Bride by the Book (Crimson Romance) (3 page)

Maybe someone needed to take him over. Or, at least, take his office over.

She was perfect. He was tempted to offer her the job right now, but supposed he should at least ask about her skills to try to preserve some dignity. “Do you know how to use VP-Base and Microsoft Word?”

“Of course,” she said. She recited an entire list of other programs she used, including two he had never heard of before.

“Oh.” Garner wondered what they were for and decided not to ask.

He glanced at the résumé more carefully. To his surprise, it stated that she’d graduated college—Stanford University, at that—six years ago. Younger than he’d expected. At twenty-seven she was old enough to have some sense, and young enough to have some stamina. But why would an Ivy League grad be looking for a secretarial position?

“I didn’t realize they taught secretarial courses at Stanford,” he commented. “No wonder you have so many computer-related skills.”

She coughed delicately. “Exactly.” Was that relief he heard? “Stanford is rather … computer-oriented. Don’t worry, Mr. Holt. I’m quite skilled at what I do.”

He blinked at her silky-voiced assurance and wondered briefly what Miss Brownwood looked like. Not that it mattered. He had three cases coming to trial in the next few weeks, and needed help. He didn’t care what the woman—or man—he hired looked like if they could type at least 50 words per minute.

“I’m sure you are, Miss Brownwood,” he said. “That’s all I need to know for right now. I’ll see you at two o’clock sharp on Wednesday. Bring another copy of your résumé along, please.”

It wasn’t until he’d hung up that Garner realized she had sounded a bit eager to bypass any further discussion of her academic career.

Perhaps she had flunked. Perhaps she had never received a degree. Surely a place like Stanford didn’t have the associate degree programs popular at many community colleges.

What did he care? Garner asked himself and decided against calling Stanford. Lots of good secretaries had never gone to college at all. Either she could do the work, or she couldn’t. In the meantime, he needed a secretary, and Miss Angelina Brownwood was a secretary.

Garner opened a desk drawer and dropped the résumé into the overflowing desk drawer. God bless the United States Postal Service, he thought, grinning at his own silliness. Just when he’d given up hope, the solution to his problem appeared in an ordinary envelope in the day’s stack of mail.

He peered over the tall stack of folders on his desk at the crumpled paper lying on the floor beside the trash can. A man who’d been without a secretary for three months had a right to act a little silly, but in the meantime, maybe he’d better do a little picking up and straightening. He didn’t want to make a bad impression the minute she walked in.

He opened the drawer and gazed at the résumé once more. If Miss Angelina Brownwood worked out, he was having that sucker framed, by God.

“
Good secretaries are always in demand
.”

Angie Brownwood walked up the sidewalk to Garner Holt’s office reciting the quote from one of her ten well-studied secretarial manuals. Her stomach persisted in experiencing a bad case of butterflies in spite of this assurance of her desirability as an employee.

She knew the man might take one look at her and realize she’d lied about almost everything in her exquisitely typed résumé—especially if he realized he’d already met her that morning and had been vastly unimpressed. Thank goodness she had noted the house the two men had entered across the street and the names on the two signs outside it. Otherwise, she might have been caught by surprise.

“
The professional secretary takes care to always dress in a professional manner
.”

She’d violated that one right off the bat, forgetting how noticeable she, a stranger, would be in a town of only a couple of thousand inhabitants.

But Angie Brownwood of the shorts and unstyled hair had metamorphosed into the glamorous Miss Angelina Brownwood, Executive Secretary. If her luck held, Garner Holt might never connect her with the woman he’d met that morning in the diner.

Angie took a deep, steadying breath and studied Garner Holt’s office. The small wood frame house, typical of the area of mixed businesses and residences, was newly painted. Angie found it enchanting and homelike.

If she hadn’t had that two o’clock appointment, she’d have stood outside and admired the bed of wildly blooming salvia and larkspur along the front of the house. She breathed in the summer-scented Arkansas air and enjoyed a sense of peace she’d never experienced before.

