He stared at his front door gaping wide open. Shit, how much worse could this day get?
***
Gemma stepped up to the customs desk at LAX and flattened her passport under the window.
“Business or pleasure?” The cute customs official smiled.
“Pleasure all the way.” She swept her newly-stamped passport into her bag, and trudged toward the escalator, hitching her carry-on over her shoulder.
She took the coward’s way and had sent Dad a note by mail from Heathrow. By the time he received it, she’d have her feet firmly planted in California soil, or better yet, beach sand from the Pacific Ocean.
She scoped out the passengers waiting for their luggage and settled on a beefy bloke with an engaging smile. She sidled next to him and put on her dumb blonde act until she had him slavishly at her feet. When her suitcases rolled by on the carousel, he snagged and secured them for her.
She’d learned to use her assets to ease her way through life. Why take the hard road when you could hop on the back of a lorry? In fact, she’d studied at the master’s knee. Her brother never worked too hard if he could avoid it. Didn’t have to. The gods had endowed him with lightening-quick reflexes, speed, and a deadly aim.
She shuffled into the line for the taxis and pulled a crinkled sheet of paper out of her handbag. The magical address in Beverly Hills danced before her eyes, promising everything she’d ever dreamed of.
After an interminable time on the freeway, where not one of her charms worked on the surly driver to get him to speed up, the taxi rolled to a stop in front of a luxurious high-rise. She craned her neck to peer at the towering palm trees as a giddy excitement zinged up her spine.
The taxi driver plunked her bags down on the steps in front of the over-sized double doors and held out his hand.
She fished around her handbag for the American bills she got at Heathrow. Generally she tipped well, especially if the tip didn’t come out of her own money, which it never did, but this bloke hadn’t cracked one smile on the entire ride. She carefully selected a few bills and dropped them into his outstretched hand, feeling virtuous that she’d just saved Simon a few quid.
She yanked on the long door handle, but the door didn’t budge. Cupping her hand over the window, she peered inside. An African-American man hunched behind a desk in front of a screen. Apparently, it wasn’t the screen for the camera out here. She banged on the window, and he jerked his head around. He pointed to the left, and held up his hand mimicking a receiver.
She spotted the phone and grabbed it. After one ring, the man picked up.
“Hello, I’m Gemma Bosford.” That was usually sufficient to get her in anywhere, anytime.
The security guard paused. “Is that so?” What happened to all the friendly Yanks? “Yes, my brother, Simon Bosford, lives here, and I’ve come over for a visit.”
Of course if she had anything to say, it would turn into one long visit.
The phone clicked in her ear, and the man rose from behind the desk and sauntered toward the door. She exhaled and gripped the door handle, but the man stood to the side by the window and studied her with an unblinking stare. Then he turned on his heel and went back to his desk.
“Hello?” She pounded on the door, and then squinted in the window. The man was on the phone again. Hopefully he was calling Simon, and he’d better be home because she had a sinking feeling this stoic security guard wasn’t about to usher her through these golden gates.
She spotted movement and scrunched up her face at the window again. She felt just like she did when Mum and Dad took them all to Blackpool for holiday and she’d stared in the sweet shop window at the colorful salt water taffy.
They wouldn’t buy her any, couldn’t afford it, and then Simon pressed a ten P in her hand and she bought a pink one with stripes and savored every sweet chew.
The doors jerked open, and the security guard loomed over her. He called back over one broad shoulder, “Is this your sister, Boss?”
He stepped aside and Simon, sporting a dark scowl, stalked to the door.
“Simon!” She brushed past the towering figure of the security guard, and threw herself at her brother.
The scowl melted into his benevolent-big-brother grin, and he hugged her hard. “What the hell are you doing here, Gem?”
