The Expectant Secretary (5 page)

He paused for a moment as if to pay tribute to her long-ago buried mother. When he next spoke, his tone had hardened. “And then you married your old boyfriend.”

“Yes. James.”

His mouth pulled to the side as if he couldn't make himself say the name. Several moments passed as they each concentrated on their sandwiches. Then he pinned her with a fine-pointed stare. “Has he made you happy, Jillian?”

Startled by the question, by the concern in his voice, her mind spun. Happy? Had James made her happy? Words clogged her throat. Her engagement had made her dying mother happy. The match had pleased James's folks. She wasn't sure what James
had wanted. Another conquest? A Stepford wife to help him climb the ladder of success?

And her? What had she wanted? Security? Comfort? Escape from memories…and gnawing pains of regret and loneliness. Had it brought her happiness? No. Her marriage had only made things worse.

It was an answer she couldn't readily admit. Especially to Brody. Her marriage to James had been a mistake from the start. But still the admission tasted bitter.

Instead, she skirted the topic completely with, “James is dead.”

 

Jillian Hart Tanner. A widow?

That description didn't compute. Brody's mind replayed her words over and over, as if trying to make sense of an illogical equation. It seemed simple. But the implications were mind-boggling. Finally the answer clicked and shifted his universe.

She's not married.

She doesn't have a husband.

She's available!

A surge of unreserved, unabashed optimism flooded his soul. His pulse quickened, his blood pumped, hot and fast.

He stared at her, seeing her as he once had, beautiful, intelligent, single. But something in her eyes had changed. Sadness darkened, swirled in those aqua depths like storm clouds. He imagined her tears as she cried for her dead husband. Those tears poured over him, dousing his inappropriate excitement.

You fool, can't you see she's hurting? Can't you be sensitive, instead of thinking of yourself?

Guilt saturated him, made him focus on Jillian. Her pain. Her loss.

“I'm sorry, Jillie.” Not sorry that James was dead. He'd never liked James Tanner. Hell, he hadn't even met the bloke. But he'd despised him for taking Jillian away…for marrying the only woman he'd ever loved. “I didn't know.”

“It's not something I talk much about.”

He nodded. “Doesn't come up in conversations easily, does it?”

She shook her head and stared down at her hands. Her fingers turned white. He wondered if it was a struggle every day for her to wrestle her composure, to combat the anguish.

Like a slap, the truth hit him, the sting resonating through him, making a part of him he'd thought long dead tremble. She'd
chosen
James. Not him. No matter how sharp the truth, he couldn't forget or ignore that fact.

He looked at her from across the desk and read the shadowy pain darkening her eyes. So many questions spun around his mind. How long had she been alone? What had happened to James, a young man of their own age? Too young to die. Too young to leave a beautiful wife.

“When did he…?”

“Two months ago.”

“Hell, Jillie.” Shock brought the words too fast. “What happened?”

Daintily, thoughtfully, she dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “An accident. On the road. If you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about it.”

Lifting his hand, he wanted to go to her, reach out
to her, hold her. But he knew he shouldn't. He searched his soul but could find no words that might offer solace. He understood the need to turn inward, to protect the shaky walls of dignity.

Slowly he nodded his understanding and cursed himself for causing her more pain. His chest constricted with a raw burning agony for the heartache she must be suffering. He wished he could give her something to cling to for support—his hand, his arms, maybe. But he knew there was no comfort for a broken heart.

And damn if he ever wanted to be Jillian's second choice.

 

It was the right thing to do, Jillian told herself over the next few days as they entered the last week of September. It was best if everyone, especially Brody, thought she mourned James's loss. She wanted others to think she was a grieving widow. Even if the image she'd created was a blatant lie.

There was no reason to disparage James's memory. No reason to let her wounds from her marriage ooze. She could clean them in private. But she felt as if she were keeping a dark, ugly secret, which made her feel isolated, alone.

And the feeling only grew worse.

Brody was to blame. Every day she worked with him in close quarters, analyzing reports, scheduling meetings. His rugged accent coiled her insides. She caught herself watching him, noticing his hands, his eyes, his smile. Glimpses of her past crept into her unconscious, reminded her of better days, of a time when Brody had made her feel special. It became a
constant struggle to remember how he'd also made her feel used, how he'd broken her heart. And why she no longer trusted him.

