Expecting the Boss’s Baby (3 page)

Monday at noon, she slipped off the fake diamond she'd put on that morning and met her sister Abilene for lunch at the Riverwalk. They split a turkey and mozzarella panini and Zoe talked about how much she loved her new job, while Abilene tried hard to stay upbeat.

Back in January, Abilene had won an important fellowship to co-design a children's center in collaboration with a certain world-famous architect. Now, months later, the project was on hold for some reason that was unclear to Abilene.

At least she'd managed to get some temporary work, thanks to Javier Cabrera. Javier owned Cabrera Construction and had been kind enough to take Abilene under his wing, hiring her to do some drafting for him and also to help him out at the construction sites of a couple of houses he was building.

Javier's relationship to the Bravo family was complicated, to say the least. But Abilene didn't seem to care about the family issues. She really liked Javier
and appreciated that he'd put her on his payroll until the fellowship came through.

“If it ever does,” Abilene said with a heavy sigh. “By now, I'm beginning to wonder. And I am beyond frustrated with the whole situation.”

They agreed it was pretty ironic, actually. Always in the past, Abilene was the one who knew what she wanted from life and stayed happy and focused, working toward her goals. Now, Zoe was the one doing work that she loved. And Abilene was feeling powerless, trying to decide what she ought to do now: start looking for fulltime work. Or keep waiting in hopes that the fellowship would finally come through.

Dax returned Thursday morning. He called Zoe in first thing and they had a two-hour huddle, catching up, organizing priorities for the next couple of days.

When she stood to return to her desk, he said, “It's good to be back, Zoe. I missed you. Lulu doesn't read my mind anywhere near as well as you do.”

It was a huge compliment. She clutched her laptop to her chest and tried not to look as dewy-eyed and thrilled as she felt. “Good. It was always my plan to become indispensable.”

“And I'm beginning to believe your plan is working.” They shared a long look—too long. He blinked first. “So, how's it going with Johnny?”

She almost asked,
Who?
But by some minor miracle, she caught herself in time. “He's…wonderful. In, uh, New York for a couple days. Left this morning, as a matter of fact. Some Wall Street deal, I think.”

“Ah.”

They looked at each other some more.

Get a grip, Zoe. Get it firm and get it now.
“Well, okay, then. I'll just…go on back to my desk.”

He nodded and reached for the phone. Twenty minutes later, he was on his way to a meeting. And another after that. The meetings went on until two.

At two-thirty, he went to work finishing the Spotlight on the Australian trip, locking himself in his office, only accepting calls if something absolutely couldn't wait. He stayed until after seven, and she stayed, too, just in case he might need anything while he pushed through to his deadline.

When he left, he asked her to look over what he'd written, just for grammar and punctuation. She said she would be happy to and tried not to let him see how ridiculously pleased and honored she felt.

She took the piece home with her and read it eagerly over take-out pot stickers and fried rice, red pencil within reach. It was really good. But then, his Spotlights always were. He had a master's in Journalism from Yale. More than that, though, he was a fine writer. He wrote with authority, but in an easy conversational style. He made you feel like you were there, with him, no matter how distant or exotic the locale.

In the morning, she emailed him back the manuscript. As she was leaving him after the usual huddle, she told him the Aussie holiday Spotlight was excellent.

He arched a brow. “No changes?”

She gave him a slow smile. They both knew the question was a test. He hadn't asked her to do an edit. “Three or four typos. I corrected them.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

“Do you realize that it's been over two weeks since you started and we've yet to get to that review?”

She shrugged. “It's been a busy time.”

He agreed. “It's always busy around here.”

She suggested, “Maybe…next week?”

“How about right now?”

Her stomach lurched, which was absurd. He was happy with her work. He'd made that abundantly clear. She had nothing to worry about.

“All right.” She settled back down into the club chair. Her palms were actually sweating. She had to resist the need to rub them on her skirt. What was her problem? They both knew he was going to offer her a permanent job.

Didn't they?

He said, dark eyes knowing, “Zoe, are you nervous?”

