by Avery Laval
“With all due respect, this has nothing to do with pedicures,” Jenna said, unable to remember the last time she’d seen the inside of a spa. “I can work hard, and I will—because I have responsibilities.” Responsibilities that were none of Grant Blakely’s business.
“I can only imagine. A responsibility to our community’s retail outlets. You probably single-handedly propped up the Las Vegas economy with the purchase of that outfit and the diamond watch you’re wearing.”
At the mention of her mother’s watch, Jenna’s anger simmered over. Who was this man to think he knew who she was, to accuse her of being a dumb, spoiled brat, when he knew nothing about her life? He didn’t have the first idea what it was like to lose everything she’d held dear when she was barely old enough to know her own mind. He didn’t know how hard it had been to see her brother on the edge, day in and day out, always on the brink of disaster—and then, that horrible day, over the brink.
Grant Blakely didn’t need—didn’t deserve—to know anything about her.
Could she put up with this imperious man for her family? Once more she pressed her eyes closed, tried to summon up thoughts of her father, her mother, and her brother’s smiling face.
It worked. Her family always gave her power. She summoned her strength and rose to her feet, advanced around the mahogany desk that probably cost more than a year’s rent in her run-down apartment, and positioned herself right in front of Blakely—just exactly as he’d done to her six years ago. “I know what you think about me—what you’ve always thought of me,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “But please understand, I am not some trust-fund brat—or I’m not anymore. I can work, I can start from the bottom, I can make coffee and book calendars and take phone messages. I am very capable of working in an office, and doing it well. I just need someone—I need you—to give me a chance.”
Her voice softened, and she looked him right in the eye so he would see how much she meant the words she said. “If you do, I promise you will not regret it.”
For just a moment, the smirk on Grant’s handsome face was replaced by contemplation. And then, slowly, his mouth bent into a wide, wicked grin, a grin that sent tremors of fear up and down Jenna’s spine. He leaned back in his chair to angle his face upward toward her. “You want a job that badly? You think you can do the work? Fine. I promised you a job, and you will have one—for three months. After that I will evaluate you, see if your performance is up to par. There are no free rides at McCormick Jewels—or at least there haven’t been in six years.”
Jenna was so relieved that he was hiring her that she ignored his dig and took a deep breath instead. “Thank you, Grant. Thank you so much.” She fought the urge to reach across the desk and touch his arm, reminding herself to be a professional. This was her big chance. Her only chance.
“Don’t thank me just yet,” said Grant. As he rose, he reached out and touched—practically caressed—her chin, and tilted her face to look right into those dangerous blue eyes. “I didn’t tell you what your job would be. I need a new personal assistant—I’ve been using temps for months—and you’re it. From now on, you work directly under me.”
2
“Under you?” For a long moment, Jenna was unable to do more than repeat the words. There, standing so close to this powerful man, she felt a charge between them she’d never felt in her life. Her mind went blank, then flashed to an image of herself literally under his body that was so torrid she had to shake her head to get back to reality. Where had that come from? “I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but that makes no sense.”
“Oh, no?” Grant asked, his voice low, intense. His eyes were fixed on her. Could he be feeling the strange electricity, too?
“None whatsoever.” She had to talk him out of this. Working in such close proximity with this man was beyond contemplation. “You just said yourself that I’m inexperienced, a novice, have no idea what it means to work hard. Why would you want to have to personally deal with that every single day?”
Grant broke his gaze at last, and glanced toward the door, as if assessing their level of privacy. “Because, Ms. McCormick, I want you where I can see you. What you say is true: I don’t think you’re capable of hard work. So why would I want to impose you on any of my prized employees? You’ll find that incompetence”—on that word, his gaze swung right at her, ran up and down her form like he was shopping for a new suit, or a fast car—“incompetence is not welcome here, and I refuse to subject my colleagues to anything of the sort. You’ll work under me.”
Oh, that phrase again, and the imagery that came with it. “At least until your evaluation,” he finished. “At which point I suspect this matter will be brought to a close.”
At that, Jenna’s earlier terror morphed into irritation. The arrogant bastard. He thought she was such a brainless twit that no one but him would be able to put up with her? How little he knew! She couldn’t wait to set him straight, to show him just how capable she could be.
But wait. Since when did she care what Grant Blakely thought of her? She’d wanted this job so that she could afford to take care of her brother, and to keep one foot in the McCormick family business, such as it was. She wasn’t doing this to impress the very man who’d stolen the company from her. She’d sworn never to speak to him again, much less to stand so close to him…to feel such an intensity oozing from his body…to have the urge to touch every inch of him with her burning fingertips…
“I have to go,” she blurted. She had to get away from him before her mind raced off somewhere her body couldn’t follow. All the fight was out of her, replaced by an unstoppable urge to flee. “I have, um, I have someplace to be. Thank you so much for the job. I won’t let you down.”
Grant pulled back from his close stance, turned away from her, and she felt instantly dismissed. It stung. “Just as I suspected,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to keep the pedicurist waiting. But starting tomorrow, you’re mine from nine in the morning until I say so in the evening, and you should know how late this business can require you to work. So many working dinners and client receptions…” Again he looked her up and down, and her blood sizzled. “Though perhaps you’ll shine in that arena. Clear your schedule. This time tomorrow, you belong to me.”
