B004183M70 EBOK (2 page)

Bradley smiled, looking as if he wished
Debbie Ann didn't chatter so. "I know you are, Debbie Ann. The show is
very popular, according to the figures I've seen. Advertisers love it."

"I'm so glad. When she doesn't have to
spend long hours in the kitchen, a woman has time to dress and look her best
for her man. My true aim, you see, is to help the ordinary woman please her
husband when he comes home from the office."

I felt sorry for Debbie Ann. Clearly she
was trying to please the husbands of New York City, because she'd failed to
please her own and he'd committed suicide.

Jolting to a stop, the train I rode picked
up more passengers. I couldn't wait to get to Bradley—er, work. I thought with
pleasure of my Danish Modern desk and credenza with its direct view into
Bradley's spacious executive suite. He'd had his furniture from our stint at Rip-City Records moved here: Arts and Crafts
desk and seating arrangement, lovely rugs done in blue, cream and rust, and his
bar, hidden away in a cabinet.

When we'd moved in on Monday, I couldn't
stop grinning. My desk offered a complete panorama of Bradley's gorgeous self,
affording me many opportunities for covert visual delight. All I had to do was
lift my gaze from whatever I was typing on my Selectra, and there he'd be at
his desk, working hard, his St. Louis Cardinals mug waiting to be filled with
fresh coffee.

And he could see me, too. My desk didn't
have a front, so my legs were fully visible as I sat there, oh, so innocently
trying to drive him insane with desire.

While that was terrific, this arrangement
also afforded me a front-row seat for something I didn't want to see: the
Problem.

The train stopped, cutting off any further
musings. I ran up the subway steps and hurried to Ryan. Arriving breathless in
the office, I put my purse in my credenza and immediately began to brew coffee.
Bradley was in his office, wearing a medium-blue suit with a hint of
iridescence. My favorite. Of course, there was also his navy suit, his gray
one, and his black one . . . Ooops! Here was my chance to show off my dress.

Not exactly posing, but close to it, I
stood in Bradley's doorway, smiling. "Good morning, Mr. Williams."

Bradley looked up from his newspaper. His
gaze slid slowly down the dress to my legs, where it lingered, before he
raised his eyes to mine.

I held back a giggle. It seemed he was
concentrating on what was right in front of him, ready for the taking—after we
were pronounced man and wife, of course.

In an instant, though, his normal
unflappable demeanor was back in place. One thing about Bradley: He was always
cool.

"Coffee—I need coffee, kid."

"I have a pot brewing. It'll be ready
in a minute," I replied cheerfully, though I wished he'd stop calling me
by that stupid nickname.

Couldn't he see I wasn't a kid? Okay, maybe
there was about eight or nine years' difference between us. So what? Lots of
women married slightly older men. Mama told me it was because men didn't mature
as fast as women.

"You're ever efficient, Miss
Bennett," he said, giving me a wide smile that made me completely forgive
him for the "kid" remark.

"Thank you, Mr. Williams," I
said, reeling.

"By the way, Miss Bennett, your title
here at Ryan Modeling is executive secretary," he told me. "I'm the
boss, and I feel you've earned the promotion."

My heart filled with pride. The training
I'd received at Charlotte Marie's Secretarial School, my jobs back home in
Richmond, and my hard work at Rip-City Records had paid off! "Thank you,
Mr. Williams. I'm very pleased."

"I am too," he said. "You're
an excellent secretary. One I wouldn't want to lose for any reason."

"I'll get your coffee now." I
walked out of his office floating on a cloud. A bonus, an increase in pay, his
appreciation of my legs, and now the title of executive secretary! Just wait
until I told Darlene—especially that remark about not wanting to lose me!

My parents would be so proud. I wouldn't
tell them the part about my legs. Maybe now Daddy would get off my back about
living in the big, bad city.

At lunchtime, humming "One Fine
Day" by the Chiffons as I went about my work, I heard the elevator ding.
The person who got off had me crashing back to earth.