She considered lying. She'd made up a fiancé, for heaven's sake. To lie about being anxious should be nothing next to that. But then, in the end, she told the truth. “Yeah.” She let out a careful breath. “Whew. It's crazy, because I know I'm doing a terrific job for you. But I
am
nervous.”

“Why?” He was looking at her so steadily. With real interest. Maybe more interest than he ought to have in his assistant—his
engaged
assistant. She wished he would
stop
looking at her that way.

But he didn't.

And perversely, she loved that he didn't.

Her nervousness turned to something else. Something a lot like excitement.

She told the truth again. “I love this job. I've finally found something that suits me. There's never a dull moment. I can handle this job, but it doesn't bore me.
There's always something new, something to challenge me. I wake up in the morning and I look forward to going to work. Until
Great Escapes,
I never felt that way about anything—at least not for more than ten minutes or so.”

“You want to stay.”

“Didn't I just say that?”

“You did. And I'm glad you did.” He stared at her some more. Her cheeks felt warm. She had this…glowing sensation, kind of fizzy and happy and so very lovely. “Now is the time I should tell you where your work falls short.”

She wanted to be the best, which meant she had to be open to criticism, to ways she could improve. “Yes. Good idea.”

“Well, I'm sorry.”

“Uh.” Alarm jangled through her. What was he trying to say? “You are?”

“Because your work
doesn't
fall short.”

Her alarm turned to satisfaction. Was she grinning like an idiot? Probably. But so what? She worked damned hard and it was good to hear how he appreciated that.

He said, “You're a self-starter, but you have no problem asking for help when you need it. You take criticism well, and you make use of it. So far, I only have to tell you once when I want you to change something you're doing.”

The fizzy, bright feeling was back. And getting stronger. He kept on looking at her. Admiringly. Almost hopefully. She stared at his mouth and wondered what his lips would feel like touching hers. She thought about how she really would like, someday, to find out.

And then the phone rang.

 

Dax didn't answer it. In fact, he had the thoroughly unreasonable urge to pick the damn thing up, rip the cord free of the jack and throw it hard against the wall.

For a minute there, he'd almost thought Zoe was about to make a move on him. And being human and male, he'd wanted her to. A lot.

Which made him pretty damn stupid now, didn't it? If the phone hadn't rung, if she
had
made a move on him, he would very likely have taken her up on it.

And then, one way or another, he would have ended up losing the best assistant he'd ever had—even better than Lin.

The phone rang a second time. And a third.

When Zoe started to rise, he said low, “Don't. The front desk can take a message.”

She sank back into the chair, a slightly stunned look on her face, those very kissable lips of hers parted, breathless. She knew exactly what had almost happened.

Did she regret that it hadn't? He couldn't help but hope so.

The phone jangled once more. And then it was quiet.

Neither of them said a word. He was aware that the tension between them was dissipating, that the dangerous moment had passed. They would not become lovers. And he would not have to try to find someone to replace her.

He wasn't sure whether he was relieved.

Or furious.

 

Zoe started to lick her lips, caught herself doing it and made herself stop. Her heart was suddenly going a
hundred miles an hour, just galloping away in her chest, like wild mustangs on steroids.

That had been close.

Too close. Lucky for her, the phone had rung. If not, she might have…

She cut that thought dead.

No. She wouldn't have. She had her priorities in order. The job was what counted. Yes, she had a thing for the boss. A minor thing, a totally get-overable thing, just like every other woman on the planet.

She would get past it. Over time, the attraction would fade by itself. And when it did, she would still be working at
Great Escapes.

Dax started discussing her salary.

She had the sense of having passed some important test, of having chosen the job she loved over the man
everybody
loved. She knew she had made the best choice.

And yet, she still couldn't completely deny a certain sadness, a touch of tender melancholy. She caught her left hand with her right and turned the big, fake diamond idly back and forth as she and Dax discussed his expectations of her—and hers, of the job.

She knew what she wanted and she had it in her grasp: her dream career. And it—this, now—was only the beginning. She was going to go far. She knew it. She was absolutely certain of it. She could go to Sunday dinner at Bravo Ridge for the rest of her life and not care what thoughtless remarks her dad might toss off at her. The free spirit of the family was all grown up now, taking on a professional woman's responsibilities and loving every minute of it.

