“Jade is a stage name. My name is Jenn.”
He nodded. “Oh. Okay. How about it, Dad? Is there something she can do around here?”
Jake’s gaze bounced from his son to her then back again. “There might be—if she doesn’t mind working with your sorry hide.”
Jenn quickly shook her head. “I don’t mind.”
“You sure about that?” Jake’s eyes were sharp. “My son can be a handful.”
The man in question’s cheeks reddened. “Dad!”
Jenn laughed. “You’re not telling me anything I didn’t already know, Jake. Remember, I tried to handle him in court yesterday.”
“Yes, well.” Jake paused to clear his throat. “Greg, I’m putting you in charge of this year’s holiday campaign.”
Greg’s strangled “What?” was more squeak than question.
“What ‘what’? You’re giving the Foundation a thousand hours of court-ordered community service. That’s plenty of time to organize the holiday toy drive and party—and with a competent assistant like Jenn here, you’ll still have spare hours to spend training at the gym.” A meaningful look passed between father and son. “Think what everyone will say when you two organize the best damn campaign in Foundation history.”
“Okay.” He looked more like a man who’d just been handed a death sentence than one told to plan a party.
Before Jenn could do much more than wonder at the discrepancy, Jake asked, “Is that okay with you, Jenn?”
“Of course.”
“How are your organizational skills? Greg’s not exactly great with details.”
“I’m a lawyer. Detail-oriented is my middle name.”
Jake chuckled. “Good Then it’s a match made in heaven.” His eyes traveled the length of her body, and she had the uncomfortable sensation that he could tell her designer suit had come not off the rack, but from Goodwill. “The job pays ten thousand dollars up front, another twenty-five thousand on completion of a successful campaign.”
“For three months’ work?” Obscenely rich folks sure did waste a lot of money.
“Two and a half, actually.” Jake’s smile was apologetic. Like offering her thirty-five thousand bucks was anything to apologize for. “The party is in mid-December.”
She looked at Greg. “Sounds like we’d better get busy.”
“Okay.” Wicked humor sparked in his blue eyes. “But Dad might prefer we wait until we leave his office.”
She replayed her words. Oh God. Did she really just say that? Her face burned. “You know what I mean.”
“I do.” He grinned. “But you’ve got to admit my interpretation sounds like a heck of a lot more fun.”
She did. And that was a problem. Getting paid more than her father made in a year to spend the next two and a half months with tall, blond and dreamy wouldn’t be a hardship at all.
Giving up long hours at the office in favor of playtime with Greg didn’t faze her, and that scared her. It was almost as worrisome as the electricity that raced up her spine when he put his hand at her back to guide her out of his father’s office and into the hallway.
They were halfway down the corridor before she came back to her senses. “Where are we going?”
He fished in his pocket until he pulled out a set of keys. His mouth was set in a grim line. “To my office.”
****
With Jenn keeping pace beside him, Greg strode down the hall. He stopped in front of a door that looked like every other door in the corridor, except for one big difference—this one had his name on it. Jacob G. Bartlesby II, executive VP of operations.
Jenn’s soft whistle split the silence. “Executive VP, huh? Fancy.”
“Mainly for show.” He jammed the key in the lock and cranked it to the right. With the door open, he reached over to flip on the light. The setup was almost identical to that of his father’s office. A reception area was dominated by the secretary’s desk, and then there was the door to his office. He pointed to the empty desk. “That’ll be yours. Make yourself at home.”
He left her in the doorway, gaping after him, and went to the inner door. This one had a keypad lock. He punched in his code—six, twelve, nineteen, two. His jersey numbers in Little League, high school, college and with the Condors.
The lock gave way with a quiet “snick” and he pushed open the door. Inside, his desk was as empty as the secretary’s. A phone, stapler, unopened box of paper clips and full tape dispenser dotted the vast plane. Not even a desk blotter calendar to keep track of appointments. He scowled at the accusation of all the work he hadn’t been doing.
