I filled in for a half hour.” He sniffed at his armpit. “Do you think I need another shower?”

“No, you smell pretty…” she said before she could stop herself. “Uh, you’re fine.”

“Pretty fine,” Nick said. “I’ll take that.”

Okay, don’t look at him, Emmy lectured herself. Eye contact with Nick Porter wasn’t in her best interest. Concentrating on work was. “This person who was late—”

“Marty Henshaw. Gosh you look pretty this morning.”

Emmy tried to hold it together, but a sigh slipped out. This situation called for drastic action. She took a sheet of paper from her briefcase and handed it to him. “This is a basic questionnaire, Mr. Porter—”

“Nick.” He brushed a curl off her forehead, his finger grazing her skin.

She began to tremble. And panic. “We have to get a couple of things straight. I’m here to do a job. There’ll be no more compliments and no more touching. And no more smiling.”

He wiped the smile off his face, but the corners of his mouth twitched suspiciously. Emmy got the distinct impression he wasn’t taking her seriously.

“How about after hours?” he asked. “Can I smile then?”

“After hours you can smile at anybody you want. But it won’t be me.”

That did it. The smile was gone completely. Emmy missed it. “I’m sorry, that was rude.”

His eyes began to warm up.

“But I meant it,” she said. “We have to keep business and…”

“Pleasure separate? No problem.”

“No pleasure,” she said firmly, adding watch my words to her mental list of rules governing how to deal with Nick Porter. “There’s only going to be business.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have. I don’t want to get involved in anything personal, and since my reasons are, well, personal,” not to mention confusing, even to her, “I’m not getting into them.”

“It’s Roger, isn’t it?”

No. Definitely not Roger. But if she said that, Nick would want to know the real reason. Emmy didn’t know the real reason, but she knew there was fear involved. A lot of fear. And if something about Nick Porter scared her that much, it could only be in her best interest to keep her distance. “I’m madly in love with Roger, and he broke my heart,” she said. “It wouldn’t be fair to get involved with anyone else.”

“Nope. That’s not it.”

“Yes, it is.”

“You only think it’s because of Roger, but really it’s because of me.”

“Because of you?”

“I’m irresistible.”

Emmy knew it would only encourage him, but she couldn’t help laughing.

“It’s true,” he insisted. “Look at me.”

He spread his hands and she followed directions. It wasn’t eye contact, but it wasn’t any less dangerous. He was attractive, no doubt about it, and he was tall which, being tall herself, Emmy considered a definite plus. And he obviously kept in shape; he wasn’t exactly dressed for the executive suite, but if he looked that good in Dockers, he’d be killer in a suit. And she’d be dead meat.

But it wasn’t just his face and body. Nick Porter had that thing, that indefinable quality that made actors movie stars and pretty girls supermodels. You just wanted to be around him, Emmy concluded, and talk to him and look at him. It didn’t make any sense, but that was why they called it the X-factor. There weren’t any words descriptive enough to give it an actual name.

“I’m entertaining, too,” he said, taking her long perusal and the resulting silence as agreement. “I’m funny and dependable—”

“No, you’re not. We’ve only met twice and you’ve been late both times.”

“You’re right, I just said that because I thought it would appeal to an efficiency expert. But punctuality is highly overrated. There’s more to life than work.”

“I know.” She just didn’t like any of the other parts. “But work is what we’re supposed to be doing right now. Besides, you have a girlfriend, and I doubt she’d appreciate your efforts to appeal to me.”

“Let me guess, Stella told you that. She thinks every woman I meet is after my money.”

“You don’t have any money. Your business is in debt.”

“I know. That’s why you’re here. Who would’ve thought being broke would turn into such an advantage? Although I have to admit I’m not actually broke. I have a trust fund.”

“So women are after your money.”

“Sometimes. But the important thing is you’re not, and since I’m not currently dating anyone except you—”

“We’re not dating.”

“Yet. We will be. Eventually I’ll wear you down, and before you know it you’ll be introducing me to your parents. Once I meet your mom you’re toast. Moms love me.”

Emmy didn’t say anything, but she made sure her expression was blank. She didn’t exactly dwell on her childhood, or the foster homes, but she didn’t have any trouble with the memories, either. Her parents—her mother especially—was the one area of her past she couldn’t bear to think about. It hurt too much.

“I said something wrong.”

“My parents are dead.” It looked as though he might reach for her, so Emmy eased away from him. “It happened a long time ago. I barely remember them, and it’s personal. I’m here to talk about your business. Do you want to save it?”