Uh-uh. She was not sad. Not sad in the least. She
would never know what it would feel like to kiss Dax Girard. And that was fine. It was right.

She had made her choice and she was at peace with it.

T
he next week, on Thursday, Faye showed up again.

That time, Zoe acted fast. She jumped up and blocked the way to Dax's door. “Let me just check.”

A slow sigh and then the sexy, husky voice. “If you insist.”

“Have a seat. This won't take a minute.”

Faye made an impatient sound low in her throat, but then she did go over and drop into one of the chairs by the enormous potted snake plant in the corner. Zoe turned and tapped on Dax's shut door.

“What?”

She opened it and stuck her head through. “Faye is here.”

“Faye,” he repeated blankly. Then he blinked. “Oh. Where?”

Zoe tipped her head toward the chair by the snake plant. “I'll show her in.”

“No.” He rose and came around the desk. “I'll come out there.” Zoe moved aside and he emerged from his office. He aimed a practiced smile at the brunette. “Faye, I wasn't expecting you.”

Faye stood up. “You ought to check your voice mail now and then.”

He went to her. She reached to embrace him. He smoothly slid from her grasp, simultaneously taking one of her hands and tucking it around his forearm. “Let's go somewhere we can talk.”

The Bambi eyes shone with tears. “Oh, Dax…”

He led her to the elevator. They got in and the doors slid shut. Zoe heard the faint whoosh and lurch as the car started down.

Was he dumping Faye? It sure looked like it.

Zoe didn't know what she felt about that. A little sorry for Faye, maybe, which surprised her. A little annoyed with Dax.

How old was he anyway, thirty-five or thirty-six? Old enough to stop jumping from one woman's bed to the next. If he didn't watch it, he'd end up ancient and wrinkled, wearing a satin bathrobe, with a blonde young enough to be his granddaughter on his arm.

That image made her wince. And then she couldn't help but laugh. Dax was Dax. A woman was only begging for trouble if she started expecting him to change his ways.

 

Dax really hated it when a woman cried.

When a woman cried, it made him feel crappy and powerless. Tears were the one thing a man had no idea how to fight. You couldn't win an argument with tears. You couldn't punch a tear's lights out.

You just had to sit there and try to think of the right
thing to say, try
not
to make promises you had no intention of keeping.

He took Faye to a bar not far from the office. A nice, dark, quiet place where few of his associates ever went. He guided her toward a booth in the back.

Business was pretty slow. The bartender came over and took their drink order. Faye wanted a Cosmopolitan; Dax just had club soda. He had work to do back at the office and he couldn't afford to be fuzzy-headed when he returned.

The drinks arrived. The bartender went off to mind his own business.

Faye sipped her pretty pink drink and sobbed. She told him she loved him.

He felt like a jerk.

He probably was a jerk, but that wasn't the issue right now. The issue was Faye and how it was over with her and how he had to get her to see that, to look on the bright side, to remember what a good time they'd had and realize she was ready to move on.

Faye kept on sobbing. He didn't have any tissues handy, so he passed her a cocktail napkin.

She delicately dabbed her wet eyes with it. “You're such a jerk.”

He wasn't offended. It was only what he'd just been thinking himself. He spoke gently, “Come on, Faye. Don't. It's going to be all right.”

She sniffled and delicately dabbed at her eyes some more, trying to mop up the tears without smearing her makeup. “I knew. From the beginning. It's not as if I wasn't warned. Love never lasts with you.”

Love. He hadn't mentioned love. Not once. He kept love strictly out of his vocabulary when he dated a
woman. It was ingrained in him, a nonnegotiable rule. And he never broke a nonnegotiable rule.

He said, “I've enjoyed the time we've spent together.”

She sniffed, sobbed, swallowed. “Enjoyed. Past tense. Oh, Dax…”

“You're young and so beautiful…”

“Is that supposed to make everything all right? Well, it doesn't, okay? It just doesn't.”