“I’m here to look out for you.” She surveyed his tousled hair, which didn’t look like the on-purpose kind of tousled, the stubble on his chin, the faded jeans, and the old World Cup t-shirt, and frowned. “And not a minute too soon.” Simon always took care with his appearance. If he had a rip in his jeans, the designer put it there. If he grew a stubble, he was channeling old Miami Vice episodes. He dressed to perfection to combat that ragged little boy in the council flats. She knew all about that compulsion after years of hand-me-downs from her sisters.
Maybe he’d already adopted the southern California casual look...or he really did need her help. That would be a switch.
He gripped her shoulders and turned her around to face the security guard. “Gemma, this is Isaac.”
“Any sister of the Boss is welcome here.” The big man engulfed her hand in his.
“Nice to meet you, Isaac.” Better get on his good side.
She batted her eyelashes and smiled. “Could you please get my bags?”
“Isaac is a security guard, not a doorman. Get your own bloody bags.” Isaac laughed, and Simon clamped his hand on the back of her neck, propelling her toward the doors.
They dragged the bags in, and at least Simon hoisted the heavy one over his shoulder after securing the smaller one on top of the wheeled luggage. She ducked between the straps of her carry-on where it rested across her chest.
“Planning a long stay?” He quirked a brow.
She charged toward the elevator, ignoring his question.
The plush elevator with its mirrored panels, thick carpets, and secret little access key for the penthouse suite screamed exclusivity. She could get used to this.
The doors whispered open onto a private hallway.
Simon selected another key and slipped it into the lock of the only door in sight. He nudged the door open with his knee, and Gemma blinked at the black and white living room with its gleaming electronic gadgets. An open book lay turned over on the black granite coffee table, a tea cup nearby, and music floated from the tall speakers.
As her gaze swept the room, the music and lyrics registered. Cowboy music. And even worse, the singer was crooning about some bloke dying from the drink. She struggled with her bag and dropped it on the floor. Did Simon lose his mind when his Ferrari went into the ocean?
She turned on Simon, and noticed for the first time, his feet shoved into a pair of rubber sandals. Didn’t mental patients wear those?
“Why are you wearing those sandals?” She pointed at the offensive footwear.
“They’re flip flops. Someone gave them to me.
Everyone here wears them. They even come with rhinestones, shells, and buttons on them.” Thank God he had the plain ones. “Can you please turn off this music?”
“Gladly.” He clicked a button on the remote and the twanging stopped. “Now we can talk about why you’re here and not at school in Oxford.”
“You’ve never been to university. It’s deadly.” She traipsed toward the massive kitchen and yanked open the door on the stainless steel fridge. Delicious smells of home-cooked food greeted her, making her mouth water. Airline food sucked.
“Where’d all this food come from? Can I have some?
I’m starving.”
“My housekeeper cooked today, but don’t expect anything frou frou.”
He followed her to the kitchen and rested one side of his bum on a stool, while keeping one foot firmly planted on the floor. “What are you doing here, Gemma?”
“I told you. I’m here to take care of you.” She peeked under a casserole lid, sniffing the contents.
“Bollocks.”
“Would you stop using that
terribly common expression?” She straightened up with the casserole dish in her hands, turned her back on him, and placed it in the microwave.
“You’ll hear plenty more common expressions from me if you don’t start talking.”
She allowed the tears to well up in her eyes and added a quiver to her lip before turning toward him. “I couldn’t take it anymore. Why would I want to study accounting? I hate numbers.”
“You’re right there. The idea of you as an accountant is ludicrous. The only numbers you’re interested in are the ones in my bank account.”
“That’s so unfair.” She let one teardrop roll down her cheek. “You and Dad both know I want to study acting.”
“Why study? You’re doing a bloody good job of it right now. What about university?”
“I can always go back.” Sensing a white flag, she went in for the finish. “The Olsen twins went to New York University.”
His blank face told her she’d better try something else.
“Jodie Foster went to Yale.” At least he raised his brows at that one. “Look, Simon, I can always go back to school. Let me give it a go. If I fail, I’ll come crawling back with my tail between my legs and admit defeat.”
His face tightened, and her heart skittered in her chest.
