Falling for Sir (7 page)

"Yes, I know that's the official line, but
she's been in to the Bridal department twice in the past month and tried on
dresses. That's how rumors start."

He sighed and rolled his eyes. For Alana,
planning her next wedding was a hobby and a trip to his store was probably a
photo op. She couldn't get enough pictures of herself. When she recently signed
up to put herself on TV in a tacky reality show, she'd begged him to appear on
it with her to spice up her "scenes" and her "storyline."

"Isn't it supposed to be reality?"
he'd asked, confused.

"Oh, Jack, darling, how sweetly naive you
can be."

His brother, who was usually deliberately dense
when it came to women and their motives, had pointed out to Jack that Alana
probably hoped to make him her reality by putting him in the show. She'd
expected true life to mimic whatever plot she chose for them to play out on
screen.

Jack had laughed at his brother's warnings.
"So you can figure her out, but all the women you run into manage,
somehow, to completely pull the wool over your eyes?"

Charlie winked. "Sometimes I enjoy having
the wool over my eyes. It's easier to go along with a good looking woman than
it is to fight her."

But Jack did not agree. He'd firmly refused to
be filmed with Alana and for a few months she hadn't spoken to him because of
that. Fortunately he was busy elsewhere for most of that time, but his return
to New York would undoubtedly put her in his path again. So he might as well
set the facts straight from the get go.

"Mrs. Bracknell, I have no intention of marrying
Alana Shepherd. Or anyone for that matter. I did all that once already."
Before the elderly secretary could start getting all sympathetic about his
widower status, Jack forced a smile, "These days I'm leaving the
acquisition of wives and alimony bills to my brother." He leaned back in
his chair, hands behind his head. "So tell me more about Marianne
Miller." He liked the way her name rolled off his tongue.

Mrs. Bracknell began to fill him in. "She
has a Masters in Interior Architecture and—"

"A Masters? I wouldn't think she was old
enough."

"She's twenty three. Graduated early from
high school. Something of a child prodigy it seems - very smart, evidently. Has
a claim to fame in fact. Sort of."

"Oh?" His heart sank because very
smart women usually terrified him. But then so did women under thirty.
Especially those under twenty-five. At that age they didn't know what they
needed and what they wanted changed daily. Dating a woman that young was asking
for trouble.

Dating
? Why the fuck was he thinking about dating her?
That shouldn't be lurking in the shadows of his mind at all. Last night was
just sex to keep his parts in working order. He couldn't face starting a deeper
relationship with anyone. He wasn't ready for that, even if his friends and his
little brother thought he should be.

"She wrote a long letter to the President
when she was eight, telling him all the things he was doing wrong and how to
put it right. It made the National newspapers and she got her photo taken with
Clinton. I believe it was in Time magazine, or some such."

"Really?" He was intrigued now despite
the initial reaction of wariness.

"She worked part-time at Grant Peterson
while she was in her last year of college. Reading between the lines, Leo
Petersen was grooming her for the management of his new Boston branch. He was
none to happy, I can tell you, when Rawlings snatched her up. I suppose, like
most young girls, it was the lure of this city that brought her here. She lives
in Greenwich Village now, but hails from a small town in Vermont. Her mother is
an artist, her father was a professor of history. Both brothers are cops here
in the city. Miss Miller comes to work early on the subway, leaves late. She's
offended a few people already by complaining about the state of the staff
kitchenette, the smell of microwave popcorn and the taste of the office coffee.
To my knowledge she's turned down two date offers since she started at the
beginning of September." Her eyes narrowed through her lenses.
"Apparently doesn't believe in mixing personal and professional
life."

Jack laughed. "Mrs. B you never cease to
amaze. Where do you get all your information? From listening in bathroom
stalls?"

"Sometimes," she admitted, clutching
her files defensively. "It's surprising what one can pick up around this
place with their ears open."

"Yes, indeed." He swiveled his chair
and glanced through the window at a surprisingly blue sky for November. Just a
few clouds passing. It wouldn't last of course. Soon there would be rain, ice,
snow and slush, but global warming gave the city a reprieve for now.

"Is your brother in town too? I haven't
seen him since the company picnic in August." She sniffed, chin up, making
it plain what she thought of Cesare "Charlie" Marchetti and his easy
come, easy go attitude.

"My brother insists he can manage his side
of things over the internet." The office environment, in Charlie's
opinion, was a dinosaur soon to be extinct. He had every gadget under the sun
and used that as his excuse to roam the world while he was "working".
The only things more effective in person, he said, were sex, fast cars and a
face slap from an ex-wife. "Last I heard he was touring the wine country
in a Bugatti Veyron."

"Sounds like a hospital emergency room
visit waiting to happen."

"I thought the same thing, Mrs. B."

"What your father would say about the way
his younger son carries on and the floozies he brings home, I don't know."

He'd probably be amused, thought Jack dourly.
Charlie had been their father's favorite. While nothing Jack ever did was quite
good enough, his younger brother, who never tried, got all the attention, all
the love. With no visible effort, Charlie could charm the stripes off a zebra.
If he was there now he'd probably make a play for the new member on staff and
her youth wouldn't bother him in the slightest. But Jack saw her first, didn't
he? He wasn't generally the impulsive sort, but..."See what else you can
dig up on Marianne Miller, will you Mrs. B? Discreetly."

"Mr. Marchetti," she straightened her
shoulders, "I am always discreet!"

He shouldn't investigate, of course; there was
never supposed to be contact outside The Club, but this woman was irresistible,
possibly addictive. She'd just turned up out of the blue—out of his dreams— and
now he found her working for his store.

