The Bedroom Business

“Didn’t know it, until the last minute.” Pete smiled. “You look like life’s treating you well.”

“You, too.” Jake grinned, gave Pete a light jab to the biceps. “How long will you be in town?”

“Just overnight. I have to be back in Chicago tomorrow morning.”

“Too bad. I have a business dinner lined up. Let me call the guy and—”

“No, no, I understand. How about drinks? You have time for that?”

“Great idea. Want to go out, or have something here?”

“Here would be cool. Got any ale?”

Jake laughed. “Some things never change, huh? Ale, it is.”

He went to his built-in mini fridge, took out a couple of bottles and opened them. Pete waved away his offer of a glass. The two men sat across from each other, leaned close enough to clink bottles, took long, thirsty swallows, then smiled.

“So,” Jake said, “how’re things?”

“Couldn’t be better. And you?”

“Terrific.” Jake sighed. “Well, they would be, if…” He leaned forward, across the desk. “You know why I didn’t answer when you knocked? I thought you were a woman.”

Pete laughed. “Don’t tell me you’ve decided you’re giving up babes. I wouldn’t believe it.”

“Let me amend that,” Jake said, smiling. “I thought you were a particular woman.”

“Ah. A bowwow who’s developed a thing for you, huh?”

“No, she’s a definite ten.” Jake grinned, but his grin faded. “But the thing ran its course, you know? She began to hear wedding bells.”

“Oh, yeah. I know what that’s like.” Pete drank some ale. “So, you tried to end it?”

“I’m still trying. Trouble is, she’s determined. She calls. She sends me notes. She shows up at my apartment, she shows up here…”

“Well, you have a secretary, don’t you? Let her do the dirty work.”

“I have an executive assistant,” Jake said, smiling and lifting his eyebrows.

“What’s that mean?”

“It means I’m lucky enough to employ a woman whose only goal in life is to make me happy.”

“Jake, you dog, you! You stocked the front desk with a hot babe!”

‘‘Sorry to burst the bubble, pal, but Emily’s as far from being a hot babe as Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

Pete sighed. “Too bad. I figured her for the fox I just saw at the elevator.”

“Oh, hell,” Jake said, and the color drained from his face. “Brunette?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Big brown eyes?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Great legs? A body meant to send a man straight over the edge?”

Pete shrugged, took a drink of his ale. “Definitely and probably.”

“Probably?” Jake gave a forlorn laugh. “You’d have to be blind or dead not to notice Brandi’s figure.”

“Brandi?”

“Yeah. The lady who’s decided I’m the love of her life. I half-figured she might show up here tonight.”

“Well, she did. And the only reason I didn’t notice her shape was because it was hidden under a layer of tweed.”

“Yeah, well…” Jake stared at Pete. “Tweed? Brandi would sooner be caught during rush hour in a New York subway than in tweed.”

“Either her tastes have changed, or the woman I saw wasn’t…Who’d you say?”

“Brandi,” Jake said automatically. He frowned. “Emily wears tweed.”

“And Emily would be…?”

“I told you about her. She’s my P.A. My E.A.” Jake thought for a second, then shook his head. “Forget it. No way could it have been Emily. I mean, she’s great. She’s efficient. She’s capable. She’s the best assistant I’ve ever had.” He smiled. “But a looker? No way.”

Pete gave a dramatic sigh. “See, that’s where we differ, Jake. I’ve learned to refine my tastes.”

Jake grinned. “Sure.”

“No, I’m serious. I look beyond the obvious.” He leaned forward, gave a leering smirk. “Besides, you know what they say. Still waters run deep.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Pete said smugly, “if a babe doesn’t think she’s a looker, a guy can get into her pants a lot easier.”

Jake shot to his feet. “Not into Emily’s, he can’t.” His voice was cold; he could feel the sudden tension in his muscles.

“Hey.” Pete stood up, too. “We don’t even know it’s Emily we’re talking about.”

“I’m just making a point, Archer. Forget about getting into Emily’s pants.”

“Yeah, but it’s probably not even…Jake. I didn’t…” Pete took a breath. “Listen man, no offence.”

“None taken,” Jake said, and even he could hear the lie in his words. Well, why wouldn’t he be upset? Emily was a fantastic asset. He wasn’t about to end up with a messed-up assistant on his hands. Anyway, it was all academic, he thought, and forced himself to smile. “Not that it matters. That couldn’t have been Emily. She isn’t a looker. You don’t know my Emily but I can tell you, my Emily is average—”

“Your Emily isn’t ‘your Emily,’ Mr. McBride!”

Both men swung around. Emily stood in the open doorway, her face pale except for two spots of crimson high on her cheeks.

“Oh, hell,” Jake said softly. “Emily. Emily, listen, I didn’t mean—”

“You did mean. And I don’t mind being called ‘average.’ It’s what I am.” Her hands bunched into fists, fists 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 hour he’d gotten her home? Who knew how much wine she’d had to drink or how late she’d gone to bed or if she’d gone to bed at all…

Or if she’d been alone when she got into it.