The moment Jenna McCormick left his office—well, fled was probably a more apt word—Grant sat down and ran his fingers aggressively over his close-cropped dark hair, as if he was trying to force something from his brain.
Who was that woman? She was not the 21-year-old debutante he’d once known, not by a long shot. That girl had been demanding and pouty, the product of a mother who couldn’t say no to anything and a father who offered her the world. When her parents had died, she’d seemed put out to return to Vegas from her ski trip in Tahoe, as though there was still fun to be had whether her mother and father were above ground or below it.
Grant frowned at the memory of that dark day. She’d marched into this office, skis in hand, as though she expected to find her father still there. He would never forget the fit she’d thrown when she’d found him sitting in the CEO’s office instead, organizing the files he’d brought from the smaller VP’s office to this one. It was one of the worst days in his life. He’d been lost in grief for his mentor, and daunted by his sudden responsibility to the company. Which, he supposed, had included her.
And yet still, even back then, there’d been no denying a flicker of attraction between them. She was absolutely wrong for him in a million ways, but it was no use telling that to his body. He’d fought tooth and nail to keep himself focused on business. And it was a good thing, too. If he hadn’t, perhaps she’d have succeeded at taking over the company. And bankrupting them all.
He remembered her frantic attempts to turn the board of directors against him six years ago, and disdain surged through him. He’d tried to make it easier on her back then. Though technically she’d been old enough to take control of her father’s share of the business, she was nowhere near
mature enough to handle the responsibilities of running a Fortune 500 company in the nation’s most power-hungry city. Her own father had known that. And right away Grant had offered her a way out—one that involved a family partnership on the board, but no active control in the company. But that hadn’t suited her whims. She had fancied herself a CEO at twenty-one, and, egged on by a vast team of lawyers, she’d been willing to risk ruining the company’s stock value to make it so.
Grant shook his head at her foolishness. Her impulsive move could have rendered all his work and his hard-won reputation in business completely worthless. She had broken a cardinal rule of corporate power: Never risk something you’re unwilling to lose. She’d given up her controlling shares in McCormick in an attempt to win favor with the board, and the risk hadn’t paid off. Liquidating shares so soon after the tragedy had brought down prices and lost them all money, and the company had been barely afloat as it was. The very next day, she was fired by the board, pure and simple, and without the controlling stock holdings, there was nothing left to tie a single McCormick to the company the family had built from the ground up.
It must have been a rough day for Jenna McCormick. That was the day she’d stormed into the big office and declared him a “morally corrupt, scheming cheat who would drive the company into the ground.” And the day he’d made a offhand promise to hire her if she was ever willing to work.
A promise that now, after all this time, was coming back to bite him.
Grant sighed, thinking of everything that had happened since he’d made that offer. As CEO, he had helped the company turn a vast profit by the second year. His resulting bonuses had been the beginning of an empire. He pivoted in his chair and looked out the huge windows of his office onto the flashing lights of the Vegas strip. A bit of it even belonged to him. He was welcome at every VIP room in every casino in town. He never had to wait for a table at Bouchon. Thanks to his work ethic and good fortune, having a woman show up at his door looking for a handout was nothing new. But today, Jenna hadn’t wanted a handout.
Had she changed? Growing up into that tempting body of hers, with her long, curvaceous legs and lips like invitations, had she grown up emotionally, too?
Nonsense. Grant forced himself to ignore the tightening sensation at the thought of her body and concentrate instead on what might have happened had Jenna taken control of the company successfully. She’d have ruined his reputation and that of McCormick Jewels as well. The last he’d heard of her had been a year after the takeover, and she’d been smoothing her ruffled feathers at the best suite in the Venetian, interviewing doctors in top-secret private meetings. Which possibly explained where those incredible breasts had come from…
Stop thinking about her breasts, he scolded himself. Remember the real reason she’s here.
For Grant knew that Jenna McCormick hadn’t shown up in his office begging for a job just because she needed money. He’d offered her a position so unappealing she’d have been crazy to take it over any number of overpaid, underworked ladies-who-lunch gigs she could have gotten from her parents’ connections. And besides, her parents had left her with enough money that she should have gotten away with her life of leisure for many more years. So why here? Why now?
The penny dropped.
She was husband hunting. He didn’t want it to be true, but he’d known plenty of heiresses and gold-diggers in this strange gilded city. They shopped for pro athletes and CEOs the way some people shopped for shoes. Why would Jenna be any different?
He thought back to the moment he’d described the position to her. “You will work directly under me,” he’d said. Under him. Her reaction hadn’t been the disgust he’d expected. Actually, her whole body had seemed to sizzle at the words. Was it sexual attraction, pure and simple, or something more calculating?
Of course. What better way for her to keep that promise she’d made to her father to keep a hand in the company. She’d weasel her way into his life, and never have to work a day again, but still enjoy all the spoils of McCormick Jewels’ success. The thought went against everything Grant believed in.