So she didn't believe in mixing business with
pleasure? He could always fire her hot ass, couldn't he? Uh oh, he was starting
to think like Charlie!

 
Mrs.
Bracknell was on her way out of his office when she looked back over her
shoulder. "She's too young for you, of course."

"Mrs. B, my interest is purely on the
professional level. I always want to know about my employees."

"It's time you found a nice, steady, mature
woman to look after you again."

He replied solemnly, "Only if you'll have
me, Mrs. B."

"Cheeky monkey!" She shook her head
rapidly and scurried out.

Chapter
Five

Waiting
for James Bond

They were half way through the staff meeting
when he came in. Instantly the atmosphere in the conference room changed.
People sat up and stopped texting under the table. A few hastily jammed the
last bite of donut down their throats.

In just a few seconds she realized the truth.

He wasn't Caesar, but almost.

"Don't let me interrupt." He smiled
around the room. "Please carry on as if I'm not here."

Without a doubt he knew that was a joke.
Everyone was more self-conscious now, women and men preening alike. Marianne,
however, tried to sink further into her chair.

Jack Marchetti, the big boss. No wonder people
gave him space in the elevator. She knew he wasn't around much—divided his time
traveling the globe to oversee operations at the five branches—but she must
have seen him on one of his few visits to the flagship Manhattan store. Or
maybe she'd seen his picture in the news. So that was why he seemed familiar last
night.
 

He had just looked at her, but now his gaze
skimmed onward, over her head. She couldn't be sure he remembered her or
noticed her at all. Fumbling in the purse by her feet, she grabbed a stick of
gum, unwrapped it swiftly and stuffed it into her dry mouth.

Where was he going? The man strode slowly,
leisurely around the perimeter of the conference room, disappearing from her
side vision. Even thought she could no longer see him, his charisma was
imprinted on her senses, his face a clear picture snapped and held by her mind.

From the few tidbits she'd gleaned about the
boss—and there weren't many as he appeared to be the secretive, mysterious
type— she'd expected a stern-faced Italian with a quick temper, shiny shoes, a
hard jaw and a receding hairline. Like a character from The Godfather. But
although he did have that rugged jaw, there was something more to his face, a
mischievous, warm light in his deep blue eyes that hinted at other heritage. A
wayward offshoot from the family tree.

He had a tall, Styrofoam coffee cup in one hand
and she recognized the scribbled marker on the side. So he bought his coffee
from the place on the corner, across the street. Apparently Mr. Woody didn't
like the office coffee either. Suddenly she knew where she'd seen him prior to
their encounter at The Club. On her very first day at this job, after buying
coffee at the corner store, she'd bumped into him outside it, by the magazine
stand. Coffee spilled on his sleeve, because her lid wasn't on properly. When
she apologized he'd simply glared at her and walked into the coffee shop, still
talking to someone on his IPhone. Funny how it happened that you could look a
person so briefly in the eye and feel like you'd known them forever. That was
why some people believed in reincarnation, she supposed. Marianne had never
been one of those people. Until now.

The connection was instant and deep. Even before
"Sir" threw her on a bed.

She shivered and crossed her legs.

Marchetti came to a halt somewhere behind her
seat. Occasionally she caught a whisper of his expensive, spicy aftershave and
the richness of his dark roast coffee. Every pore on her body seemed to open,
aware of his closeness, trying to draw in the scent. Greedy for more.

He leaned over her shoulder and reached for the
printed agenda on the table in front of her knee. "May I?"

"Sure." Horrified by his proximity,
she grabbed it and handed it to him without looking. The stapled sheets of
paper rustled above her head and her hair curled even tighter. Her pulse
quickened. No one around the table seemed to notice, but of course they were
pretending they didn't know he was even in the room.

"Wow. Lot of agenda," he whispered.

Not sure whether he addressed her or not, she
stayed silent.

"Where are we? Which item are we on?"

Since no one else answered, she was forced to
twist around in her seat and show him. "Page three." Marianne kept
her gaze on the paper. "Marty Rosenberg on customer relations and Holiday
events."

He ran a broad fingertip over the typed words.
Just as he'd run a finger over her last night. "Ah. Got it. Thank
you."

She turned away again, convinced he hadn't
recognized her. With her hair tied back and a conservative grey blouse buttoned
up to her throat she looked like a librarian.

"So let's remember," Marty was saying,
"the Holidays are a stressful time for all of us and we will bear witness
to some shoppers rage. Keep smiling and remember—
the customer is always right
. It's important to maintain
Marchetti's reputation for top-notch service and attention to detail. We are
all representatives of the store wherever we go, whatever we do.
"

Marianne had now attended three of these rah-rah
"Morale" meetings and always left them feeling as if she'd just
received a lecture in the principal's office. She knew her job; she knew what
had to be done. It wasn't necessary, once a month, to reinforce the fact that
she was just a little cog in the big machine. Her annoyance level was not
quelled by the presence of the man behind her. If anything it was raised.

Must be nice, she mused, to swan around, coming
and going as he pleased, never forced to sit through an entire, dull meeting.
She chewed her gum harder.

I bet
no one makes fun of Mr. Woody's suits on casual fucking Fridays. Nor would they
complain about him buying his coffee at the corner store instead of drinking
the office muck.

Sinking further in her chair, Marianne tucked
her chin under the collar of her blouse and tried to pretend her pulse wasn't
racing for the finish line at the Kentucky Derby.

She had to calm down somehow. It was just sex.
So what if he was her boss?