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“Yep,” she said, thinking about Marc and feeling an itch at the back of her neck. “I have a feeling I’m going to need all my brain cells at top performance tomorrow.”
Two hours later she’d downed two martinis and was laughing at her own efforts to salsa.
“C’mon, Jenny, you can do it,” Chad coaxed her when she fumbled over her steps for the umpteenth time. “Release your inner passion, your inner diva, and follow.”
Concentrating, she shook her head. “If I look very very hard, I may find my inner passion, but I’m not sure I have an inner diva.”
He gave her a hard snap, sending her reeling away from him, before he jerked her back against him. “Then you must create her. If you’re going to succeed at salsa, you must release your inner passion and inner diva, and follow.”
He squeezed her waist, directing her to take a step in the direction he wanted to go. “Follow with passion. The diva knows she can demand what she wants and get it.”
“How do you know so much about salsa and women?” she asked, evaluating his words.
He twirled her around and she enjoyed the dizziness. He wouldn’t let her fall. He would seduce her into dancing, but not into bed. She was safe.
She couldn’t help thinking about her meeting tomorrow with Marc. No net with that man. She wondered if she had the nerve to go after him if she got the opportunity. And the job, the dream job that was being handed to her on a platter. She wondered what would happen if someone got around to checking the credentials Sal had filled in on her résumé. No net again.
“Trust me?” Chad asked with a dare in his eyes.
Feeling a tingle of excitement, she nodded. He was her friend. The only thing she had that he wanted was a cheap cocktail.
She felt the earth move and suddenly her head sank, nearly touching the ground. She hung suspended, at Chad’s mercy. She heard applause in between the roaring in her ears.
Chad’s white teeth gleamed in approval.
She felt a bit dizzy. “You have three seconds to pull me back up or I’m never bringing you to girls’ night out with me again.”
Chad laughed out loud and immediately whipped her up so that her body pressed intimately against his. “You were wrong about your diva. She’s there.”
WITH THE EXCEPTION of the luxurious furnishings, Marc Waterson’s office reminded Jenny of the principal’s office at her elementary school. Funny, she was having some of the same feelings she’d had as a child when she’d been called to the principal’s office. She still remembered the conversations.
“Jenny, both your brother and your sister were in our gifted program. We know you’re intelligent. You could be in the gifted program, too, if you would just try a little harder.”
She had tried. But math and science bored her to death.
As she sat across from Marc Waterson while he finished a phone call, she rubbed her damp palms together and took a deep breath to get rid of the tight feeling in her chest and stomach. She had told herself to reach for her inner diva for this meeting, but so far she wasn’t feeling successful.
This wasn’t the same as being in the principal’s office, she told herself. This was a promotion. Kinda, anyway. It was the desk, she thought, eyeing the mammoth cherry desk that separated her in her little chair from the hot and almighty Marc Waterson. The hot Marc Waterson who clearly had no problem ignoring her, despite the fact that she’d dressed “office sexy” in a little black skirt and fitted sweater.
A growl of frustration bubbled from her throat, shocking her when it came out of her mouth like an ill-timed burp. Oh, crap, she hoped he hadn’t heard…
Marc glanced at her, lifting his eyebrows. He raised an index finger, signaling one minute.
“Okay, Gino, I’m clear for tonight. Do you know if she likes Italian or seafood? Not on the application,” he said with a chuckle. “I’ll think of something and get Cynthia to make the reservations.” He groaned and raked his hand through his gorgeous thick hair. “God, I hope Miss Brunswick County is Miss Right. This is getting old.”
Marc chuckled. “Remember you get something out of this, too, if it works out.” He nodded. “Ciao.”
Miss Right? Marc was looking for Miss Right? And he sounded pretty intent on it. Miss Brunswick County, a pageant winner, she thought, turning up her nose. How superficial. She would have thought he’d be beyond that. She felt a stupid pull of disappointment in her belly. Lord knew she wasn’t pageant material, not unless she was backstage.
Seconds later he set down the phone and punched his intercom button. “Cynthia, please make reservations for two tonight at the Atlanta Grille at The Ritz. Then hold my calls. Thanks,” he said, and turned his attention to Jenny.
