The Boss's Daughter

“That’s the one.” He started to unload small waxed paper boxes from the bag.

Amy pushed the folder aside to make room. “How much do I owe you for lunch?”

“Nothing, but next time it’s your turn to buy.”

Amy glanced at the files stacked on the desk. At this rate, there were going to be plenty of “next times.” She hadn’t even made a dent in the piles.

“The Maxwells are having a cocktail party tonight,” Dylan went on. “The invitation is on my desk because I was just about to phone them with Gavin’s regrets when you came in.”

“You might let them know I’ll be coming instead.”

“I might let them know?” Dylan tipped his head to one side. “This,” he said, pointing to the telephone on her desk, “is an instrument of communication. Do you know why it’s here? Because you pick it up and press the buttons and talk to the person who answers.”

Amy stared at him in disbelief. “What difference does it make if you call the Maxwells about Gavin or about me?”

“You’re not confined to a hospital bed.”

“You mean you don’t make calls for Gavin when he’s here? What kind of personal assistant refuses to use the telephone?”

“One who is not a secretary.” He handed her a pair of chopsticks.

How ridiculous could he be? “You didn’t object to going downstairs to wait for the deliveryman. That’s pretty secretarial.”

“Oh, but that’s different.”

“Why? Because you were hungry?”

“You got it in one try. Congratulations. Anyway, it’ll be your turn tomorrow.”

Amy dipped her chopsticks into a container of sweet and sour chicken. “Take a letter, Mr. Copeland. To whom it may concern—that’s you, of course. This is to inform you that there has been a change in policy concerning the duties of personal assistant—that’s also you—to the acting CEO—that’s me—”

Dylan was still wielding his chopsticks. “Sorry, boss. I don’t do dictation, either. If you’d like to get someone up here from the secretarial pool, call extension seventy-two.”

Amy fixed him with a look. “And how would you know that, if Gavin does all his own telephoning?”

“Because whenever I need typing or photocopies, I call them.”

Of course. “It’s a shame you don’t do shorthand. It wouldn’t be nearly as fun dictating a character reference for you if you’re not enjoying every word along with me.” She set the chicken aside and investigated a container that seemed to hold mostly broccoli. “Gavin made a note on tomorrow’s schedule, too. It’s something about running an errand, I think, but I don’t have any idea what.”

Dylan glanced at the calendar. “Not running an errand. Just running.”

“You mean like jogging? My father doesn’t jog.”

“Maybe he didn’t in his previous life.”

Another thing we have to thank Honey for, Amy thought. I wonder if that’s why he had the heart attack. She kept her voice level. “How often does he do this?”

“Whenever he thinks it’s time to once again nudge Mitchell Harlow into thinking about getting rid of his family’s autograph collection.”

“I should have known it wasn’t for the exercise,” Amy said glumly.

“Mitchell runs through Country Club Plaza every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday morning starting at 6:00 a.m. sharp. Rain or shine, he’s religious about it—and it’s the only time you can rely on catching him. So about once a week Gavin’s been going, too.”

“And this collection of autographs is worth it?”

“Gavin hasn’t actually seen it, but someone who has told him it includes Martin Luther and Catherine the Great.”

Amy sighed. “Then I guess I’m going jogging in the morning.”

“Your father would be proud of you.”

His face was perfectly straight, but Amy was certain she detected a note of suppressed laughter in Dylan’s voice. What she wouldn’t give to make him swallow his amusement…but once she started to think about ways to get even, the answer was obvious. “Of course, I wouldn’t know Mitchell Harlow if I tripped over him, so I’ll need you to come along and introduce me. Six in the morning, you said? Shall I pick you up?” She was pleased to see that his face had tightened just a little.

Dylan began gathering up the debris of their lunch. “No, thanks. I’ll meet you at the fountain.”

“Wait a minute—the Plaza has at least a hundred fountains.”

“The big one. Neptune and the seahorses. I’ll get you the Maxwells’ invitation so you can let them know you’re coming.”

Amy bit her lip to keep from smiling at the resigned note in his voice. That evens things up a little, she thought. And about time, too.

It took Amy all afternoon to make a perceptible dent in the stacks of files Dylan had sorted out for her to look at, and the experience had left her with a new appreciation of the challenges of her father’s job. Then, just as she was congratulating herself for everything she’d accomplished, Dylan appeared with yet another stack.

Amy wanted to groan. “What are those?”

“More prospects that I found lurking on top of a filing cabinet. Gavin must have left them there instead of putting them back.”

“Let me guess. You don’t file, either.”

“Of course I file, but only the things I pull out myself.”

“Good. You’ll know right where to put all these back when I’m finished with them.”

He didn’t comment, but Amy had the feeling he’d like to. Instead, he said, “Perhaps I should warn you that the Maxwells are sticklers for punctuality.”

“I’m on my way right now.” She dug her handbag from the bottom drawer.

“I’ll leave these here on the desk so they’ll be ready when you come in tomorrow.”

“Don’t turn the lights out when you leave,” Amy ordered, “just in case those folders act like coat hangers and multiply in the dark.”

Downstairs, the sales room was still quiet, with no auction scheduled until the weekend. But under the watchful eye of the sales staff, a half-dozen people were studying the furniture displayed in the showrooms, browsing through the catalog and even measuring the pieces.

The waiting room was half-full of people waiting their turn to inspect the merchandise, and at the desk Robert was looking harried. He paused as Amy passed the desk, however, and called her name. When she turned, he stretched out a hand to her.

“I didn’t know when you came in this morning that you were staying, Ms. Sherwood,” he said. “Things have been a little uncertain around here for the past few days, with your father so sick. But now—well, the whole staff is thanking heaven that you’re back where you belong.”

Amy could have sworn his eyes were misty. “I’ll try not to destroy your faith in me,” she said, keeping her voice as light as she could.