His father didn’t expect him to do anything during the season. Indeed, the old man kicked him out of the building when he tried. Told him to keep his head in the game. Still, he didn’t relish feeling like a slacker.
Besides, if Big Jake really was dying, he had a lot of make-up work to do.
He had no reason not to believe his father, especially about something as serious as death. As much as Dad liked to joke around, he would never make light of his own mortality.
With a sigh, he took a seat behind the big, empty desk and started rifling through the drawers. Everything was in its place. His father’s secretary must still be coming in regularly to keep his files up to date. He pulled out a thick one labeled AR2013. Refreshing his knowledge of the Foundation’s annual report was as good a place to start as any.
He’d read the damn thing once, when it was issued in July. But that had been in snatches between games and practices. He might remember half of it, if he was lucky. Now he had time to really digest it.
He was immersed in the document when a soft tap sounded on the door.
“Come in.”
The knob rattled. Then came Jenn’s voice, somewhat exasperated. “Can’t. It’s locked.”
Shit. He’d have to remember to disable the code while he was in here. He jumped up and opened the door. “What can I do for you?”
Amusement danced in her green eyes. “I think that’s supposed to be my line. I’m your assistant, after all.”
“I’d like to think we can assist each other.”
Her lips curved. “You can start by showing me the supply closet. That desk out there is going to stay empty until I get supplies.”
“Just go buy whatever you need.” Everyone had their favorites, and he wanted Jenn to have things she liked to use, not the generic crap Ellen ordered in bulk. “Grab me a box of Pilot gel pens while you’re there. I can’t stand cheap ballpoints. And a desk calendar.”
“Pilots and a calendar. Got it.”
He reached for his wallet, pulled out four Ben Franklins and held them out to her. Instead of taking the bills, she stared at them like they might be coated with anthrax. “What? That’s not enough?”
“No, that should be plenty.” Eyes wide, she snatched the cash from his hand. “I’ll bring you the change.”
“Keep it.”
****
Keep it? What kind of assistance would Greg expect for a couple hundred dollars’ tip?
Half afraid to ask, Jenn merely folded the bills and tucked them deep in her skirt’s pocket. No chance of them falling out that way. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
“Good. We have some brainstorming to do.”
Before she got off the elevator on the ground floor, she was on the phone with Jessica, telling her all about the day. “He handed me four hundred dollars and said to keep the change.” She snorted. “Not in this lifetime.”
“Umm, Jenn?”
“What?”
“You took the job?” Jess paused. When she spoke again, her worry was plain. “I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
“It’s organizing and planning a party. Two things I’m great at.” She passed the guard desk, so she lowered her voice. “And the money is out of this world. I’ll make more in less than two months than Dad brings home in a year.”
Jessica’s sigh was audible. “Just so long as they don’t expect you to ea
rn it on your back.”
“I doubt it, but thanks for looking out for me, Sis.” She’d reached her car, a leased Lexus, and unlocked the door. Impulsively, she added, “Now let me look out for you. I’m getting ten thousand up front. Why don’t you take it and replace that junk heap you call a car?”
Jess sniffed. “I happen to like that junk heap.”
“How many times this month has it let you down?”
“More than I want to admit.” Her sister sighed. “Damn ballplayer of yours nearly scared me out of my skin when he knocked on the window last night and offered to help.”
“He’s not my ballplayer.”
“Yet. It won’t take much to bag that one.”
“Jess!” She didn’t have to pretend to be shocked. “I am not trying to ‘bag’ anyone.”
“You should. Have you seen the size of his hands?”
“Jessica Marie Simpson! Bite your tongue.”
She hung up to the sound of her sister’s merry laughter. As she did, she couldn’t help but think back to how the small the cash had looked in his hand. And how he’d tossed four hundred dollars at her, carelessly as if it were a handful of pennies. And how one of his hands spanned nearly the width of her back.