Not that he cared. What she did, who she did it with, was her business. He’d tell her that, when—if—she deigned to show up this morning. The only question was, should he tell it to her before or after he told her she was fired?

From executive assistant to unemployed, in less than twenty-four hours.

The thought did wonders for his disposition. But why wait for Miss Taylor to put in an appearance? He could just as easily fire her right now.

Jake smiled coldly as he reached for the telephone but his smile changed, went back to being a frown. What was her number? For that matter, where did she live? In the city? In the suburbs? In one of the outlying boroughs? He had all that information. She’d filled out a form when she’d come to work for him. Actually, she’d filled out a zillion forms, thanks to all the tax information everybody required, but he’d be damned if he could remember anything about Emily’s private life.

Why would he? Until Archer stirred things up, she’d been the perfect employee. He’d never had reason to think about her, once he was away from the office. And now he was wasting time, thinking about her instead of sitting down and doing all the things that needed doing today. Not that he was actually “thinking” about Emily. Where she’d gone with Archer. Whether she’d had fun. Whether Archer had come on to her. Whether she was late because, even now, she was lying in the bastard’s arms…

“Son of a bitch,” Jake said, under his breath.

He thumbed open his address book, ran his finger down the list of T’s. There it was, Emily Taylor, the phone number written in Emily’s own, careful hand. Her address was there, too. She lived in Manhattan. Good, he thought grimly as he punched the phone number into the keypad. Then, she could damned well get her tail in here, pronto, and never mind what she was in the middle of doing with Archer.

Let her trudge through the snow. Then, he’d fire her. In person, where he could watch her face become pale as he told her to get out of his life.

Jake waited, tapping his foot impatiently as the phone rang. And rang. And—

“Good morning, Mr. McBride.”

“I’m happy you think so, Miss Taylor,” he said coldly…and suddenly realized that Emily’s voice wasn’t coming from the phone in his hand, it was coming from behind him. Slowly, he put down the telephone and turned around.

She stood in the doorway. Snowflakes glittered in her hair—brown hair, he thought, but with a warm, golden glow that made a man think of dark maple syrup on a winter morning….

Jake’s mouth turned down.

“You’re late.”

“I’m aware of that, sir. And I’m sorry.”

She didn’t sound sorry. Not the least bit. There was a chill to her voice that had nothing to do with the weather.

“And you’re late because…?”

“The trains are running behind schedule.”

“Really.” Jake smiled thinly and folded his arms. “I wonder if that could be because it’s snowing.”

He was gratified to see a light flush color her cheeks. “I’m sure it is, Mr. McBride.”

“In which case, Miss Taylor, you must also know that the trains always run late when it snows. Half the city runs late—or is that news to you?”

Emily looked down and brushed the snow from her coat. Her ankle-length, tweed coat, Jake thought irritably. Was tweed the only item in her wardrobe? Was he ever going to see her legs?

“I know what snow does to New York,” she said calmly. She lifted her eyes to his. “I allowed for that contingency.”

“Ah. You allowed for it.” Jake glanced pointedly at his watch. “Interesting, since you’re almost an hour late.”

Damn, he sounded like an ass. Well, so what? He was the boss. He was entitled to sound like an ass, if he wanted.

“I’m twenty minutes late, sir.” Emily still sounded calm but there was a bite to the “sir.” “And I did allow for the weather. I left my apartment twenty minutes earlier than usual. If I hadn’t, I’d be later than I already am.”

“Does that mean you got out of bed twenty minutes earlier than usual?”

Emily’s eyebrows brows rose. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s a simple question. I asked if you set your alarm back twenty minutes.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

Neither did Jake. What he really wanted to ask was if she’d had to set the alarm back or if something else had awakened her this morning. Somebody. Archer, for instance, moving above her, in her bed…

Hell!

Jake frowned, cleared his throat, went behind his desk and sat down. He reached for his appointment book and looked at the page. Letters and numbers danced before his eyes.

“Never mind,” he said brusquely.

“Never mind, indeed.” Her voice was frigid now; he could almost see the icicles forming on each word. “Perhaps we need to establish some boundaries, Mr. McBride. My private life—”

“So you said, last evening.” Jake waved his hand in dismissal. “I left the mail on your desk. Go through it, see if anything needs my immediate attention and then come back and I’ll dictate some notes.”

She hesitated. He didn’t look up but he didn’t have to. He could all but feel her counting to ten, taking deep breaths, doing what she could to hang onto her composure. Well, wasn’t he doing the same thing? The nerve of her, holding him up for a pay raise and a new title one day and coming in late the next.

“Of course, Mr. McBride.”

The door snicked shut. Jake looked up, glowered at it, and closed his appointment book.

Of course, Mr. McBride, he thought furiously. As if nothing had changed, as if she hadn’t shown up late, been insubordinate, done exactly the opposite of what he’d told her to do and gone off with a man who was only after one thing…

Jake closed his eyes. “Hell,” he said, but with no heat whatsoever.

Emily was right. Her life, outside of the office, wasn’t his business. Who she dated was up to her. What she did with who she dated was up to her, too. Why should he care, as long as she did her work?

