The Expectant Secretary

“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 narrowed 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?”