Borrowing a Bachelor (11 page)

This morning, Nikki started the coffeepot and then stood in her closet, hands on hips, trying to decide which of her two most conservative outfits to wear. One ensemble consisted of a knee-length black skirt and a patterned pastel-pink-and-black sweater. The other possibility involved a knee-length navy skirt and a sailor-inspired blouse with a bow under the wide white collar.

She finally decided on the sailor blouse and navy skirt because they seemed to communicate that yes-sir-right-away-sir image she wanted to cultivate. The blouse also hid the more, er, mountainous terrain of her body.

Nikki showered, dried her hair and pulled it back into a demure knot at the nape of her neck. She applied minimal makeup and no jewelry except for pearl studs at her ears. She debated whether to wear panty hose, but, since nobody in Miami had worn them for at least a decade, decided against them.

Low-heeled navy pumps completed her look, and though she didn’t own a navy pocketbook, she had picked up an inexpensive canvas tote striped in red and blue that would hold her things.

Though she took her time, she was ready to go forty minutes before she actually needed to walk out the door, even allowing for traffic delays. This left her with nothing to do but drink an extra cup of coffee, file her nails and be antsy about her first day on the job.

Adam’s face insisted on appearing in her mind’s eye, so utterly expressionless as she’d refused to give him her phone number. She felt a little bad about that, and she felt worse as her body decided at that very moment to remember how his had felt intertwined with hers.

How his had felt
inside
hers.

Nikki drew the file too sharply across her thumbnail and broke off the outer corner of it, right down to the cuticle. Great. Just great. Now she’d have to wear a Band-Aid wrapped around it because it looked freakish.

Go away, Adam Burke!

She threw the nail file into her tote, got the bandage and wrapped it around her thumb. Then she took a last swallow of tepid coffee and choked on it when she remembered his fascination with the tiny heart over her privates.

Maybe, just maybe, he’d been disappointed when she’d refused him her number.

Maybe she’d wanted him to try a little harder for it, even beg for it, especially when she’d been so very easy for him. Of course, that easy part reminded her of why she hadn’t given him her number. He thought she was a hooker. Despite what she’d said, he thought the worst of her. And that still made her mad.

Maybe by the time she’d threatened to run him over, he’d been convinced she wasn’t. Maybe by then he believed her.

But what a stupid word:
maybe.
It wasn’t a
yes;
it wasn’t a
no;
it wasn’t anything definite or useful at all. It was simply something people said when they couldn’t make up their minds.

Nikki looked at her watch. Then she tossed the rest of her coffee, brushed her teeth and left for work, still early.

Palm Peninsula Medical School had been founded by a prominent surgeon in the 1920s, and its art-deco architecture reflected that. Even buildings added over the decades had been carefully designed to blend in with the original aesthetic.

Nikki would have a desk in the reception area, close to Dean Trammel. The dean himself had told her during her interview that he’d earned his medical degree from Palm in the early eighties and had gone on to specialize in neuroscience. He’d enjoyed research and teaching more than practice, though, and had made a delighted return to his alma mater a decade before.

He was a mild-mannered gentleman with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, horn-rimmed glasses and a ruddy complexion.

While Nikki had the slightly uncomfortable feeling that she’d been hired more for her looks and people skills than for her other qualifications, Dean Trammel put her immediately at ease and didn’t ogle anything he shouldn’t.

“Welcome to Palm Peninsula, Nikki,” he said. “You’ll be responsible for greeting the public, handling the phone lines and filing. You’ll also do some light computer work and make careful documentation when students come to this office with issues. These can range from the admissions process to internships and grant applications, from personal problems to curriculum concerns. Your job is to solve the problem if you can, and channel it to the right assistant here if you can’t.”

Nikki nodded and smiled.

“If you have any questions while you’re getting started over the next few days, feel free to ask Margaret, who’s been my right-hand for years.”

Margaret, who had been on vacation when Nikki was hired, turned out to be a battle-ax in red lipstick.

The homey touches in her office consisted of one rubber plant and one framed photo of a young Marine. Other than that, the room was utterly sterile and bricked in by light gray file cabinets that loomed over the dark gray carpet.

Margaret had short black hair and small, suspicious eyes. She wore a medium gray suit, a blouse that tied in a bow at her neck, sensible black pumps and dark suntan-colored panty hose.

She stared at Nikki’s bare legs with as much disapproval as Nikki concealed while staring at Margaret’s hideously veiled ones. Then they both caught themselves, looked up and exchanged twin grimaces.

“How nice to meet you, Margaret.” Nikki smiled and extended her hand.

“Welcome,” Margaret said in sepulchral tones. She inspected Nikki’s manicure, complete with thumb bandage, without removing her own fingers from her keyboard.

Nikki dropped her hand. She noticed that the leaves of the rubber plant all reached for the window, as if trying to escape. The young man in the framed photo stared somberly at her, as if in warning. “What a handsome boy. Is he your son?”

Margaret’s sparse eyebrows snapped together. “Nephew. Iraq.”

She must worry about him. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Why? He’s a proud soldier, fighting for his country.”

“W-well, yes, of course,” Nikki stammered. “I just meant that, um, you must be eager for him to come home.”