Still, it was only human to wonder where she’d gone last night and whether she’d had a good time. He could just ask her. He’d known Emily for almost a year now. They were friends. Well, they were business associates. And he’d been the one who’d put Archer in her path.

Was it so strange he should be vaguely curious about how things had gone last night?

Emily, he could say, I was just wondering, did you have a nice evening? Where’d Archer take you for dinner? Did he take you home? Did you invite him in? What time did he leave?

He did leave, didn’t he?

Jake rubbed his hands over his face.

Not only was her private life none of his business, but even thinking about it was none of his business.

The kid was right, though. She did have nice eyes.

A muscle knotted in Jake’s jaw. He wondered if Archer had been right, too. About her legs. Were they great? He couldn’t tell, not with that coat going straight down to her feet, and he’d certainly never noticed her legs in the past. Why would he? Emily was his P.A. Check that. She was his E.A. She was a well-oiled, well-educated, well-paid employee. Her looks were none of his business.

She was a quiet little sparrow.

His little sparrow.

Jake shoved the appointment book halfway across his desk, swiveled his chair towards the window and gave the falling snow the benefit of his scowl. He knew it was foolish to bristle, but bristling was precisely what he felt like doing.

And it was all Emily’s fault.

Emily took off her coat, shook it briskly and hung it in the closet. Then she sat, bent down and began tugging at her left boot while she told herself that bristling would get her nowhere.

Still, bristling was exactly what she felt like doing.

And it was all McBride’s fault.

The great man was not in a good mood this morning. Too bad. Perhaps he’d had another run-in with the twit, desperate to tell him how wonderful he was.

“Idiot,” Emily said, and gave the stubborn boot a whack.

Or was he still annoyed that she hadn’t let him tell her what to do last night? Don’t go, he’d said, as if he owned her, and the hell of it was she should have listened to him because her evening with his pal had been a disaster. A total, unmitigated disaster. Mr. Peter-Aren’t-You-Fortunate-To-Be-With-Me Archer was so full of himself it was a wonder there’d been room for her at their all-too-cozy table for two in the restaurant he’d chosen.

Emily hung her head and groaned.

Oh, what an awful evening. The wine he’d ordered, even after she’d politely declined a drink. The way he’d leaned close and breathed moistly on her neck. The way he’d tried to feed her a bite of his meal from his fork. Yuck. As if she would want to take the fork into her mouth after it had been in his. And then all that smarmy, double entendre stuff which she’d been too dumb to recognize as smarmy and double entendre, until the waiter happened by just as Archer, the slimeball, said something that made the hapless waiter almost pour the coffee into her lap.

Emily attacked the boot again.

And this man, she reminded herself grimly, this—this human octopus, was Mr. Jake McBride’s friend. His oldest, dearest, closest friend.

So much for thinking her boss was a nice guy even if he was dense. Nice guys didn’t have lifelong buddies like Peter Archer.

Damn this boot! Why wouldn’t it come off?

To think of McBride’s gall, that he was angry with her. Whatever the cause of it, how dare he take it out on her? She’d been, what, fifteen minutes late? When she thought of all the times she’d come in early without McBride so much as saying, Why, Emily, how good of you to be here before nine.

But why would he? She was his personal property. He expected her to be there, at his beck and call.

“The Emperor McBride,” she said, under her breath, and tugged harder. What was with these boots? They might as well be glued on.

“Uh,” she said, and tugged again. “Uh…”

“Having a problem, Emily?”

She sat up so fast that her heel slammed against the carpeted floor. McBride was standing in the doorway, watching her. His arms were folded and one of his dark eyebrows was lifted in what looked like amusement.

“No problem, sir,” she replied briskly.

Of course it was a problem. She’d been bent over, tugging at her boots, and her face was flushed with rosy color. Her hair—a few strands of it, anyway—had come loose of its clip at the nape of her neck and curled gently at her ears. Emily’s hair was curly? He’d never noticed. She always wore it back, and straight.

Jake frowned.

“Here,” he said, advancing towards her, “let me help you.”

“It isn’t necessary. I can—”

Too late. He was already squatting before her, lifting her foot into his lap and tugging.

“Really, Mr. McBride…”

Jake pulled off the boot. No wonder it had been hard to remove. Her boots were made of thin black leather and she was wearing heavy socks. Heavy wool socks, over feet that were attached to long, slender legs.

Oh, yeah. Archer, the bastard, had called it right. Her legs were good. Excellent, as a matter of fact.

“Thank you,” Emily said.

Jake lifted his eyes to her face. “You’re welcome.” He cleared his throat, looked down at the foot, still in his hands, and tried to think of something intelligent to say. “You’re wearing socks.” Brilliant, he thought trying not to wince, just brilliant, McBride. “I mean—you’re wearing—”

“Socks,” she said stiffly. “Wool socks. Double knit. I guess that’s the reason the boots are so hard to get off. I wore them because I thought I might have to walk at least part of the way home, if the snow keeps up, and these boots aren’t really warm…”