With long, ambitious strides, Brody walked into his office, a grin as broad as the Palo Duro Canyon lighting up the sharp angles of his face. “You did good, Jillie. Damn good.”

Pushing up from her desk she followed him, carrying his phone messages in her hand. “The report helped your meeting with the attorneys?”

“It laid out the strategy perfectly.” He set his fawn-colored briefcase on his desk and popped the brackets. “This may end up being the smoothest merger in history.”

Pride surged within her. “I'm glad.” She handed him his messages. Their fingers brushed, sending an electrical current through her. Crossing her arms, she focused on work. “So what's the next step?”

His gaze softened, making his eyes smoky. “That's what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Her enthusiasm kicked into gear. She liked the challenges her new position created for her, taking her mind off her own personal problems. “Whatever I can do—”

“What are you doing this weekend?” His question stopped her short.

Had she mistaken his intent? “Excuse me?”

“This weekend,” he repeated. “What are you doing?”

Oh, God! He's asking me out.

Her pulse thrummed at the possibility—at the impropriety, she corrected. Her mind raced. Of course, she couldn't go out with him.

Possible excuses filed into place. But the sorry fact was, she didn't have any
real
excuse. Except that she didn't
want
to see him in anything but a professional setting.

“I, um, well, Brody…” She stuttered to a halt, not knowing how to handle this situation.

She was
not
interested in him. Or anybody else, for that matter. She wondered why that same denial was beginning to sound more and more hollow.

Maybe she should just explain to Brody that it was too soon after James's death. Anyone would understand that. She wouldn't have to explain further. She wouldn't have to lie. Worse, she wouldn't have to confront the truth making her knees weak with need.

Strengthening her resolve, she forged ahead. “Brody, I don't think that's a good idea.”

“What?”

“About this weekend.”

“You don't?”

“No.” She maintained eye contact even when she wanted to look away. She had to be firm. “It's risky. It's…well, the timing is completely wrong.”

He rubbed his jaw. “How do you know?”

Biting down on her frustration, she wished he would just accept it and move on. “Isn't it obvious?”

“No. Explain it to me.” He folded his arms over his broad chest. “I admit I'm new at this.”

New at asking a woman out? She swallowed a laugh. He was the expert. Not her!

“Look, I could make a dozen excuses, but the truth is, I don't have any plans. And I don't want any. If I were to make up something, it would mislead you. Then we'd be right back in the same place. Let me
make it as plain as I can. I'm a recent widow. I'm not interested in romance…or anything else. I don't think—”

“I wasn't asking you out.”

Confused, she blinked. “Excuse me?”

His mouth quirked into a semblance of a smile. He chuckled, but his gaze smoldered like a banked fire. “But if that's what you want—”

“No.” Embarrassed heat flared inside her.
What have I done?

You've made a complete fool of yourself, that's what!

“Let me explain,” he continued, erasing the amused smile pulling at his lips. “I'm interested in looking over a piece of property near the Double Crown Ranch. It's actually a winery. I hear there are several vineyards in this part of Texas. It's a growing industry, here, as well as in Australia. I think it might be a good investment for our newly merged company. And it would expand the ranch even more.”

“Oh.” She couldn't say anything else. She wished she had a magic button that would make her disappear.

“I was hoping you'd go with me. It borders the north side of the ranch.”

“Isn't the Double Crown Ranch kind of large?”

“Approximately five hundred thousand acres.” He spoke as if that was a drop in an old bucket.

“That could take a while to cross.”

“We have to go around but it should be only a three or four hour drive. You could help gather information for my presentation to the board. But I understand if you're not comfortable—”

“Forget what I said.” How could she have been so stupid? The only way for her to not look like a fool was to go with Brody. What had she done? “Please, just forget everything I said.”

He quirked a brow. “What are you saying?”

“Basically that I've been a complete idiot. I'm sorry, Brody. I—I…”

“Then you'll go with me? To see the property, that is.”