Yeah. Jacob Gregory Bartlesby II was trouble with a capital T—in just about every way imaginable.
At the nearest office supply superstore, Jenn grabbed a discount desk set for herself and boxes of the gel pens Greg wanted in blue, black, red, green and purple. In the calendar aisle, the variety boggled her mind. Did he want a page-a-day calendar? A weekly planner? An old-fashioned desk blotter?
She didn’t know. Since he hadn’t specified, she added one of each to the basket. She refused to fail in her first assignment.
When the cashier rang up her purchases, they totaled less than a hundred bucks. She deposited them in her trunk and headed back inside for brightly colored Post-It Notes and some magazines and throw pillows for the waiting area couches. She added a forest green area rug and standing lamp, and, on impulse when she saw it was marked down forty percent, one of those fancy single-cup coffee brewing machines. They had one at the law firm, and she loved the coffee it made. It might be blasphemous, but she dared say it was better than Starbucks.
After her shopping spree, she still walked out with thirty bucks and some change. She shoved it in her skirt pocket and made a mental note to be sure to give it back.
Upon returning to the Bartlesby Foundation offices, she loaded herself up with her purchases and headed for the door. Before she could decide how to get the rolled up rug through the revolving door, a gray-haired security guard rushed to her side.
“Let me help you with that.”
“Thank you.” She squinted to read his name badge. “James.”
“No problem, Ms. Simpson. Young Mr. Bartlesby told me to watch for you. Said you’d probably come back with a haul.”
James relieved her of most of her “haul.” Since she carried only the bags of pens and Post-Its, she had a free hand to hold the elevator door for him. Together, they rode up to the top floor. James took her purchases to Greg’s office and set them next to the door.
He tipped his hat. “If you need anything else, just let me know.”
“I will. Thank you.”
She watched the guard retreat down the hall before starting to unpack the bags. She was usually the one schlepping stuff for someone else, so it felt strange to have people jumping to do her bidding.
“Greg, I’m back.”
No answer.
She picked up the pens and calendars she’d bought for him and crossed the room to his door. Rapped on it. Still nothing. She tried the knob, and this time it turned easily. His office was empty.
Where was he? “I thought he said we were going to brainstorm this afternoon.”
She shrugged and dropped his stuff on his desk. Remembering the change, she fished every last cent out of her pocket and laid it next to the bags.
It was then that she spotted the note scrawled on the back of a pink message slip. It had fluttered to the floor, probably when she plopped down the bags. “Meet me in the company gym. Third floor, Room 28. We can work out and brainstorm at the same time.”
She glanced down at her skirt and heels. “Great idea—if I had something to wear.”
Jenn walked back into the reception area and went to her desk. A bag from a pricey yoga boutique sat on the chair. Her heartbeat kicked up. What woman didn’t covet gear from that exclusive shop?
She peeked inside. The contents indeed matched the bag—not that she’d doubted it. The man wasted more money in a day then she spent in a month. Included were a pair of pants, tank top and sports bra, plus Reebok cross-trainers. Easily three hundred bucks’ worth of stuff. Maybe more.
Fuming, she plucked the bag from the chair and stormed to the elevators. By the time she got to the third floor and found Room 28, in the opposite direction than where she first tried, she was no calmer. Who did he think he was, buying her clothes?
She yanked open the door and stepped into a fully equipped gym. Free weights, a treadmill and elliptical trainer, a rowing machine and floor space for yoga. Greg was at the rowing machine, his back to her. Blue cotton strained across his back with each pull.
Her mouth went dry. She swallowed and reminded herself what she needed to say. “Greg, I can’t accept these.” She rattled the bag.
He kept rowing without looking at her. “Why’s that?”
“Because—” The rhythmic movements distracted her until she refocused. “Because it’s inappropriate, that’s why.”