The Problem arrived in a low-cut,
orange-sherbet-colored minidress a good two inches shorter than mine. Without
a glance at me, she swept directly into Bradley's office as if she owned the
place.

Struggling not to let her bug me, I sat at
my desk with its sunny yellow blotter, and tried to study the memo I had been typing for Debbie Ann's weekly grocery bill.

It was useless. I looked at the woman in
the mini- dress. She was the one giving me nightmares: Suzie Wexford, the
agency's top model, a star whose every new photo shoot was eagerly anticipated
by the whole country.

"Bradley, darling, it's utterly lovely
and so feminine. How did you know Tiffany's is my favorite little shop?"
exclaimed Suzie, loud enough for me to hear. She was the stunning blond model
Bradley had taken out every night this week, breaking his own rule of dating a
girl only once.

That's what really had me scared, worried
to the point that I was grinding my teeth in my sleep. Surely Bradley was not
ready to give up his bachelorhood, his key to the Playboy Club, his nights out
with a string of blondes, his man-about-town reputation. Surely he wasn't
prepared to settle down, with a model, no less.

When he decided to marry, I was supposed to
be the pure girl he turned to with a Tiffany's engagement ring. And my dreams
were not groundless. A few weeks ago Bradley and I had shared a flaming-hot
kiss, even though he apologized for it afterward and said there could be no
office romances in his life. Suzie was repped by Ryan, but I guessed he didn't
consider her an employee.

"Tiffany's is the only jewelry store
for someone as exquisite as you, honey," came Bradley's low-timbered
voice. "Here, let me put it around your delicate wrist."

Suzie pressed her tall, skinny, orange-clad
body against his and held out her right wrist. From the side, she looked like a
Creamsicle. Bradley kissed her temple, then focused on clasping the gold
bracelet on her like a mark of possession.

I sat with my right index finger pressed
down hard on the M key on my Selectra. Little Ms for murder—ooops! I meant little Ms for Bradley's and my marriage—ran
across the paper.

Gossip about the new boss and his
preference for the famous model had flown around the office since Tuesday.
Apparently Suzie had dropped a word here and there about how "taken"
she was with Bradley. Her frequent trips to his office—sometimes with the door
shut!—confirmed their relationship.

While I had unpacked a box of file folders
earlier, Nellie, Debbie Ann's mousy young assistant, had stopped by my desk.
About my age, Nellie was plump and had medium-brown hair in need of a good cut.
She wore glasses, but still squinted.

She gabbed about famous celebrities before
gossiping about Bradley and Suzie. I'd heard all the details of their
candlelit dinner at the 21 Club (Bradley's fave) Monday night, a Broadway play
Tuesday night, dinner at the Rainbow Room followed by a stroll around
Rockefeller Center last night.

I had ended up with a knot in my stomach.

Now here was Bradley handing Suzie an
expensive bracelet.

How she had managed to twirl him around her
manicured pinkie with seemingly little effort was a mystery. I'd give up all
my Beatles pictures and records to find out how she did it.

I reminded myself that Bradley was too
intelligent to spend his life with a model whose looks would fade and who, most
likely, had no conversation or morals.

Suddenly it hit me that they were talking
about Tiffany's. I took a deep, frustrated breath. Tiffany's was my jewelry
store, had been ever since I saw
Breakfast at Tiffany's
back home in Richmond.
The movie had played a big part in my desire to move to the city of my dreams.

In fact, one of my dreams was to have
breakfast in front of the exclusive store with its blazing, glittering, perfect
diamonds displayed in the heart-shaped window. Diamonds that made a girl dream
of the man she loved.

I guess you could say I fell in love with
Bradley at first sight, though that love had grown as I'd come to know him. He
had interviewed me for the position of secretary after he had run through half
a dozen other secretaries in the previous months. At first I couldn't figure
out why he'd had so many, but after working with him for a while, I thought I
understood. They all wanted him, his sexy build, his dirty-blond hair, his full
lips, and the icing on a delicious cake: his incredible blue eyes.