Having him look at her made her feel even more squirmy. She allowed herself one little shift and crossed her legs.
“Jenna, have you decided to do the project?”
She fought a spurt of irritation. “Jenny,” she corrected.
“Sorry, Jenny,” he corrected, although he didn’t appear particularly sorry at all.
“I’m interested. I’d like some more details on exactly what will be expected of me and what my compensation will be,” she said, pleased that she hadn’t stuttered and thankful that she’d spent the morning rehearsing. I am diva, hear me roar, she mentally chanted. At the same time she wondered if Marc wore aftershave, if she’d ever get close enough to smell.
He named a figure for her increased salary that made her want to sing hallelujah, but she restrained herself and tried not to stare at his mouth while he talked. He listed her duties and expectations along with her new job title—assistant designer.
The two words were music to her ears. How interesting, she thought. Her jobs had always been a means to an end, a way to pay the bills and she hadn’t cared about prestige. She’d usually been too busy looking for the next job because she’d either quit the last one or her company had gone out of business. She hadn’t loved anything she’d done enough to give much thought to how long the job would last. This one was different.
“The salary is fine,” she said, forcing herself to make the understatement. “The job title is fine, but I’m concerned about my position once the project is over. What will I do then?”
“What do you want to do?”
I want to make wild monkey love with you…whatever wild monkey love entails. She cleared her throat and tried to clear her mind. Diva, diva, diva. “I’d like to design my own line of evening shoes,” she said, the words boldly popping out of her mouth.
Marc blinked.
She would bet he hardly ever did that. He was the type who didn’t need to blink. “That’s a tall order.”
“Not according to you and Sal. You must agree with him that I’m up to the task of designing if you’re willing to give me such an important project.” Except for the fact that Marc was in a sticky spot.
“This is an unusual situation,” he said, adjusting his tie.
Jenny was shocked by the subtle display of discomfort. She had made Marc Waterson uncomfortable. Would wonders never cease.
“I haven’t seen enough of your designs to know that you can create an entire line and sustain it. Creating a line requires a huge investment from the company.”
“If Sal doesn’t come back, you’re going to have to make that investment in somebody.”
“I have no reason to believe he won’t return. And if he didn’t, we would still continue his line for years to come.”
Sounded like no to her and it sucked. For the first time in her life, Jenny was doing something noteworthy and she wouldn’t mind if people knew.
He met her gaze. “You’re not going to get credit for the shoes you’ll design for Brooke.”
She nodded.
“And it bothers you,” he said.
She nodded again.
He tapped his Waterman pen on his desk. “I’ll tell you what. Put together some sketches of some evening shoes and if I think they’re good, I’ll show them to marketing. We can go from there.”
It was a chance. More than she’d had when she’d walked in the door.
CHAPTER THREE
THE NEXT DAY Jenny’s promotion felt more than ever like a pretend promotion. She fielded calls for Sal, filed and did everything she used to do, plus now she also needed to design.
During the lunch she took at her desk, the phone rang again. She frowned at it and almost didn’t pick up. Mentally grumbling, she answered the phone. “Jenny Prillaman for Sal Amoré.”
“Take the Tarantino job, Jenny. You can do it,” Sal said.
She nearly dropped the phone in shock. “Sal! Where are you?”
“In rehab. I had to sneak this call. I won’t be able to call again. Just do the job.”
“But Marc Waterson thinks I have a degree from a design school.”
“In this case, what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Sometimes upper management doesn’t understand the way an artist creates.”
“But I’m not an artist,” she protested. “I’m a doodler.”
“Don’t diminish your talent. You’re an assistant designer now, Jenny. Do your job. I’ll call you after I get out. Ciao.”
“But they think I’m something different from what I really am,” Jenny said. “Sal, Sal—” The line was dead. She was talking to nobody. Panic raced through her. She really was all alone on this. She would fail or succeed totally on her own efforts.
Self-doubt swelled in her throat. What if she couldn’t pull it off? After all her huffing and puffing and diva pretense, what if she fell flat on her face?