Finally, he stopped. Turned and rose to meet her. “You needed something to wear for work. I provided it. Nothing inappropriate about that.”
“Ever heard of Target?”
“Of course. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Spending forty dollars at Target would be appropriate. This—” She shoved the Lululemon bag at him. “Is a freakin’ car payment.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. Glowered at her. Didn’t take the bag that dangled from her outstretched hand. “Just put on the damn clothes, Jenn. Time is money, and we’re wasting it.”
She opened her mouth and then snapped it closed. She couldn’t argue with that. Time was money. “I’ll wear ’em for now. But I’m not keeping ’em.”
He had the gall to smirk at her. “Whatever.”
Chapter Five
Greg stared at the doorway long after Jenn disappeared into the dressing room to change. He was still staring when she re-emerged, dressed in workout clothes that clung to her curves like Scrooge McDuck held onto his gold.
He hid his grin. An ill-fitting bargain outfit from Target wouldn’t have done her near this much justice. “Feeling better now?”
She glared at him. “Time is money. Remember?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Clearly not feeling better, even though she lookedfantastic. He waved toward the cardio machines. “Treadmill or elliptical?”
“I’d rather take the elliptical.”
Good, because he preferred the treadmill. “After you.”
She sashayed toward the equipment, hips swaying seductively. He thoroughly enjoyed the view—until she whirled around, fire heating her green eyes. “Are you staring at my rear end?”
“Guilty.” He wasn’t sorry about it, either. “Why are you so worked up? You should be used to the attention by now.”
Jenn huffed out a breath and turned back around. “I guess you paid for that right.”
Before he had time to respond, she’d dropped to downward facing dog, her butt in the air. His cock stirred. He ignored it. “Get up, Jenn.”
She stayed put. “Not until you’ve looked your fill.”
Greg growled and wrapped his arms around her waist to pull her upright. Her sweet ass nestled against his groin. The contact nearly made him lose what was left of his mind.
But he managed to and set her away from him, at arm’s length. “I’m done now. Le
t’s get to work.”
Thank God she stopped fighting him and headed for the machine. He hopped on the treadmill and punched in a sixty-minute course. Five minutes in, he’d expended enough sexual energy to get down to business. “Let’s brainstorm a theme for the campaign.”
“What do you have in mind?” Jenn asked. Like him, she wasn’t even winded.
Small wonder. She had to be in great shape to put on a show three times a night.
A picture of her, dancing onstage, formed in his mind. He quickly banished it. “The Foundation’s goal is to help the less fortunate, right?”
“Right.”
“These are kids who might well have little hope.”
She pedaled harder. “Mmm-hmm.”
“Well, the way I see it, the best thing we could do for those kids is show them they have the power to change their lives.”
Her legs slowed for a beat before she sped up again. “Right.”
“So we need to empower them.” He plunged onward, even though she seemed less than thrilled with the idea. “I was thinking we can focus on superpowers.”
“Real people don’t have superpowers.”
“Not imaginary ones like super strength or the ability to shoot webs out of your wrists. Real superpowers, like learning. Helping others. Playing sports.”
For a long minute, the whir of machinery and the strike of his feet on the treadmill were the only sounds in the room. Hell. Was the idea so awful it left her speechless? He thought it was pretty awesome.
Then the elliptical stopped. Jenn’s shoulders shook and—
“Are you crying?”
She dabbed at her eyes with the hem of her top and sniffled. “No.”
“Yeah, you are.” He upped the treadmill’s speed by another two miles per hour. “Stop it. If my idea sucks that bad, we can come up with something else.”
“The idea’s great.”
“Then why’d it bring you to tears?” Even if he lived long enough to win a World Series ring for each finger, he’d never make sense of how women thought.
“You have more substance than you let on, don’t you?”
Greg stumbled and had to grab the handrails to keep himself from flying off the back of the treadmill. When he regained his footing, he backed off the speed. “What makes you say that?”
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