For a minute she didn’t think he was going to respect her boundaries—or agree with her. But then he nodded and she was able to relax. As much, she figured, as she’d ever be able to relax around Nick.

“Good, then let’s get started.”

Chapter Three

Emmy spent the rest of the day observing Nick’s employees. Nick spent the rest of the day observing Emmy. The employees didn’t care much for being observed. Emmy was oblivious to everything but work. Nick had the time of his life.

She was so cute with her clipboard and stopwatch, brow furrowed in concentration, tucking her flyaway blond hair behind her ear every other minute. That hair gave him real hope where she was concerned. If she’d been as no-nonsense as she claimed to be, she’d have tamed her hair back into some kind of ugly, efficient bun. Nick couldn’t think of anything worse than that, so it was a relief that she was still wandering around with a head full of wild Shirley Temple curls.

And she was surprisingly good with people—or she would have been if she’d let them in. She asked questions, and she listened so intently to the answers that whoever she was speaking with couldn’t help but be flattered despite themselves. But every time talk strayed to the personal, she shut down, the person on the other side of the conversation backed off, and Emmy moved on to the next work station, personal involvement rolling off her as though she walked around in a Teflon isolation bubble. She’d done the same thing when he mentioned her mother, Nick remembered, only the bubble hadn’t been made of Teflon, it had been made of sadness.

Well, he was just the guy to burst her bubble—and where the heck had that thought come from? Nick wondered. Being attracted to her was one thing, anything else was moving way too fast, and Nick made it a point never to move too fast.

Yet there was something about Emmy Jones. Part of it was knowing she’d lost her parents at a young age. Nick could sympathize; his mother had died before he was twelve years old, and he remembered that time with perfectly awful clarity. There was something more drawing him to Emmy, though, a level of curiosity and fascination that pushed him beyond his normal take-it-as-it-comes approach to romance. He was so anxious to see her that he was actually on time the next morning, waiting in the parking lot for her. Emmy was late.

“There you are,” he said when she finally pulled up and was climbing out of her car. “I guess I can call off the St. Bernards.”

“Are those the dogs that carry little kegs around their necks? Because I could use a drink about now.”

And he could use a cold shower. She reached into the front seat to gather her purse and briefcase, her skirt hiked up high enough to show about a mile of leg, and Nick could practically feel brain cells dying from lack of oxygen. Fortunately he didn’t care because most of his attention was focused way south of his brain.

“Considering how my day started, it’s probably best if I don’t remember any of it,” she mumbled from the car’s interior.

She straightened, but Nick’s brain was slow to keep up. “There are other ways to forget.”

“I’ve tried ice cream already.”

“For breakfast?”

“Trust me, this was the kind of unforeseen event that called for drastic measures. But Roger is too much for even triple chocolate fudge to banish.”

Nick tore his eyes off her legs and checked back in to the conversation. “Roger, as in the guy who dumped you? What did he want?”

She walked around him and headed for the building. “He wanted to get his things.”

“And you couldn’t tear yourself away?”

“I had to stick around and guard my furniture. It turns out Roger has a pretty inventive memory when it comes to what he brought with him when he moved in.”

“I could talk to him for you.” Or punch him.

She took in the expression on his face and the curl to his fingers. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you and Roger to interact.”

“Funny, I’m having the same thought where you’re concerned.”

Emmy rolled her eyes. Nick would have been insulted if she didn’t look so adorable doing it.

“Here’s the report I wrote up last night,” she said, “some preliminary observations about the way your business runs, and some areas we can study for possible efficiency improvements.”

Nick took the neat manila folder she handed him and completely ignored it. There was some serious heat jumping around inside him, and he had two choices, punch Roger or kiss Emmy. He took one look and decided punching Roger wasn’t going to cool him off. Kissing Emmy wasn’t going to cool him off, either, but at least he wouldn’t hurt his hand.

For the moment, though, she was only interested in work so he had to humor her. And control himself.

She didn’t make it easy.

When they got to Nick’s office, Emmy took the file folder from him and set it on the desk. “Point one. Starting and quitting times have to be enforced,” she read, still standing so Nick had no choice but to follow along over her shoulder. He stood as close as he thought he could get away with, but not so close that his brain checked out. “Do you think that’s realistic?”

She brushed the back of her neck where his breath had washed over her skin, then she moved away. Nick let her because he’d seen the list. It was long. Plenty of time and opportunity to be close to her.

