Ms. Bravo and the Boss

by Christine Rimmer

  And then again, so what if he ogled her? She hitched up her chin and ogled right back. Let him stare. She didn’t have to be skinny to type.

  Eventually, he stepped back and gestured her into his cavernous foyer. Against her better judgment, she went.

  “Elise, you said?”

  Ms. Bravo to you, she fervently wished she had the nerve to reply. “Elise. That’s right.”

  “I’m Jed.”

  “I know.”

  “Who sent you?”

  “My half sister Nell said she thought you might be looking for a new assistant today.”

  “Nell Bravo, you mean?”

  “That’s the one.”

  He frowned, considering. “That was enterprising of Nell.”

  Elise could easily lose patience with this guy. “Do you need a new assistant or not?”

  Was that a smirk on his face? “Fair enough then, Elise.” The smirk vanished to be replaced by an expression of utter boredom. And then he said in a tone that commanded and dismissed her simultaneously, “Let’s see what you can do.”

  He really did piss her off—not that that was a bad thing. Her irritation made her determined to show him he’d be an idiot not to hire her. Because Nellie was right. She was a damn fine typist. But more important, she was a Bravo and a Bravo didn’t let some big, grouchy butthead intimidate her.

  “This way.” He turned on his heel and started walking.

  She went where he led her, through a fabulous three-story great room, down a hall at the back to a two-story home office with a breathtaking view of the mountains and one entire floor-to-ceiling wall filled with books. The opposite wall was padded, covered in burlap, had a number of bull’s-eye targets hanging from it and was scarily studded with what appeared to be stab marks.

  Okay, so maybe he played darts. But stab marks? Surely not...

  “Sit here.” He pulled back the high-end leather desk chair in front of a computer with a screen the size of Cleveland.

  Her heart pounding wildly, she sat.

  He stood way too close behind her. She swallowed hard and pressed her lips together to keep from ordering him to back off. When he reached over her shoulder, she had to steel herself not to flinch as she felt the heat of his big body.

  So close, she could smell him. He smelled really good—like cinnamon. She stared at the ropy tendons in his muscled forearm, at the silky brown hair that dusted his tanned skin, at the sheer size of his big hand as he tapped on the keyboard.

  A document popped onto the screen.

  He withdrew his hand and backed off, moving over so that he stood in her line of sight. “Start a new paragraph.” As the cursor blinked tauntingly at her, he explained, “I’ll use your name as the signal to start and stop. When you hear ‘Elise,’ you will type the next word I say and keep typing every word I utter until I speak your name again. And so on. Are we clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  He made a grunting sound, as though he doubted that. “Do not speak. Not one word.” He paused, as if expecting her to say something and thus prove she was incapable of following instructions. Fat chance, buddy. When she only waited, he added, “Fake the punctuation. We’ll clean it up in edits. Elise.”

  Did he think she wouldn’t be ready? Ha.

  He began, “It was a day for killing underlings.” She typed each word as it fell from his mouth. “A day without mercy, the sky a gray wolf, crouched on the land, hungry and unforgiving. The man in the watch cap was waiting for him at the station as agreed Elise.” He said her name so softly, without even a hint of a pause to signal it was coming.

  But she was ready. She punched in a period after the word agreed and stopped typing. The room was suddenly totally silent. A strange, hot little shiver raced beneath her skin as she waited, fingers poised on the keyboard, for the sound of her name.

  Finally, almost in a whisper, he said, “Not bad, Elise.” And they were off and running again. “The man thought he was safe, thought he understood his place and his function. He assumed he would come through this in one piece as long as he did his job. But no one was safe. It was the nature of the game they played. Jack didn’t want to kill the man. And maybe, if things went as planned, he wouldn’t have to. Too bad things so rarely proceeded as planned...”

  Jed went on, his deep voice rising and falling.

  Breathing slowly and evenly, Elise had found that calm space she’d learned to inhabit back in Mrs. Clemo’s second period keyboarding class. So few people took keyboarding, even back then. But Elise had, because you never knew when it might come in handy to actually be good at something so basic, something most people nowadays just fumbled their way through.

  Elise let his words wash into her, through her, and then pushed them out her fingers as he kept on.

  And on. Sometimes his voice was eerily soft—and sometimes he shouted.

  She tuned out his unnerving changes in volume and tone and stayed with her task, typing the words as he spoke them, throwing in punctuation wherever his pace and phrasing seemed to indicate it, stopping when she heard her name, and then waiting—calm, ready, silent—until he said her name again.

  There was something about typing that just worked for her, that was as effortless as drawing her next breath.

  Not that she’d ever want to type for a living. Uh-uh. Too much sitting. For the long haul, she needed a job with variety, a job where she didn’t have to spend all day on her butt.

  But Nellie had mentioned a looming deadline, hadn’t she? How long did he have? A few months at the most? Elise could be a typist for three months. If the money was good enough.