He tried to think of the next thing to say. He was usually reasonably glib when it got to this point. But he didn't feel glib today. He only felt…sorry. Really, really sorry. “I'm sorry, Faye. Truly.”

She dabbed at her mascara some more. “Sorry doesn't do me any good.”

“I know.”

“They say that you end up friends with most of your ex-girlfriends.”

“I like to think that's true.”

“Well, I don't want to be friends, Dax. I really don't.” She picked up her Cosmo and downed it in one long swallow. Then she set the stemmed glass down hard. “I guess that's it. Goodbye, Dax.” She slid out of the booth and headed for the door.

After Faye was gone, Dax stayed in the booth alone for a while, sipping his club soda, thinking about how he hated ending it with a woman. Endings were depressing. He liked beginnings a lot better.

Too bad beginnings never lasted. Too bad the nature of a beginning was to move along toward another ending. And the only way to stop the endings was to stop enjoying the beginnings.

Unless a man decided to settle down, to find someone he could share a lifetime of middles with, so their
story had no end. But a lifetime of middles wasn't on his horizon. He was never getting married again.

For no particular reason, he thought of Zoe. Of her too-good-to-be-true fiancé who had yet to show his face around the office. Of what a great assistant she was. Of how he would never have to end it with her—well, except when she moved up the next rung of the editorial ladder, which was bound to happen, and probably sooner than later.

That would be a pain in the ass, trying to find another assistant.

But he would manage it somehow. There was going to be no holding Zoe back, he knew that.

At least when he lost her there wouldn't be any crying, no groping for the right words and coming up with only hollow clichés. She would be happy when he lost her. He would be resigned, would do his best to keep her at the magazine. If he couldn't have her guarding his office door forever, at least
Great Escapes
could get the benefit of her talent and drive.

And that was as good as it got.

In the end, a guy had to be grateful for small favors.

 

“So I have this idea…” Zoe said the following Tuesday, as they were winding down the morning huddle.

He'd been expecting this. Of course, she had an idea. She'd been working for him for just four weeks and already organized his slush pile. She knew the plan for the next seven issues backward and forward, had a great instinct for what would work for the magazine and what wouldn't. When she flagged a piece for him, he knew it was something he had to make time to take a look at.

She was on her feet by then, clutching her laptop, the absurdly large diamond on her engagement ring twinkling at him. “It's…for a Spotlight.” She actually sounded hesitant, which rather charmed him. Zoe rarely sounded nervous about anything. Even when she wasn't sure what she was doing, she took care to project confidence. “I was thinking we could discuss it—I mean, when you've got a spare moment or two.”

“I'm listening. Tell me about it now.”

“Well, all right.” She dropped back into her chair again, set the laptop on her knees. “I'm thinking ‘Spotlight on a Shoestring'—because of the economy, you know? That people are looking for value in everything they do, including when they travel. I'm thinking Mexico—and no, do not give me that look. Not Cancún or Puerto Vallarta. I'm thinking of something a little more out of the way.”

“Like?”

“Southern Mexico, the state of Chiapas near the Guatemalan border. San Cristóbal de las Casas, to be specific.”

“You're kidding.”

She sat straighter and got that pugnacious look. He really liked that look. “I am one-hundred-percent serious. It's a great value. Four-star hotels at a hundred bucks a night. Wonderful food at really low prices and a fabulous central market where you can get amazing deals on local arts and crafts. Biking, birdwatching. Rainforest all around, filled with thousands of exotic plants and animals. Spectacular Mayan ruins…”

He put up a finger. “Two words.”

“What?”

“Armed insurgents.”

She wrinkled her adorable nose at him. “I had a feeling you would say that.”

He knew a lot about Mexico. But then, he knew a lot about many places. “They're called the Zapatistas, Zoe. And they're nothing to fool with.”

“Most of the trouble was back in the nineties. Things are better now.”

“But is better good enough?”