Did she say the wrong thing?
“That’s not necessary. You can stay, but I want to see you make some progress toward your goal. Enroll in some classes, get an acting coach. You’re not here on holiday.”
“Thank you!” She rushed around the counter and wrapped her arms around his neck just as the microwave buzzer sounded. She disentangled herself from her brother and removed the dish from the microwave. She scooped out some chicken and rice, plopped it onto two plates, and shoved one of them over to Simon.
“Now tell me what you’re doing home alone, listening to cowboy music and reading? I thought you had some savvy personal assistant assigned to look after you. Has he fallen down on the job?”
Simon speared a piece of chicken and blew on it.
“She was the best damned personal assistant in the free world.”
***
A few days after her hasty departure from Simon’s condo, and his life, Jessica studied the jobsnet website, scanning the positions for personal assistant. Nothing looked very promising except one job with a music industry agency. At least it didn’t have anything to do with sports.
She must’ve been crazy to think she’d be incognito at a sports agency, even using her mother’s maiden name.
An email notification popped up in the lower-right corner of her screen. An email from Evan. She didn’t much care what he had to tell her anymore. She hadn’t resigned from CSM yet. After her first hot-headed response to discovering Dad owned the Waves, she decided to play it professional, and submit a letter of resignation to Evan in person when he returned from Hawaii.
She wouldn’t even tell him the real reason. She didn’t want it to get back to Dad that she knew he owned the Waves...and the one man who sent her pulse racing around the sun and back.
She lost it when he kissed her palm and told her she was competent, even if it was a big, fat lie. He seemed reluctant to let her go. Did that reluctance come from the knowledge that he held the boss’s daughter in the palm of his hand like a scoop of ice cream? Just in case he didn’t know, she couldn’t bring herself to tell him. Bad enough he’d found out about Jimmy.
She clicked on Evan’s email. As she read his message, the blood pounded against her temples and she squeezed the mouse so hard, it almost popped out of her grasp.
She read it aloud to make sure she didn’t miss one condescending nuance. “Dear Jessica, I see you’re keeping our boy out of trouble, yourself too. Good girl.
Keep it up, and I’ll have a nice bonus for you.” Good girl? Did he think she was a freakin’ dog? She narrowed her eyes until the words on the screen blurred together. Yes, he did—a lapdog. His lapdog, her father’s lapdog. It all came into such sharp focus, it hurt her eyes.
Evan had snagged Roger Brett’s daughter for CSM, and then used her as bait to get favors from her father. Dad promised him those favors if he gave his daughter the job of assisting his big investment, Simon Bosford, thereby nailing two heads with the same hammer. That’s why Evan had instructed her to keep Simon out of trouble—Dad’s orders. This way she stayed out of mischief herself while protecting his investment.
And Dad could keep his hands clean. The whole time she’d be under the mistaken impression that she’d done it all on her own. Keeping her nose clean would be her idea because she’d be doing it to hold onto her job, the job she supposedly landed on her own. Humor Jessica and rein her in to boot.
She’d show them a boot—right in the ass.
A new mission burned in her gut. She jumped up from her kitchen table and slammed her laptop shut.
***
Evan snapped his laptop closed after he sent Jessica his encouraging email, a self-satisfied smile curling his lips.
By hiring Jessica Brett, he’d made his smartest move ever in a career filled with smart moves.
His new best pal, Roger Brett, had just sent him a congratulatory message. He’s the one who’d suggested the bonus for his daughter. Of course, he assured Evan that the bonus would come out of his own well-lined pockets.
After the one mishap with the Ferrari, the tabs couldn’t get a line on Simon Bosford. He seemed to have vanished into the cosmos this week, but Evan knew they owed it all to his good little gofer, Jessica, who desperately wanted to hold onto this job just to show her rich daddy she could.
“Honey, stop working and get in here,” Gina called from the water.