Apparently Bradley had gotten in trouble
for dallying with them. Then he had hired me. The kid.

Darlene had left me a copy of Helen Gurley
Brown's
Sex and the Single Girl
. Wide-eyed, I'd read the book, but nothing in
it had changed my views. I wanted Bradley for keeps, and I wouldn't get him if
he thought I was easy.

Bradley came out of his office, Suzie in
tow.

"Miss Bennett, have you met Ryan's top
model, Suzie Wexford?"

Be nice, I told myself. "Why, no, Mr.
Williams, I don't believe we've been formally introduced."

"Suzie, this is Miss Bennett, my
secretary—er, my executive secretary, I should say," he said, smiling at
me.

I smiled back, then reluctantly turned to
Suzie and held out my right hand.

Suzie took a step away like I'd offered her
a spider. "Is that typewriter-ribbon ink on your hand?"

I withdrew my splotched fingers.
"Sorry, the ribbon got off track." I blushed, an embarrassing habit
of mine.

My gaze was drawn to the bracelet,
sparkling like the water at Virginia Beach on a sunny day.

Suzie turned away from me. "Bradley,
I'm starved," she said, her arm on his.

"Just a second, Suzie," he said,
pulling something out of his suit pocket. "Here, Miss Bennett, this is for
you."

I accepted a richly engraved ivory-colored
envelope, anxious to know what was inside. I lifted the smooth vellum
flap and saw it was an invitation to the gallery showing by famed photographer
Pierre Benoit. It was for tonight and, I knew, a highly anticipated and publicized
event.

"Thank you, Mr. Williams. How exciting!"

Suzie rolled her eyes.

Bradley grinned at me. "My invitation
stated I could bring a guest. Since Suzie has an invitation of her own, I
thought you'd enjoy the show. You can take the rest of the afternoon off to get
ready if you like. I know how ladies like to primp."

"What a good idea, Bradley,"
Suzie said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm certain Miss Bennett
could use the extra time."

The witch! I tilted my head at her, and the
little devil on my left shoulder made me say, "You're so right, Miss Wexford.
Unlike you, I don't have a team of people trying to make me look good. I have
to manage all on my own."

Suzie glared at me.

Bradley coughed behind his hand, and the
two walked to the elevators.

I began cleaning off my desk. I had a dress
to buy!

CHAPTER TWO

Suzie and Bradley stood together at the gala showing. He wore
a black tux and looked debonair holding a martini glass, living up to his
swinging reputation. She wore a black designer number that made her body look
like a string of black licorice.

I glanced away, telling myself it was a
sheer joy to be fresh, young, and female in the big city. I forced myself to
radiate good cheer and straightened to my full five feet seven inches while I
took in my surroundings.

The large room was the utmost in
understatement, the brick walls painted black, the wood floor dark. I guessed
the idea was for the black-and-white photographs on the walls to mesmerize the
viewer without distraction. Each photograph had its own individual light above
it. The only other light came from round tables scattered throughout, draped in
black and decorated with lit votive candles in silver holders.

I stared at a stunning candid shot of
Brigitte Bardot walking down a Paris street at twilight looking lonely. You had
to give Pierre credit: He had a way of capturing celebrities in photos that
revealed something personal about them.

"Great shot, isn't it?" a deep
male voice beside me said.

I looked up to see a young man about my
age. At least six foot two, he bore a slight resemblance to Bradley. Full lips,
blue eyes, high forehead, but his hair was light brown, and the shape of his face more angular.
"Yes, it is a lovely photo of Miss Bardot."

"I'm Tom Stevens. I haven't seen you
around," he said, a twinkle in his eyes.

"Oh, I'm not really part of this
crowd," I said.

"No? But you're here. I don't mean to
be forward, but I'm fairly new to all this"—he waved his hand
expansively—"and would like to get to know more people."