The black brows beetled further. “I do my job, he does his,” Margaret growled.

“Nikki, let me show you the rest of the office,” Dean Trammel interjected, to her great relief.

“I’d like that,” she said in tones as bright as she could summon. “Margaret, it’s been a pleasure.”

A sort of grunt was the delightful Maggie Mae’s only reply.

“Margaret was overseas when you first came to interview,” Dean Trammel said. “But she’s been eager to meet you.”

If that was eager, Nikki sure didn’t want to see reluctant, much less hostile. She produced a polite smile, and was startled to see Trammel wink.

“Margaret is the cornerstone of this building,” he said in tones loud enough for the woman to overhear. “We simply couldn’t exist without her.”

Nikki restrained herself from asking whether they’d paid for the woman to go overseas so that she wouldn’t scare away prospective employees.

The dean showed her everything from the copy machine to the kitchenette. Then she followed him into his office and he gave her a stack of files. “This is all correspondence that needs to be typed up, presented for my signature and then sent out. If you have any problems reading my chicken scratch, just ask Margaret.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Really, she’s not so bad once you get to know her. And she’d give a kidney for this place if need be.”

Nikki accepted the files and assured Dean Trammel that she wasn’t intimidated. But as she turned to go to her desk, she prayed that Mags would never have to give a kidney. Because she’d probably rip it out herself while she kept typing with the other hand and then grouse about why everyone was shrieking.

No job was perfect—that was true. But Nikki wondered how many times per day she’d have to interact with the lovely Margaret. Then she sat down, opened the top file and got to work.

BY THE TIME THE clock’s hands had spun to 5:00 p.m., Nikki had typed up nine of the dean’s letters, answered and routed twelve phone calls and greeted four students plus the UPS man. She’d just picked up the stack of letters with Trammel’s approvals and signatures when the outside door to the reception area opened yet again. She turned with a pleasant smile to greet the visitor. When she saw who stood in front of her desk, she dropped the stack.

“Adam?”
she managed to say, in a croak.

“Nikki?”
he said, incredulous.

Though his nose was still a bit swollen, he was impossibly good-looking even behind those wire-framed glasses, which only emphasized his broad-chested, Clark Kent mystique. He broadcast humor and competence, too—as if he could single-handedly save the world with a stethoscope and a grin, no cape needed.

Moreover, she’d swear that he was using his X-ray vision to discern that she wore tangerine-colored panties under the navy skirt.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” she blurted, dropping to her knees to pick up the letters. Her hands shook.

“What are
you
doing here?”

“I work here.”

“Well, I go to school here.” He smiled as if he loved the tangerine lace tanga that had now, thanks to her new position on her knees, pulled snugly against her in an instant wedgie.

“No, no, no,” she said, shaking her head and trying to tamp down her rising panic. “You don’t. You live out of town. You had a hotel room—you were only here for a wedding.”

“Nikki, all the groomsmen had rooms in the hotel so that we wouldn’t have to drive drunk after partying in Miami.”

She cast a glance over her shoulder, but thank God the dean was on the telephone and wasn’t paying attention to them. “Adam, listen, you can’t say anything about— Oh, God, this is my first day and I really, really need this job—so
please,
please don’t tell anyone how we, um, met.”

“Okay,” he said.

She scrambled to her feet and did a tiny shake of her derriere in an attempt to dislodge the tanga. “I mean it.”

“I can see that. I won’t say a word.”

“Because they’d get the wrong idea, you know, like you did—”

“I didn’t get the—”

“You did, um, afterward, and—”

Adam’s gaze slid from Nikki’s face to somewhere over her shoulder as a gaunt shadow loomed across the desk in front of her. She whirled to find Margaret standing behind her.

“What wrong idea would that be?” Mags asked, her beady eyes fierce and her nose twitching. She scanned Nikki’s figure with ferocious disapproval, as if she wanted to wrap it in brown paper and hide it from respectable citizens.

Nikki felt dirtier under her gaze than she’d felt when she’d climbed out of the cake in the G-string and push-up bra in front of all the men. Her tongue dried to the roof of her mouth and all she could do was shake her head and look desperately at Adam.

Fortunately, he was quick on his feet. “Ms. Fine told me she was with the medical school when we met, and I assumed she was a student here, like me.”

Mags barely restrained a snort at that ridiculous notion. “And you are?”

Adam introduced himself. “I’m in my second year,” he added. “I came by to drop off my application for the Perez scholarship.”

Was it Nikki’s imagination or had Margaret’s face softened as she evaluated him? Did an actual heart beat in her gnarled, petrified chest?

“Well, then,” the older woman said. “I know your schedule is grueling, young man.” She turned to Nikki, her face hardening again. “Don’t keep this poor boy from his studies, Ms. Fine. He doesn’t have time for any nonsense.”

Nikki felt her face flush. “Oh, no, I—”

“Here, I’ll take that. I’m in charge of the Perez apps, hon.” Margaret twitched the file folder out of Adam’s hands.

Hon? Had she really called him
hon?

“Is everything here? All your forms and recommendations are complete?” Margaret flipped through the pages.

“Yes, ma’am.”