“Every other company in the world seems to find it perfectly acceptable to ask their employees to come in at a specific time,” she said.

“I’ve known most of these people since I was a kid. They’re more like aunts and uncles and cousins than employees.”

“Okay, but if you go out of business all your relatives will wind up in the unemployment line.”

“You’ve got a point.” And since her suggestion was basically harmless, it wouldn’t hurt to play along. “I guess I could talk to them about getting to work on time. But people have problems. School buses are late, babysitters are sick, exfiancés come back to steal furniture.”

For a second Nick thought she was going to smile. She pressed her lips together and tapped the paper instead. That was an invitation if ever he’d seen one, so he moved in behind her again.

“Point two,” he read. “Cross-training.” Cross-training was a pretty self-explanatory concept, but Nick let her talk so he could watch her.

“You should make sure your employees are trained on each other’s jobs,” she said. “That way if someone is late or sick, another employee can fill in, and you can rotate the employees to keep the line running. You won’t get full production, but you won’t be dead in the water either.”

She kept talking. Nick nodded and made understanding noises so it seemed like he was following along, but he’d given up listening for watching. Efficiency was a necessary evil for him, but he loved the way Emmy’s eyes lit up when she got into the subject. And she was really getting into it, moving around, gesturing, pushing her hair off her face. He loved it when she did that. And he loved the trim little suit she was wearing. He loved it that she was tall and passionate. All her passion was channeled into her work, but he could expand on that.

“Point seven,” she said, “find a way to get Nick to concentrate on business while he still owns one.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, nodding and smiling. She came over to stand in front of him and he just naturally stood a bit straighter. Okay, so he liked her tallness, as long as he was taller. He was old-fashioned about that sort of thing.

“You’re not listening to me,” she said.

“Yes, I am.”

“Tell me what I just said.”

Nick racked his brain for all of two seconds and then he grinned. “You said you’d love to go out to dinner with me tonight.”

“I don’t have time for dinner.”

“You’re an efficiency expert. Don’t you sit down promptly at 8:00 p.m. and eat all the food groups balanced in accordance with the current FDA nutritional pyramid?”

“And I schedule exactly 23.6 minutes every evening so I can chew each bite forty times. Unfortunately that means I don’t have time for restaurants and meaningful conversation.”

Translation, she didn’t have time for Nick.

She tucked her list of observations back into the manila folder and handed it to him. “If it’s any consolation, I will go out with you now, to your factory floor.”

He shrugged. “It’s a start.”

The factory was a cavernous, well-lit space, big roll-up doors open to the let in the warm spring cross-breeze. Yesterday it had been decorated in industrial chic—safety posters, calendars, gray lockers, fake-wood-grain tables and metal chairs in the lunch room. Today it was decorated in Emmy Jones. Pictures of her hung everywhere, on the walls, from the rafters, on the fridge in the break room, on the sides of the conveyors. A couple of Nick’s employees even had them taped to their backs, and all of the pictures had big red targets over her face. As soon as she stepped around Nick, and the employees caught sight of her, she was greeted with a ragged chorus of whoopee-cushion raspberries.

“I’m sorry,” Nick said to Emmy.

“No need to apologize. This is normal.”

“It’s normal for people who want you dead.”

“They don’t want me dead. They’re just comfortable with the way things are. Once they understand that I’m here to make their jobs more secure, they’ll stop hating me.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Trust me, this is nothing compared to some of the things that have been done to me.”

Even if she hadn’t been touching him voluntarily, her words would have stopped Nick. The idea of anybody doing anything mean to Emmy got his hackles up. It was a new experience for him. Except for wanting to pound Roger. “Like what?”

“Lots of stuff has happened to my car. My tires were glued to the parking lot once, and when I worked at the forklift company it was—”

“Up in the air.”

“Forty feet. They made really big forklifts.” She smiled and shook her head. “It’s been filled with packing peanuts and shrink-wrapped.”

Nick laughed. “Pretty inventive.”

“So are these guys,” Emmy said. “They got pictures of me from somewhere.”

“Camera phone probably.”

“That explains all the wonderful poses. I particularly like the one where my mouth is open and one eye is shut. I look drunk.”

“You look beautiful.”

“That’s because the bull’s-eye hides most of my face.”

“Nope, that’s not it. I can see your face just fine.” And he kind of liked the target. It summed up his intentions; he had her in the crosshairs and she wasn’t getting away. He might not be the most focused or driven guy in the world, but when he went after something he wanted, he generally got it. And he wanted Emmy Jones.