Evan stowed his laptop in his bag and rubbed his hands together. He planned to meet with Kanunu “Killer” Kalani, a massive linebacker from the University of Hawaii, in Honolulu on the way back home. Killer wanted to play for the L.A. Quakes since his mother lived in L.A. Now Evan could almost guarantee him a place in the starting line-up.
He pushed up from his beach chair and waded into the warm water. He stuck his hand on his head, pretending to be a shark, and grabbed his wife around the waist, pulling her under.
Yep, the smartest move he ever made.
***
Jessica jangled her soccer ball keychain before shoving a key in the lock and cranking it. She’d dashed out of Simon’s place so fast the other night she forgot to return his keys. Must’ve been fate.
She flashed a smile at Isaac, heels kicked up on his desk, hands folded behind his head.
His eyes widened. “Haven’t seen you here lately.” Didn’t sound like Simon told him she quit. Good.
“Is he in?” She pointed to the ceiling. “I called earlier, but he didn’t pick up. Figured he might still be sleeping, so I rushed over to make sure I caught him before he left. I’m not too late, am I?”
“As far as I know, he’s in. Unless he didn’t come home last night.”
Her stomach knotted at the thought of Simon out all night... with someone else.
“Only one way to find out.” She pasted a smile on her face and charged toward the elevator, ignoring Isaac sputtering behind her. She punched the button several times and almost collided with a couple on their way out.
She continued jabbing the buttons once inside the car, and then slipped the magic key in the slot that would deliver her to Simon’s penthouse.
She tripped down the hallway to his door and banged on it, just in case he was still sleeping. “Simon!” The door flew open, and Jessica’s jaw dropped as her gaze raked the very young, petite blonde framed in the doorway her pink baby doll nightie floating around her thighs.
Heat raced through her veins and soaked her cheeks.
Damn it. He’d already hooked up with someone, and a helpless little fluff of a someone at that.
“I-is Simon here?” She stammered, feeling ten kinds of awkward, even inventing a few new kinds. This had to be worse than the time she’d stumbled upon Jimmy in a hotel room with n
ot one, but two women. Worse because...she didn’t care about Jimmy.
“Yes, Simon’s home.” The woman bit her lip. “Is he expecting you?”
Even more awful, he’d found himself an English cutie with a cute accent. Bet she knew what taking the piss meant.
“I-I, uh, no, he’s not.” Okay, she had to stop stuttering and take control of this situation. This blond bimbo might even help grease the wheels of her plan.
“Who is it, Gemma?” Footsteps pounded down the stairs, and Simon came up behind the woman, shirtless, but at least with a pair of plaid pajama bottoms hanging low on his slim hips. He placed his hands on the spaghetti straps clinging to the woman’s white shoulders.
“Jessica!” He grinned, his entire face lighting up.
Yeah, he would see the humor in this predicament, but he didn’t have to look quite so happy about it. But then didn’t she deserve it? She ran out on him after an incredible night of shooting stars and moving earth, and then she quit.
“I’m sorry to come over unannounced. I called this morning, but...”
“No problem.” He shoved Babydoll aside, and grabbed Jesscia’s hand, pulling her over the threshold.
He seemed extremely anxious to get her in here. Did he have visions of a ménage a trois sandwich with himself as the ham? She sure hoped not. She didn’t do threesomes...at least not anymore...at least not with him.
“Simon, really, I don’t want to interrupt. What I have to tell you can wait.” Just not too long. She had to get her plan into gear.
“You’re not interrupting anything.” He waved his hand at the blonde, whose china-blue eyes glimmered with curiosity. “This is my sister, Gemma Bosford. Gemma, this is Jessica Jones, my...uh...personal assistant.” A tidal wave of relief flooded Jessica’s body. She turned to Gemma and crushed her petite form to her chest.
Gemma gave a muffled squeak, and Jessica released her.
“How wonderful your sister came for a visit already. Did she surprise you, or did you have it all planned out? How long have you been here? How do you like it so far? Have you been here before? Simon told me all about his three sisters.”
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