by Kris Pearson
CHAPTER THREE — THE PERFECT SECRETARY
Sammie leaned against the staffroom table, remembering the games. She’d finally given in to his insistent coaxing and felt him through his jeans on the last day of his vacation, marveled at the big shape he kept hidden there, rubbed her fingers up and down to work out what he looked like, and then not understood when he’d gasped and pushed her hand away, and sworn a lot, and dragged a handkerchief out of his pocket and stuffed it down inside his waistband.
No way would she admit to being Sammie from the orchard. How could they work together if they had those games hanging between them? The only option was to ignore the whole thing, complete her one-month contract, and slip quietly away.
She set four tumblers, some forks and a stack of paper napkins on the tray, and carried it through to his office.
“Will you be okay if I take the first lunch-break?” Tyler asked. “I need to put my feet up for a while.” She glanced down to her swollen ankles.
Sammie’s gaze followed, and she felt instantly contrite. Between discovering who Nick really was, driving his daunting car, and scrambling to learn as much as she could about the fitness center, she’d not given Tyler’s welfare enough thought.
“Fine,” she insisted, embarrassment no doubt showing on her face. “Is there anywhere here you can rest?”
“Rich has a really nice recliner chair in his room, one with a pop-up footrest. He won’t mind me taking it over for a while. I know he’s going to be number-crunching in with Nick until the Aussies turn up.” She heaved herself to her feet and waddled away.
“Can I bring you a drink?” Sammie called after her. “Tea, coffee, water?”
“Black tea, no sugar.”
“It’s yours. I bought a couple of extra sandwiches while I was out. Want one?”
“As long as it’s not tuna.”
“It’s not.”
She’d no sooner delivered the tea and chicken salad sandwich when another email dinged through.
‘Samantha’.
She pressed Save and breathed out hard. Now what?
Nick leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. Far too relaxed for a man with an important business meeting approaching.
“Yes?” She waited.
“Your CV says shorthand?”
“I was hoping to take up journalism but family circumstances put a stop to it.”
“But you can fake it?”
“I don’t have to fake it—I’m perfectly competent.”
Her body buzzed as a lazy smile spread across his face, his very good teeth gleamed white against his tanned skin, and the corners of his eyes crinkled into amused lines.
Nicky, if you’d looked at me like that you could have done anything you wanted.
“Excellent,” he purred. “Tyler can look after reception and you can be our hostess.”
The euphoria balloon punctured. So she was reduced to a waitress now?
“And take the minutes of the meeting,” he added, possibly sensing she was about to object.
“Aren’t you recording it?”
“Yup, but we’ll out-number them if we have you as well.”
Rich the accountant looked up from his laptop and guffawed at that. “Always the tactician, Nick.”
“Use every advantage.”
Sammie glanced down at her jeans. “I’m not exactly dressed for the part.”
“No...a little black suit and high heels is more the story, but beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Who’s the beggar?”
Nick’s grin broadened still further. “Me in this case. Got a little black suit and high heels you can race home and slip into, Samantha?”
“Are you serious?”
“I wasn’t, but if you’re offering?”
Sammie fumed while he lounged back, challenging her with that damn grin.
“It’s too far away. I’d never get there and back in time.”
He tossed her the car keys.
“Try. Let’s do a snow-job on them.”
This brought another bray of laughter from Rich.
“And we’ll be wearing ties,” Nick insisted.
“Don’t have one with me,” Rich said.
“Good thing I’ve got several here then.”
Sammie caught Rich’s astounded expression and smirked. “You’ll have to get someone else to look after reception for a while. Don’t ask Tyler—she’s done too much work today already. Maybe Heidi or Megan are free?” And she left in a hurry.
God, I must be crazy!
There was an element of fun to it though. She didn’t have ‘a little black suit’ but she certainly had other clothes that would look the part.
Maybe Anita had a suit? Or several?
On impulse, she pulled out her phone while the traffic lights stayed stubbornly red.
Yes, Anita was home, still coughing with the cold she’d caught sometime in the last few days. Yes, she had suits. Yes, she’d have a look right away and expect Sammie in ten minutes.
From the expression on her carefully made-up face, she hadn’t expected the snarling black Italian boy-toy though. Her eyebrows shot halfway to her hairline as Sammie barreled up the driveway, and she dropped the secateurs she’d been dead-heading the late roses with.
“Darling—how... impressive,” she said, pulling her woolen scarf more tightly around her throat.
“Need to be quick,” Sammie responded, sprinting in through the open front door.