WHEN Emmy’s doorbell rang that evening, she checked her watch. She already knew what time it was. She always knew what time it was. She checked her watch because she wasn’t expecting anyone, and no one ever called on her unexpectedly, not at seven fifty-eight in the evening. She looked out her peephole and saw Nick Porter. Mystery solved.

Nick Porter didn’t know the meaning of appointments or calling ahead or work versus personal. Nick Porter didn’t know the meaning of the word no. She could leave him standing out there until he figured it out, or she could open the door and explain it to him. She opted for the second choice, because she didn’t want him loitering on her doorstep all night—she didn’t have any doubt he’d understand why she refused to let him in, but he’d be too stubborn to go away.

“Go away,” she said as soon as she opened the door.

He didn’t say anything. In fact, he stared at her for so long she became self-conscious, adjusting her hooded sweatshirt, feeling her sweatpants for holes in strategic places. And when she didn’t find any she got freaked out. “What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s not me, it’s you.”

She covered her mouth. “Something in my teeth?” Or her nose! She moved her fingers northward, talking through them. “Be specific.”

“You’re not wearing a suit.”

“Okay.” Weird. “But I’m completely clothed, and I’m not working—that is, I’m working at home.” If he thought she wasn’t busy he’d never leave. “I change my clothes when I get home from work, just like normal people.”

“I miss your legs,” he said, easing her aside and stepping into her entryway. “I like looking at them.”

And she liked that he liked them. Bad, very bad. “They’re still there, under the sweatpants. I was going to exercise. Yoga.”

“That explains the great legs,” Nick said. “I’ll bet you’re really flexible, too.”

“Not so much. I’m just a beginner. I used to do aerobics, but lately I’ve been kind of…restless. I thought maybe yoga would have a calming effect.” And why she felt a need to explain that to him she had no idea. Nervous rambling, that was it. He was looking at her in that intent way he had, and she was letting her mouth run because it was better to babble than throw herself into his arms, which was what she really wanted to do.

“Go ahead, don’t mind me.”

“What? Oh, yoga.” Right, Emmy thought, like she was going to do Downward-Facing Dog with him around. Getting sweaty didn’t hold any appeal, either, at least not getting sweaty alone. “I think you should leave.” She held the door open, but he stuffed his hands in his pockets and grinned. And she gave up. “How’d you get my home address?”

“Your friend, Lindy. She called looking for you. She wanted to know if you were available tonight, but I told her you already had a date with me.”

“We don’t have a date.”

“Sure we do. I asked you this morning, and you didn’t say no.”

“I’m saying it now.”

“But you don’t mean it.”

“Yes, I do.” At least she wanted to. And once he left she’d be relieved. “We have a working relationship, Nick. That’s all.”

Nick studied her for a long, uncomfortable moment, his expression, for once, inscrutable. When he pulled the door open, she thought he’d finally gotten the message. But he didn’t walk out. Instead, he crowded her back behind the door, blocking her in with his body.

She should have felt threatened. She was scared to death, but not of being hurt by him. At least not physically. “You really need to go home.”

“I will.” Instead of backing off, though, he leaned forward.

Emmy leaned away. “You can’t just show up at my house and—”

“I’m spontaneous,” he whispered, his lips a breath away from hers. “It’s part of my appeal.”

Of all the things that appealed to her about Nick Porter, spontaneity was pretty much last on the list. She liked things budgeted, itemized, organized and timed down to the last second. Nick Porter was an undisciplined, disorganized wild card. Nick Porter blew her schedules right out of the water, and threatened to drown her self-control. She had the insane urge to fist her hands in his shirt and drag him against her, lips and all.

She planted both hands on his chest and locked her elbows instead. Her palms began to tingle, and the tingle spread all the way to the crown of her head and the ends of her toes, lingering at all the obvious places in between. And it didn’t stop at a tingle. There was heat, too. Emmy pushed him away before the heat and tingle could gang up on her self-control and make her do something that she’d regret.

Nick stared at her for a second, looking as shell-shocked as she felt. “I’m going to kiss you, Emmy,” he said, adding, “not tonight,” when she stepped up the pressure against his chest. “I’m going to kiss you when you least expect it. And you won’t push me away.” Then he walked out the door. He bounced off the doorjamb first, but eventually he made it outside and wobbled off toward the street.