He thought again of her pleading eyes. Her nervous demeanor. He wanted more than anything to be wrong about her. But he was so seldom wrong about anyone. He’d learned long ago that trusting his gut without doing all of his research was dangerous. It was not a mistake he ever intended to repeat. He had to be sure.
He buzzed his assistant. “Anna?” he said to the latest in a string of temps manning his front desk. “Get me James Houghton, please.”
“Frames who now?” came a distracted voice.
Grant sighed. “James Houghton. As in Houghton Investigatory Services. I’ve got some digging to do.”
“Hello? Who is this?”
Grant could tell by the drowsy way Jenna answered the phone that he had woken her. Good. After all, thoughts of her had kept him up half the night, and he was happy to return the favor. “Good morning, Jenna.”
“Grant? I mean, Mr. Blakely? Why are you calling me at 6:15 in the morning?”
“It’s not too early, is it?” he asked in mock innocence. “I hope you’re up and moving, because I need you here soon. I’ve arranged a 7:30 meeting today, and I’d like you to be around to greet the attendees.”
There was a short silence on the line, and then she spoke. “Seven-thirty in the morning?”
“Absolutely. The best work gets done while everyone is still fresh, wouldn’t you agree?” Grant grinned as he spoke. Considering he was in his pajamas, sipping from an oversize mug of French roast as he looked through his picture windows at the waking city below, this was as fresh as it got.
“I’ve never thought anything but bagels should be fresh at 7:30 in the morning,” she quipped. But she added in a much more professional voice, “Sorry. I’ll be there by 7:30 on the dot. I’d appreciate it if you could try to give me a little more warning in the future, though, if you don’t mind. I need forty-five minutes to make the commute.”
“Oh, you’re that close to the office, then?” Grant shot back. “In that case, why don’t you come in a little earlier, so you have time to brew a big pot of coffee for the meeting? I take mine black. No sugar.” He heard a muffled squawk on the other line, like someone had just dropped an anvil on her toe, and for a brief moment he pitied her. A lifetime without lifting a finger. Working for a taskmaster would be a terrible shock, he knew.
But the moment passed. If she wanted to play at being an employee, he could show her just how demanding some bosses could be. Never mind that he’d worked with his last permanent assistant, a college grad named Nate, for five years without a single complaint. Never mind that Nate had accused him of being a softie when it came to days off and family issues. Jenna would get to know the more intense side of life as a personal assistant. After all, she was the one who wanted to get really personal.
On the other end of the line, Jenna squeezed her eyes shut, then open, then shut again. One more time and maybe she’d be transported back to her bed, sleeping dreamlessly, instead of standing here seething at her new boss. Tyrant was more apt a title for the man. Of course he took his coffee dark and bitter—just like his personality. How could she have ever felt attracted to him? Now that he was almost an hour away, it was much easier for her to remember her previous resentment for the hard-hearted man.
A quick shower was all she had time for. Then she slid into the same dark gray suit she’d worn to meet him yesterday, with a different silk top—she’d never had much need for business attire in her old life, and would have to get by on two suits mixed and matched—and went looking for a hairbrush to try to force her long, brown, stick-straight hair into a respectable shape of some sort. She found it lying in front of a framed photo of her whole family, taken in easier times.
Good. She slid the photograph into her tote bound for the office. It was the perfect reminder of why she was doing this today. She’d go in there with her head held high and her arms full of coffee mugs, ready to dazzle t
he tyrant’s fine Italian trousers right off. Wait—scratch that. She didn’t want to think about his trousers off for even a second. But it was too late. The image of a long muscular pair of legs squeezed its way into her head before she could stop it. And then a picture of those legs twisted with hers in the sheets…
No, Jenna Lynn McCormick! Absolutely not, she scolded herself, shaking her shoulders to set her head right. Do not think about your new boss that way. Brush hair, put on lipstick, get in car, drive to new job. She barked out instructions to herself as she got to each step, as if to speed herself along. Or force herself forward.
Within fifteen minutes she was in the car, pulling out of the driveway of the little concrete apartment block that she’d come to think of as her “little Bellagio.” It wasn’t anywhere near as grand as the real thing, where she’d crashed regularly before her parents died, but she liked it whole heck of a lot better. Oh, she hadn’t at first—she’d acted like a brat, like a poor little rich girl, and stormed about expecting the world to hand her back her old life. But now she enjoyed the simplicity and privacy of her cozy home. And the security it provided.
As she sped toward the twinkling lights and commanding buildings of the Strip, she thought again of how she’d gotten to this place—how her routine had gone from ski trips and spa days to a quiet existence in North Vegas, taking care of herself and her little brother, trying not to think too much about what came next. It wasn’t bad at all—in fact she rather loved her peaceful, humdrum life. Truly, everything would have been perfect if she hadn’t had so many expenses. But the money worries had just gotten to be too much, and every day that her wallet got lighter, her heart got heavier. She hated waking up in the morning and wondering how she’d pay for a tank of gas that day—or, more importantly, how she’d make sure her brother continued to get the inpatient care he needed.