Why did she think she'd regret this? Not for the usual reasons, but because it was now so obvious that Brody wasn't interested in her.

“If you n-need me,” she stammered. “I mean, need me for work…for…” Flustered, she tried to mask the sudden twinge of disappointment…and irritation. Why didn't he want to go out with her? That thought placed her in dangerous territory. She shouldn't care what he thought about her. Or if he could ever be interested in her as anything other than an assistant. It shouldn't matter.

But somehow it did.

Y
ou're just asking for trouble.
Amy's words haunted Jillian as she drove across San Antonio to reach Brody's apartment punctually at nine o'clock the following Saturday morning. She'd suggested they go in her battered Camry, since she knew her way around Texas better than Brody did and they'd have to take back roads to reach the winery. He wasn't the type to willingly turn control over to anyone, but he had reluctantly agreed.

Her palms began to sweat as she turned into the circular drive of the Remington Heights' high-rise luxury apartments. She convinced herself that her rattled nerves were from the snobbish look the valet gave her as she parked outside the sliding-glass door entrance. But she knew the real reason.

Brody.

“Can I help you, miss?” the valet asked, meeting her as she opened her car door.

“I'm here to see a fr—my boss. Brody Fortune.”

He squinted down at her, his slicked-back hair reflecting the sun's rays. “Is he expecting you?”

“Yes.” What did she look like, a groupie? “He is.”

“Very well.” Although obviously doubtful, he relented. “If you'll step into the lobby, the receptionist
will ring his apartment. In the meantime, I'll drive your car around back.”

Probably so it wouldn't be an eyesore in front of the swanky building. She handed over her keys in exchange for a valet ticket. “Fine.”

Jillian's nerves chafed raw as she waited for the female receptionist with French-manicured nails and mink-colored hair to ring Brody. In a haughty tone, the woman said, “Mr. Fortune, pardon me for disturbing you, but there's a woman here who says she has an appointment with you…a…”

“Jillian Tanner,” she answered the receptionist's silent question.

The woman paused, listening to Brody's response. “Yes, sir, I'll send Ms. Tanner right up.” She placed the receiver back in its cradle. “He said he was expecting you.”

Imagine that!

The woman flicked a contemptuous glance over Jillian's khaki slacks and butterscotch top. “Take the elevator to the seventh floor. Mr. Fortune is in apartment 7-D.”

“Thank you.” A satisfied smile pulled at Jillian's lips. She stepped into the oak-paneled elevator, almost relieved that she only had Brody to face.

Before the doors closed, she heard the receptionist mutter, “Wouldn't have thought
she
was
his
type.”

Well, Jillian wasn't Brody's type. She never had been. Never would be. This was business, she assured herself, and that's all.

When the elevator reached the seventh floor, she walked down an elegant hallway, her steps muffled by the muted brandy-and-forest-green runner that
stretched the length of the hardwood floor. Along the way, she passed polished tables decorated with impressive silk flower arrangements, Queen Anne-style armchairs and gold-framed paintings in the tradition of Monet. It didn't take much to remind her that she and Brody were from very different worlds.

She paused at the last apartment and swallowed the rest of her reservations. Why did she feel like a pauper about to enter the king's palace? Staring at the massive twelve-foot-tall door, she felt her stomach twist into a rock-hard knot.

After ringing the bell, she waited. And waited. A few anxious seconds passed, and she glanced at the gold-plated plaque again—7-D. Where was Brody? Hadn't he said for her to come right up?

Allowing another pause, she finally rang the bell again. If he didn't open the door soon, she would retrace her steps. Perplexed, she started to turn away when the door swung open.

Brody greeted her with an embarrassed grin. A shock of black hair fell across his brow, and she resisted the absurd urge to smooth it back into place. In one hand he held a spatula and in the other a smoking skillet.

Jacques Pépin, the famous French chef, he wasn't. But fatally sexy, he was. She felt the impact of his smile clear down to her toes.

“So much for breakfast.” His starched white shirt and faded blue jeans seemed as out of place in the opulent surroundings as he would in a kitchen. “We can eat on the way to the vineyard.”

“You made breakfast? For me?”