  About twenty minutes after he started dictating, Jed said her name yet again—and after that, he was silent.

  She cast him a quick, questioning glance.

  With one big arm across his chest and the other elbow braced on it, he stroked the scruff of beard on his square jaw, a calculating gleam in his eyes. Finally, he spoke. “The typing test is over. Swivel that chair around.” She turned her chair to face him. “Can you go on like that for hours?”

  She took a minute to consider the question.

  It was a minute too long, apparently, because he muttered impatiently, “You may speak now.”

  “Thank you,” she replied with a sarcasm he either didn’t notice or chose to ignore. “I would need a five-minute break every two hours, long enough to stand up and walk around a little.”

  “I can accept that.”

  “An hour for lunch.”

  He scowled as he continued to stroke his rocklike jaw. Apparently, in his world, typists shouldn’t be allowed to waste precious time on food. But then he conceded, “All right. An hour. But you’ll need to be flexible as to which hour. If the story’s flowing, you might have to wait a while to eat.”

  “Even with regular five-minute breaks, there have to be limits. No more than five hours at a stretch without an hour-long break.”

  A grunt of disapproval escaped him. But then he agreed, “Five hours. All right. The work will be intense and you’ll need to roll with that. I have to get a book out fast and I’ll need you when I need you—which will be ten to twelve hours a day. You will have to live here and you will work six days a week, with Sundays off.”

  Live here in his house? God, it sounded awful. But in the end, it was all about the money. If the money was good enough, she could bear a whole boatload of awful.

  And wait. What about Mr. Wiggles? He would have to come with her. “I have a cat. My cat will be moving in with me.”

  Dead silence from Walsh. He stopped stroking his jaw and moved to the windows. For several seconds, he stared out at the mountains.

  It appeared that Mr. Wiggles was going to be a deal-killer. Well, so be it. She’d barely gotten the big sweetie out alive during the fire. If she had t
o live with this strange, grumpy man, Wigs was coming with her. Or she wouldn’t come at all.

  Jed turned those intense eyes on her again. “Fine. Bring the damn cat.” She felt equal parts triumphant that she’d won her demand and let down that she was one step closer to being Jed Walsh’s typing slave for she still didn’t know how long. She was about to ask him how long the job would last when he said flatly, “Unfortunately, I find you sexually attractive. That could be a problem.” Did he actually just say that? Another of those odd shivers swept through her as he added thoughtfully, “But then there’s the cat. I hate cats. That should help.” Frowning, he kept those cold eyes steadily on her. “You’re thinking I shouldn’t have told you that I’m attracted to you. But I think it’s better if we’re on the same page.”

  She probably shouldn’t ask, but she couldn’t resist. “What page is that, Jed?”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “The one where you know that I’m aware of you as a woman, but we both know that work is the focus here and we will be keeping it strictly professional.”

  Elise said nothing. Really, what was there to say? The less the better, clearly. She shouldn’t be flattered. But she was, a little. Apparently the extra pounds she’d put on since the fire didn’t look so bad on her, after all.

  “My deadline is November first and it will not be extended.”

  “Four and a half months.” She mentally calculated the money that might be hers.

  “It’s likely you’ll be finished by mid-October, but I need you to commit till November first, just in case I run into trouble. I do most of my rewriting while composing the first draft of the manuscript. So essentially, the book is finished when I get to the last page. Then I clean it up, but that I usually can do on my own in a couple of weeks, max."

  "All right. Four to four and a half months, then."

  "Yes. If you last, the position will become permanent. It’s a grind when I’m on a project. But as I said, I type my own rewrites, so as soon as I’ve made it to the end of the first draft, I probably won’t need you until I start the next book. You’ll have weeks and sometimes months off at a time between books.”

  Elise thought of all those thousands he supposedly would pay. She could almost let him think she might be willing to type his novels long-term to get a chance at that money.

  But she wasn’t willing, no way. And it was only right to let him know up front. “I’m sorry, Jed. If we can come to terms, I’ll do this one project. But as of November first, I’ll be moving on.”

  His scowl deepened. “I pay well.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “If you work out, I’ll need you to stay on.”

  “Sorry, not happening. I’m done the first of November. If you can’t accept that, then—”

  He cut her off with a grunting sound. “All right. Have it your way. Even if you make it through the trial period, you’re done when I finish this book. If it turns out we work well together, I’m not gonna like it, but I need someone ASAP. Let’s move on to the money. You’ll be an independent contractor. You pay your own insurance and deal with your own taxes.”

  “Not a problem if the money’s right.”

  “Three thousand a week.”

  Amazing! When this ordeal was over, she could have enough to get Bravo Catering up and running again. Her heart raced in excitement and her palms started sweating at the prospect. But really, why stop there?

  She wiped all signs of greedy glee from her face and manufactured a serene smile. “Four thousand a week.”

  His cold stare went subzero. She was dead certain they were done here and she knew a moment of stark regret. No, she didn’t want to sit in a chair all day typing her fingers to the bone, but she did want that money.