To her credit, Anita had already laid two suits on the bed. Plus sheer black pantyhose, a demure white blouse, a silky black camisole, and a pair of killer Manolos.
“Not these,” Sammie said with regret, glancing at the size and handing back the divine shoes. “They’ll be too big.”
“They’re too tight on me, so you never know?”
She unlaced her Nikes and peeled off her socks and jeans.
“Nasty sock-marks around your ankles,” Anita commented.
“With any luck they’ll disappear by the time I get back.” she replied, rubbing at them energetically. “I don’t know why I’m even doing this—I must be mad.”
“You’ve brightened up my day, that’s for sure,” her sister-in-law said. She pointed to the suits. “That one’s a size smaller.”
“I’ll try it first then.” Sammie stepped into the skirt and zipped it up. It fitted beautifully. “How long since you wore this?” She gave the waistband a suspicious tug.
Anita had already been pink in the face, but Sammie suspected that was a blush appearing.
“It’s Donna Karan. It was a little snug when I bought it last year in New York darling, but how could I resist?”
“Have you ever worn it?”
The averted eyes told the story.
“Let’s give it an outing then.”
She checked her reflection in the mirror. Shorter would have been better, but still, not bad.
“You could turn the waist over,” Anita suggested, obviously thinking the same thing. “Just keep the jacket done up.”
Sammie rolled the waist over, pulled off her polo shirt, and slid into the camisole. “Or hide it with this.” She smoothed it down, slipped the jacket on, and shot her reflection an approving glance. “Too good for a P.A.”
“Not in a top corporate environment.” Obviously Anita knew all about those from Ray. “Would pearls be too much?”
“Yes, but let’s try them and be sure.”
She wriggled into the pantyhose while Anita found her pearls. Then she slid into the shoes.
They were wonderful. Black glace kid with heels higher than she’d ever worn, and only a little too big.
“I’ve got some of those gel inserts somewhere,” Anita said, digging around in a drawer. She handed them over, and Sammie tried again. Brilliant.
“Well,” she said, studying the total picture. “I think I absolutely look the part.”
Anita draped the pearls around her neck.
“No,” they squealed in unison.
Sammie took another moment to review her appearance. Her legs were now longer, slimmer, and shadowed with smoke from the sheer pantyhose. When she crossed them, she’d send the men a potent ‘I’m gorgeous but don’t you dare touch me’ message.
She’d never risk driving in the mile-high Manolos, but if she wore something else and changed in the car-park, that would be fine. She grabbed a pair of flat sandals.
Her reflection told her she looked prim and classy. Rich and snooty. The plunging lace-trimmed top of the camisole could easily be Victoria’s Secret underwear. She fastened one button of the jacket. Yes, a hint of lace.
“And some of this delicious ‘Siren Red’,” Anita insisted. Sammie held still for the scarlet lip-gloss. Anita applied it with a generous hand and then misted Sammie’s cleavage with Ysatis. “Good to go,” she said, laughing at the slang she’d no doubt picked up from one of her sons.
Sammie picked her way down the stairs, changed into the sandals on the front porch, and unlocked the car. It was still just shy of one o’clock.
Nick reached forward, shook hands with his visitors, and introduced them to Rich. They could either make him a lot of money or save him a lot of money. Both were good.
“Rod—great to meet you at last. Glen—nice to see you again, buddy.”
Where the hell was Samantha? Two nasty possibilities occurred to him. Had she crashed his car? Or been so offended by his suggestion of dressing like a ‘proper’ secretary she’d walked out, never to return?
Dammit, he’d only been joking.
He showed Rod and Glen through to his office, worrying about what had become of her. Was this one more disaster on top of little Erin’s tragic illness, Julie’s defection, and Doc Latimer’s shattering bombshell? How much more did a man need?
“As we’re working, I thought beer rather than wine?” The others agreed and snapped briefcases open. Nick turned toward the bar-fridge.
His pulse hiccupped and slowly resumed its former rhythm.
Samantha glided through the doorway looking like something from a Paris catwalk. Legs up to her armpits. Neckline down to her belly button. Lips in a hot red pout.
The black suit of armor said ‘don’t touch’. But everything else sent the opposite message. Where had the outdoorsy girl in casual clothing gone?
“Good afternoon gentlemen,” she murmured, taking the last chair. She slid one endless leg over the other, exposing a long stretch of toned thigh, set her steno pad on her knee, and licked her pencil. “Ready when you are.” She gazed around the circle of men. “Or should I serve your lunch first?”