“I know you haven't had anything to eat.” He nar
rowed his gray eyes on her as if suddenly unsure of himself. A rare emotion for Brody, one that made him seem vulnerable, and too appealing. “Have you?”

She'd only had toast earlier, but it seemed like hours since she'd eaten as she was already starving. So far today she'd felt normal, no nausea, no dizziness, until the smell of cremated eggs reached her. Immediately, she reached in her purse for a lemon drop to ease her suddenly roiling stomach.

He scrunched up his nose at the acrid odor. “Doesn't make your mouth water, does it?” Backing away, he said, “Come on in. Let me turn off the stove and we'll head out.”

Popping the tart candy in her mouth, she stepped into the foyer, noticing the polished marble flooring, the elaborately carved grandfather clock and the sparkling chandelier. Imagining a host of employees to do his cooking and cleaning, she asked, “You don't cook often, do you?”

“How'd you guess?” He carried their charred breakfast into the kitchen and dumped the ruined eggs into the sink.

Following, she could tell the black-and-white tiles had been spotless before Brody had started breakfast. Bacon grease spattered the stove. Coffee grounds dotted the counter. The percolator sputtered and hissed as coffee flooded the carafe. The robust aroma cleared the cobwebs out of her head.

Smoke set her in action. It curled out of the toaster. Jerking the plug out of the socket, she frowned at the blackened crust. “Maybe I should offer to make you breakfast sometime.”

Her gaze collided with Brody's. His eyes smol
dered. Her insides simmered. What had she offered? Certainly not what her question had suggested! Having breakfast often implied…

“I—I mean, well…” She wiped her hands on the back of her slacks. “Maybe we should go…leave…before the smoke alarms start going off.” Or any other alarms besides the ones inside her head blared. “If you're hungry, we can pick up something on the way.” She turned abruptly on the low heel of her sandal and headed toward the door.

Be careful, Jillian, be very careful. Brody is not what you're looking for. A home would be nice, yes. A family, certainly. But a man like Brody? No way! He moves in a fast lane with sporty cars and glitzy women. Not a pregnant mommy-to-be, like you.

Not a problem, she thought. She wasn't interested in Brody any more than he was interested in her. She had everything under control. Especially her hormones. And her emotions.

But she couldn't contain a smug smile a few minutes later as she and Brody walked through the lobby, the receptionist's jealous gaze following their every move.

Watch yourself, Jillian. Don't get too cocky, especially when you have no claims on Brody.

She had once. Or so she'd thought. The memory brought a mixture of pleasure and pain bubbling to the surface.

By the time they'd reached the interstate, Jillian had settled into her role as chauffeur. Her hands gripped the steering wheel with confidence. She kept her gaze on the road and shifted her eyes only to
glance at the rearview mirror. Never to look at Brody. Better safe, she reasoned, than sorry.

“Did you finish college here in the States?” Brody asked, trying to make light conversation. He sipped his coffee, which they'd picked up in a fast-food drive-thru.

“No,” she answered. “After my mother died, I didn't have the finances.” She'd only made it to college at eighteen via a scholarship. After all, her mother had been a hardworking single woman, working odd jobs here and there to pay for Jillian's and Amy's school clothes. There hadn't been extra money for college, especially after Jillian's father had deserted them. During her freshman year at Texas Tech, she'd received another scholarship that had taken her abroad to Australia.

“With your grades and brains, you could have picked up another scholarship.” He narrowed in on another of her regrets. “If you'd wanted to.”

“I suppose.” But she hadn't tried. She'd opted for another type of security. One that had seemed more sure, more solid, more promising than a framed document. “I got married instead.” That was her worst regret. Her knuckles turned white as her grip on the steering wheel tightened.

“Did you miss college life?” he asked, continuing his probe.

He was just trying to make conversation, she reasoned. What did she expect? For him to sit like a stone in her car for the whole ride?

“You mean, studying? Partying? Or living far away from home?” She tried to make light of his question, of the disappointment she still felt.

“All three.”

Wishing he would have laughed instead of taking her seriously, she shrugged, then paused as she switched lanes and tried to find an answer. “I still study. At least I have since coming to work for you. But I'm enjoying the challenge with all the spreadsheets and financial analyses.”