A battered green Chevrolet Blazer was parked in the driveway, with a red bicycle parked beside it. Two discreet signs hung on a wrought-iron post, one directing her toward the front door of the house to Garner Holt, Attorney-At-Law. The other directed her around the side of the house to the office of Clifford Jones, Certified Public Accountant.

Cliff had been sweet and friendly, but Garner had behaved as though he had a chronic case of indigestion, especially when he looked at her. Angie couldn’t blame him. She had looked like a high-school refugee with no taste and less intelligence.

Angie pushed open the front door and stepped inside, blinking rapidly behind her new eyeglasses. She had dreamed of an executive suite in a corporate high-rise, where she could glide softly across thick, muted carpets and deliver cups of steaming coffee and perfectly typed documents on watermarked paper to distinguished businessmen and women behind glass-topped executive desks in wide, spacious offices.

Instead, she stood in the domain of a pack-rat. It looked like a records dump instead of an office. Once the living room of a residence, the outer office featured a desk obliterated by stacks of files and books, and two large file cabinets. Even the leather sofa and the two easy chairs for clients held stacks of books.

The professional secretary values order and her surroundings reflect that
.

So much for that one. If she had any sense, she’d flee the scene and go home to await another call.

A movement to her left caught her eye. She turned toward a smaller room just off the larger room she stood in. The small room had probably once been the master bedroom of the house. It now served as her would-be employer’s inner sanctum. She watched as a man arose from behind mountains of books.

And all her senses screamed:
Abandon hope, all ye who hang out here
.

• • •

Garner heard the door open and close.

“Come in,” he said, and rose swiftly. He had to stand so he could see over the stacks.

Before he could do more than think,
At last
, Miss Angelina Brownwood turned fully toward him.

Garner couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d prayed for a secretary, and God had delivered him a super-secretary, at least judging from her appearance.

Angelina Brownwood wore a white linen suit with a pale blue silk blouse, along with high-heeled brown pumps and a jewel-toned scarf knotted at her throat. Her pale blond hair was pinned in a precise French twist at the back of her head. Her face was exquisitely but delicately made-up, and her short nails were painted a pale, unobtrusive pink. The crowning touch to her appearance was a pair of thin-rimmed, tortoise-shell glasses that added to the impression of elegant, businesslike efficiency.

She was perfect, Garner realized in stunned silence. Too perfect. She was so beautifully precise, she took his breath away. He could tell by looking at her that he probably couldn’t afford the salary she’d request, and a woman like her would never consent to do something about his piles of books and folders. She’d tell him to hire a maid.

Damn.

She was here though. Garner supposed he might as well interview her. He cleared his throat.

• • •

“Mr. Holt?” Angie asked, lifting delicate brows.

Her heart fluttered. Why didn’t he say something? After all the time and effort she’d put into choosing clothing that projected the image of a top-flight executive secretary, she couldn’t imagine why he looked so stunned.

Maybe he recognized her. Angie’s breathing went shallow. Her palms felt clammy. Her heartbeat probably showed through the discreet blue silk of her blouse.

He reached for a chair near his desk. Angie breathed easier. He wasn’t going to throw her out. She thanked the impulse that had guided her to add a pair of glasses to her secretarial outfit.

“Come on in and sit down, Miss Brownwood.”

He smiled, and the brooding look she was beginning to think was his habitual expression vanished, replaced by a formidable charm. It was as if the sun had come out and chased off the clouds.

Respect your employer. The professional secretary does not allow a warmer attraction to develop
.

Angie tried not to stare. Her ten well-studied secretarial manuals had been clear on the point of romances between secretaries and bosses, but recalling quotes on the subject of romantic feelings wasn’t much help in getting her careening thoughts back under rigid control.

“I suppose you can see why I’m needing a secretary,” he went on.