“It is, yes. I'm sure it's safe. Yes, the Zapatistas are in a war against the Mexican state, against globalization. But it's mostly a nonviolent conflict. My research tells me that travelers are safer in and around San Cristóbal than in just about any major American city. As long as they behave respectfully and don't take pictures without asking first.” She produced a memory stick. “Here's what I have. I've tried to cover everything—what to pack, what to see, where to stay, how to get there.”

“A spreadsheet for projected costs?”

“That, too.”

He held out his hand. “I'll give it a look.”

Her sleek brows drew together. He knew she was considering working on him a little more before she turned him loose with what she'd worked up. But apparently she decided against that, decided to let the work she'd done speak for itself. He very much approved of that.

She rose and passed him the stick. “Can't ask for more.”

That evening, he read her proposal. And the next morning, when they went over his calendar, he told her what he thought.

“I like it. We're going to do it.”

She gasped and those blue eyes lit up, bright as stars. “You mean it?”

He nodded.

“Yes!” In her excitement, she almost dropped her laptop. It slid off her knees. She lurched to rescue it and whacked her hand hard against the side of his desk. The enormous diamond made a loud cracking sound. Something plopped to the floor.

They stared at each other.

She let out a wild little laugh. “Oops.” She had her laptop stabilized on her knees and she was clutching her left hand with her right. She pressed her lips together as a scarlet flush rushed up her creamy cheeks. “Uh, sorry.”

Was she hurt? “Are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah. Fine. Perfect.” She pulled the ring off her finger—but carefully, keeping it out of his sight. “I think I, um, bent the setting on my ring a little.”

“Sounded to me like you broke the damn thing.”

The flush on her pretty face intensified. Her cheeks were now cherry-red. “No, no. Of course not.” Trying not to be obvious about it, she scanned the floor around her chair.

He pushed back his own chair and looked under his desk.

Near his left shoe, half of her engagement diamond sparkled at him. He bent and picked it up.

When he straightened, she was staring at him. The look on her face was absolutely priceless. He leaned across the desk and held the broken stone out to her.

She took it from him. “Uh, thanks.”

“It appears that Johnny will be buying you another ring. Tell him not to be such a cheap bastard this time.”

She looked as if she wished she could sink right through the floor. But Zoe was not one to be cowed by
a little thing like abject humiliation. She pulled herself together and jumped to Johnny's defense. “I'll have you know that Johnny is not cheap—and this…” She looked down at the two halves of her supposed engagement diamond. “It's nothing.”

He arched a brow but kept his mouth shut. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. Hadn't had this much fun in a very long time.

She backpedaled madly, that quick brain of hers firing on all cylinders. “A…duplicate, a fake. I had it made.”

“Made?”

“Yes. Made—you know, because I was nervous. Muggings are…simply rampant these days.”

Simply rampant, huh? “No kidding?”

She fisted the broken ring in her palm and sat up straighter, flicking a thick swatch of that gorgeous red hair back over her shoulder. “Yes, well. Ahem…where were we?”

He debated whether to torture her some more or move on. In the end, he took pity on her. “The San Cristóbal Spotlight.”

She swallowed, nodded, eager to talk more about her proposal—and to put the embarrassing incident with the ring behind her. “I'm so pleased, Dax. I can't tell you how much this means.”

“I've been thinking about what month we should use it.” With relish, he delivered the bombshell. “I'm thinking January.”

Her mouth dropped open again. He really did enjoy catching her off-guard. “B-but January is already locked in.”

Yes, it was. Spotlights, along with the rest of the
magazine, were planned and scheduled nine months to a year in advance.

“I run this magazine. And if I say we go to Chiapas and not Greece for January, then that's where we go.”

“But you're leaving for Greece in a week and a half. I have the travel arrangements all set up.”

“Then you will change them. A little spontaneity is good now and then.”

“But…what if I can't get that fabulous hotel?”

“You'll find another fabulous hotel. I have faith in your ingenuity and resourcefulness.” He sat back in his chair and waited for her to confess what was really bothering her.

“But I…” She had her free hand folded over the one with the broken ring in it and both of them resting on her shut laptop. She stared down—at her hands, at the laptop? He couldn't tell which. Her slim shoulders were slumped. She almost might have been praying.