He chuckled. “You're more capable than you think.”

A pleased blush crept up her neckline.

“What about the camaraderie, the friends, the hell-raising?” he asked.

She laughed this time. “That kind of craziness I can do without.”

“Right. We all have to grow up sometime.”

She nodded. Had he? He seemed different, more serious, much more firm. She wasn't sure if that was a positive or negative. Or which side of him was more dangerous.

Keeping the conversation in a safer zone and her thoughts off Brody's appeal, she commented, “After Mom died, I wanted to be as close to home as possible, where things were familiar…and reminded me of Mom, made me feel closer to her.”

“I can understand that.” His rugged accent lost its earlier humor as his tone dipped lower.

Surprised by his answer, she glanced over at him. A mistake. His smoky eyes clouded her thoughts. “You can?”

“Sure. When something troubling, heartbreaking happens in life, you want to be near those who love and understand you. It gives you a bit of security. Don't you think?”

She nodded, feeling a connection build between them. One she didn't want but couldn't sever, either. How could he understand her? He had a large, loving family. He had more financial resources than she could imagine. He hadn't made the mistakes she had.

“Sometimes,” she said, her thoughts drifting back through the years to more carefree days, “I think about the friends I left behind in Australia.”

“Do you keep up with anyone?”

She rolled her palms over the padded steering wheel. “When I left, I said goodbye to everyone…everything there.”

“Not me.” His words were brief, but filled with pain, not anger.

“Brody, don't.”

“You could come visit sometime,” he suggested. “See those college friends. And anything else you might like.”

“Maybe.” But she knew she wouldn't. How could she afford it? Why would she want to relive the humiliation and heartbreak she'd suffered there?

“We had good times,” he offered like a white flag.

“Some.” Memories filed through her mind, tumbling her emotions as if they were a row of dominoes.

“You don't have good memories of Winslow?” His tone deepened, pulled at her, tugged on her heart-strings. “Of me?”

That was her problem. She did have good memories, warm ones, passionate ones of Brody. Those memories had made it doubly hard for her to forget, for her to move on with her life. Too often she'd looked back, compared and contrasted her life with what it could have been. With Brody. And that was
always a mistake. Because the man she'd once loved wasn't real. He'd been a figment of her own imagination.

Unfortunately, he still was.

Sensing him watching her, waiting for her answer, she kept her gaze trained on the highway. “Okay, I admit we had some good times.”

He seemed to relax, settling back into his seat, drinking his coffee. “Remember you dragging me to that koala park near Sydney?”

Her gaze shot toward him. “‘Dragging' you?”

“Too touristy for my tastes. But you wanted to hold a koala.”

She chuckled, remembering the warmth of the sun, the heat of his gaze, the laughs they'd shared. “I remember that kangaroo following you like a lovesick puppy.”

“The roo had good taste, didn't she?” He gave her a glimpse at the Brody she'd once known and loved. “Were you jealous?”

She choked on her laughter. She'd been jealous of another woman. Gail. She'd always worried she wasn't enough of a woman for Brody. To keep him. To hang on to what they had. And she'd been right.

Shifting in his seat, crossing an ankle over his knee, he asked. “What about my football mates? Quite a few of them asked you out.”

She rolled her eyes. “As a joke on you. They weren't serious.”

“That's where you were wrong.” He gave a mischievous smile. “You didn't know them like I did.”

Wanting to switch the conversation off such a pro
vocative topic, she asked, “What happened to all of them?”

“Most are busy working. Or trying not to work too hard.”

“What about Mark—?” She snapped her fingers, trying to recall the brawny Aussie's last name.

“Simon?” When she nodded, he laughed. “He married and has four kids. A real family man. Tame as one of those koalas you love so much.”

“I can see that happening.”

“Sure surprised the hell out of the rest of the gang. Back in college, he was the most likely to pickle his liver.”

“He had a kind heart,” she said, remembering once sharing her concerns with Mark about loving Brody. “I was fond of him.”

“You were?” A jealous tone entered Brody's voice.