She took a deep breath and looked at the evening shoes she’d drawn during the last couple of hours. It’s not world peace, she told herself. It’s just shoes.
Most workers skedaddled out of the building by 5:30 p.m., so she decided to take advantage of the quiet to doodle some more shoes. Doodling, she’d decided, was less threatening than designing.
Some time later, her stomach growled and she glanced up at the clock, surprised that nearly two hours had passed. Taking a second look at her sketches, she was pleased with her start. Time to go, she thought and debated which takeout she would grab on the way home.
She stepped outside the building’s back door to rain falling in sheets. She hadn’t brought an umbrella, so she would get soaked. Better at the end of the day than at the beginning, she thought philosophically and ran toward her car. She got inside and shook some of the moisture off her, then pushed her key into her ignition and turned it.
A grinding sound followed.
Jenny made a face. Not a good sign. She tried again and was rewarded with the same grinding sound, only weaker. Sighing, she stepped out of the car and walked to the hood. Lifting it, she stared at it, looking for answers.
MARC STEPPED INSIDE his vehicle and pulled down his compact umbrella. He slid it just behind the front seat so he could easily reach it when he arrived home. He’d worked late today due to an out-of-office appointment tomorrow. And because he didn’t want to face an interrogation from Gino over last night’s date. If he evaluated his date strictly by the list he’d created, she should have been perfect.
Marc eased his car out of his assigned space close to the building and headed down the lane. In his peripheral vision, he caught sight of a pair of dim headlights. He glanced to the side and saw a figure standing over a car with the hood open.
Poor fool, he thought. This was what OnStar was for. This was what AAA was for. Rain beat against his windshield and he felt an attack of conscience. The parking lot was deserted except for his car and that one. Grumbling under his breath, he made a hard turn and drove toward the vehicle.
He lowered his window and peered out. “Need me to make a call for you?”
The dark figure turned around and Marc immediately recognized her. Sal’s assistant.
She met his gaze and he watched her eyes widen in an expression that looked like horror. Hell, he thought, he wasn’t that much of a sonovabitch, was he?
“Mr. Waterson,” she said.
“You can call me Marc,” he said, irritated at how she continued to stand there in the rain. “Listen, why don’t you get into my car and we’ll figure out what to do about your car, Ginger.”
She blinked and swiped her hands across her face. “Jenny,” she said, still hesitating. “I’ll get your seat wet.”
“I’ve got towels. Come on.”
She reached inside her vehicle, turned off her lights, then darted to the passenger side of his car and slid inside. She smelled like rain and peppermint and chocolate.
His stomach growled. “What have you been eating?”
“Peppermint patty. I keep a few in my purse for emergencies.”
“But no AAA card?” he asked.
“Doesn’t taste as good. Want one?”
“Yeah, thanks,” he said, accepting the candy. With her hair plastered to her head and her eyes wide behind those weird glasses, she reminded him of a nearly drowned puppy. He reached behind his seat and handed her a towel. “Here. What do you think is wrong with your car?”
She pulled off her jacket and rubbed herself with the towel. “Battery, alternator or starter. Or if I’m really unlucky, all three.” She made a face. “I guess I need to get it towed. I knew I should have renewed my AAA service.”
He noticed a piece of her hair was sticking straight up in front. “I’ll call a towing service. Do you have a garage—”
“Yep, Ron’s Garage on Peachtree.”
Marc made the call for the tow then hung up. “Is Ron’s Garage open this late?”
“No, but there’s a key drop-off,” she said.
“And how will you get home?”
She bit her lip. “Oops. Hadn’t thought of that. There’s bound to be someone I can call.”
“Or not,” Marc said. “I’ll take you.”
She met his gaze for a long moment. “That’s very nice of you.”
There was no artificial flattery in her voice. “You sound surprised.”
“Uh, well.” She cleared her throat. “I thought you would have something else more important to do.” Her eyes widened as if something came to mind. “Don’t you have a date?”
“That was last night. How did you know?”
“I was in your office when you were talking about it on the phone.”
He nodded. He needed to be more careful about discussing his plan in front of other people. Lord help him if everyone at work started talking about it.
“How’d it go?”