She forced her frozen fingers to release the doorknob and walk toward him. When she’d fantasized about her new career, she had imagined a boss exactly like the man facing her. He was tall and leanly built, and his shoulders were broad and well-muscled. Instead of a business suit, he wore a blue work-shirt, a pair of old jeans, and a pair of scuffed cowboy boots. His golden tan signified he spent as much time as possible outdoors. His thick, brown hair was brushed casually back from a high forehead. Broad, dark brows framed eyes that were the silver-gray color of a rain pool reflecting sunlight, and his wide, mobile mouth was grooved at the sides.

She even liked his slow Southern drawl, so different from her own crisp diction. She could listen to him all day.

If she got the chance.

If she could persuade him to hire her. She thought how she could project an attitude of dignified desire for the job.

His desk sat in a light-filled room lined with crowded bookshelves. The desk was heaped with precise stacks of file folders and more books. Garner retained a couple of empty square feet in the center of the desk. She seized on that.

“It looks more as though you need an expert file clerk.” Angie’s gaze wandered suggestively around the room. “I’m very good at … sorting files.”

Her gaze focused on the computer on his desk. Within seconds, she had calculated its speed, power, and memory and pronounced it outmoded. But she could deal with an old computer. A good secretary such as she intended to be could deal with anything.

“Is it that obvious?” He laughed and gestured at a chair, not noticing at first it was piled high with books. He lifted the books off and placed them carefully on the floor beside his desk. “I’ll do anything before I start filing folders. As for the books.” He gestured at the books piled everywhere. “An elderly friend retired and gave me his law library. Unfortunately, I have yet to get around to buying shelves for it.”

His eyes, she saw, were focused upon her white linen suit. Perhaps he was thinking he needed a secretary who would roll up her sleeves and do some house-cleaning in addition to her secretarial chores. Angie hastened to suggest she was the woman for the job.

“We’ll have to order some shelves right away,” she said.

The professional secretary’s attitude should include an enthusiasm for taking on new assignments.

But not this much enthusiasm
, Angie added privately. She strove to keep her eagerness in check. At the moment, she wasn’t sure why she wanted this job. She only knew she wanted it.

She seated herself gracefully. “Once we get those books and folders off your furniture, you’ll have more space for work.”

Being a secretary was going to be more fun than she’d thought. She’d enjoy bringing order to this scene of chaos. She’d enjoy basking in this man’s rare smiles when she did her job well. And she intended to do her job very well indeed.

“Did you bring another copy of your résumé?” Garner went to sit behind his desk, still staring at her.

Angie wondered again where she’d gone wrong. Nothing could have been more businesslike than the white linen suit and the pale blue silk blouse. She wore unobtrusive tiny, gold balls in her earlobes and a single gold seal ring on her right hand. Even her watch was a masterpiece of plain gold simplicity.

Although she had been guilty of enhancing the color of her hair before she left California—if he considered the lightening of one’s hair a crime—it had been an expert job. Angie had checked herself time and time again in her full-length mirror and could find no fault in her appearance.

But maybe Garner did. She swallowed hard. If he refused to hire her, she’d lose a job she already coveted with all her heart. She reached inside the flat, leather briefcase she’d brought in lieu of a purse.

Her hand shook so badly, she could hardly produce the sheet of paper that had been the object of more research and more creativity than anything she had ever written in her life. What if the woman outlined on this résumé came across as overqualified for the job? Garner received the single, exquisitely printed sheet, still staring at her. “This may seem a little personal, but what brings you to Smackover? You look like someone who’s used to big-city life.”

“Oh, I can fit in everywhere.” Angie gave him a hopeful smile then caught herself and smoothed out her expression. “My great-aunt died and left me her house here in Smackover. About that time, I was … I decided to leave my job in Palo Alto. It seemed a good time to make a major change.” Angie had no intention of telling him just how major the change had been. “I love it here. Everyone has been so friendly.”

Garner blinked and shook his head. “Who was your aunt?”

“She was actually my father’s aunt. Her name was Loretha Culp.”

“Of course. Miss Culp was a friend of my grandfather’s.” Garner sounded surprised. “My sister and I were sorry to hear of her passing.”

Angie inclined her head. “Thank you. She used to send me dolls every Christmas during my childhood.”