  And then at last, wonder of wonders, he nodded. “All right. Four.” She was just breaking into her mental happy dance when he added, “If you last. We’ll start with a three-day trial at five hundred a day.”

  She opened her mouth to shout out a yes. But some contrary creature within her spoke up first. “I’ll have my own room, correct?”

  He looked down his blade of a nose at her. “Of course.”

  “Just to be clear, I will need my own bathroom, en suite.”

  “There are six bedrooms in this house.” He was wearing his bored face again. “Each has its own bath.”

  “I want to see the one where I’ll be staying, please.”

  He asked wearily, “Would you prefer the ground floor or upstairs?”

  Choices. She loved those. Lately, there had been so few. “Where is your room?”

  Green eyes narrowed. “And that matters, why?”

  “I need my space.”

  He made a humphing sound. “I have half of the upper floor.”

  “Ground floor, then.” She really did need a place to go where he wasn’t. “Show me, please.”

  Jed’s expression asked why she insisted on wasting his precious time. But all he said was, “Follow me.”

  She rose and went after him, back through the great room and down another hallway. He stopped at a door and pushed it inward.

  The room on the other side was larger than her apartment over the donut shop. It had a king-size bed and its own sitting area, with a big-screen TV above the modern gas fireplace. The wide windows revealed another beautiful mountain view. There was even a set of French doors leading out to a small private patio. She could hardly wait to settle in.

  “Walk-in closet there.” He pointed at one of the two interior doors. “I hope this will do,” he said, heavy on the irony.

  She had one more question. The most important one. “May I see the bathroom?”

  “Be my guest.” He gestured at that other door.

  Elise marched over and pushed it open.

  Pure luxury waited on the other side. She’d never been much for the rustic look. But in this case, she could definitely make an exception.

  The woodwork was dark and oversize, breathtaking. Travertine tiles in cream and bronze covered the floor and climbed halfway up the walls. The long vanity had two sinks and copper fixtures. There were separate stalls for the toilet and the open shower, which had side jets and a rain showerhead.

  Very faintly, she smelled cinnamon. Jed had come to stand behind her in the doorway. “The towel racks have warmers, of course,” he said. “And the floor is heated.”

  “Of course,” she said softly, transfixed by the glorious sight of the giant jetted tub tucked into its own windowed alcove. The tub windows had center-mounted cellular shades that could be raised to the top to block glare, or lowered to the bottom for privacy. She could stretch out in bubbly splendor and stare at the sky.

  “Well?” Jed demanded.

  She turned and met his eyes. “When do you want me to start?”

  Chapter Two

  Elise Bravo was a find.

  Jed knew she was going to last.

  He’d known it the minute he’d let her in his house. She wasn’t like the never-ending string of hopeless cases he’d hired and fired in the past year. She could type like nobody’s business while keeping her mouth shut and not getting frazzled or riled. There was something downright soothing about her, something receptive. She was exactly what he’d been afraid he would never find again. At last.

  And he liked looking at her. He could go for her, definitely. She was so soft and pretty, round-faced and bright-eyed, with just enough junk in the trunk. She smelled good, as well. Fresh. Like clean sheets.

  She also had attitude. Jed liked a woman with attitude. He liked a woman who could hold her own.

  Not that he’d ever make a move on her. Any woman could provide sex. But a skilled assistant was a pearl beyond price. He’d learned that the hard way during the past god-awful year after Anna deserted him.

 
So yeah, he’d resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t going to be seeing Elise naked. It was going to be all about the work. He’d taken his last extension on this book. With Elise at the keyboard, he would knock the damn thing out.

  “I need to get to work immediately,” he said.

  “I understand. But first I have to get my cat, move my things and settle in a little.”

  The cat. For a moment, he’d almost succeeded in forgetting the cat. “We’ll start tomorrow morning, then,” he said grudgingly.

  “Yes. All right, tomorrow.” She cast a glance over her shoulder at the bathroom behind her, as if to reassure herself that it was actually there. She really seemed to like the bathroom. Whatever floats your boat, Elise. She could spend every free moment in there for all he cared. Just as long as she performed during the long working hours. “What about meals?” she asked. “I’ll need to have the use of the kitchen while I’m staying here.”

  “No problem. I have a cook-housekeeper, Deirdre, who comes in five days a week. She’ll make plenty for both of us. But if you want to cook, knock yourself out. You can consider the kitchen and any food and drinks you find in it yours.”

  “Works for me.” She looked up at him expectantly. Probably because he was blocking her path. “I should get going...”

  He felt a definite reluctance to let her out of his sight. Anything could happen. What if she changed her mind about working for him? Got hit by lightning? Got in an accident bringing over her stuff and her damn cat? He warned, “We start work at zero-eight-three-zero hours sharp.”

  “That’s eight thirty, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “No problem. I’ll be here and I’ll be ready.”