The Expectant Secretary (17 page)

When he ended the kiss, he gave her a sexy smile that had once knocked her for a loop. But no more. “That's better.”

He wrapped her in his arms, held her against his solid chest. Numb with a cold fear balled up in her stomach, she couldn't find the strength to push him away. His lips nipped at her along the length of her neck, teasing, provoking images she didn't want to remember, stirring desire that she only wanted to forget.

“Here's my idea,” he said. “Let's go to my place. I'll catch a quick shower, shave so I don't scrape your skin.” His hand rubbed across his jaw, making a rasping sound. His fingers caressed the side of her neck, and she felt a raw ache deep inside.

“That way we'll be gone before your sister gets
home. Didn't you say she was coming back this morning?”

She nodded. She'd forgotten Amy was returning. All she needed was a scene in front of her sister.

“Then,” he continued, his voice husky, “we'll have breakfast…and spend the rest of the day in bed.”

Her knees felt weak with a need she couldn't understand. Anger pounded in her temples. This wouldn't work. She had to tell him. Now. Before it was too late. But how?

Maybe going to his place would help her find the strength. Maybe it would be easier standing in his living room, rather than her bedroom or her sister's kitchen. After all, once she made her case, she could leave, rather than kick him out of her home. It would be simpler. Cleaner.

Wimp!
a tiny voice echoed in her brain.

No. She wasn't a wimp. She was a strategist. Planning the right atmosphere, the perfect time to make a clean break. His apartment would provide that opportunity.

Or would it? Was she simply trying to run away again? Before Brody could? She couldn't make heads or tails of her logic. All she really wanted to do was stay with him forever.

 

She's nervous, that's all, Brody told himself, putting the key in the lock of his apartment. Jillian stood beside him, squeezing her purse as if it were a neck she was strangling.

Who could blame her for nerves? James had apparently been her first and only lover until Brody. She
wasn't used to waking up the morning after making passionate love.

Frankly, he wasn't used to waking up in love, with the woman of his dreams beside him. It had unnerved him, too. And at the same time thrilled him.

“This way, m'lady,” he said with a slight bow as he pushed open the door.

She brushed past him into the entryway, her shoulders stiff, her chin tilted at a defensive angle.

“Shall I make coffee?” He gestured toward the kitchen, remembering the morning she'd arrived at his apartment and saved him from burning the place down. “Or some breakfast? I promise I'll do it better this time.”

“Actually, I think we should talk.”

His hand paused in midair as he reached to flip on the lights. Why didn't that sound positive? Her tone was as icy as a winter storm. He remembered the warmth of her kiss and decided kissing was definitely a better option. He had to get her relaxed. Then they'd talk. About their future.

“Later,” he said, reaching for her, turning her toward him and wrapping his arms around her. He laced his fingers together at the base of her back. “Right now, I have a better idea.”

“Brody—”

“Kiss me.”

He didn't wait for her response. He captured her mouth. She acted as unresponsive as an unplugged computer. But he knew how she could respond. How she could lose abandon in his arms. He'd heard her moans of ecstasy. He'd felt her buck beneath him, crazed with desire.

She simply needed patience, reassurance, love. And he was ready and willing to offer all she needed.

When he angled his mouth across hers, her lips remained firm. But he refused to give up easily. Softly, temptingly, he tested the seam of her lips with his tongue, tickling, toying with her. She slammed her hands against his chest. He would have stopped then and set her away from him. Disappointment, confusion and anger blurring his rational thinking, he realized something had changed between them. And he had no idea what.

But before he could stop the kiss he'd mistakenly started, she curled her fingers into fists, tightened her grip on his shirt and pulled him closer. Slowly, she began to soften in his arms. It came in stages, bordering between resistance and eagerness. Her lips became pliable. Her body arched toward him.

When he realized he'd won, he picked her up, bracing her against his chest. While he continued kissing her, devouring her mouth with his, he moved through the dark den, past the windows where the drapes were drawn. The toes of her tennis shoes brushed against his shins. He felt her full breasts against him. And her arms slipped around his neck in surrender.

There was only one place for this to end—in bed.

He carried her full against him, her lower abdomen pressing against his erection, to the bedroom. When he reached the open door, he set her feet on the floor and bent to lift her into his arms.

“Oh, Brody,” she said, breathless, “we need to talk.”

“Not now, love. Not now.” He bent to nuzzle her neck, to breathe in the warm scent of her skin.

“But—”

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Another voice spoke in a harsh Australian accent.

Brody almost tripped over his own two feet.

Jillian gasped and jerked away from him.

Together, they looked toward the bed. In the deep shadows he could see the outline of a woman. With long hair. With dangerous curves. She reclined suggestively across his bed.

A jolt of recognition shot through him. He felt his insides collapse with shock. “Gail?”

“Yes, luv.” She drawled the last word out in a sarcastic manner, mimicking him. “Like I said, what the hell are you doing? I've been waiting for you all damn night.”

Tension tightened every muscle in his body, pulling them taut. “How did you get in here? What the hell are
you
doing?”

Gail swung to the side of the bed and stood out of the shadows. She wore only a black negligee and spiked heels. Her long fiery-red hair covered the tops of her breasts.

Numbness poured over Brody like ice water.

Jillian shook her head and took a step backward, bumping into Brody's chest. He bracketed her shoulders with his hands. But she shrugged off his touch, pushed away from him.

“I—I can't believe…” Her voice faltered. She stared at Gail. Then her gaze shifted to Brody. Accusing. Blaming. Condemning.

The sharp hatred in her blue-green eyes gutted him. His emotions poured out of him in a rush as he re
alized what she thought. Not again! Not this time. Not now that he'd tasted hope.

“Jillie…” He reached for her.

She slapped his hand away and backed toward the door.

“Don't even start. Don't try to explain.” She put her hands to her ears and raced through his apartment for the front door.

“Jillie!” He chased after her. “Wait. You've got to hear me out. I didn't know—”

She swung on him. Her frigid gaze shot icicles at him. “I don't want to hear it. I believed you. I believed you when you said Gail lied before. But not now. Not after this.”

“Jillie,” he said in a stern, unrelenting voice, “I did not invite her here. I didn't know she was…waiting.” He fought down the confusion to find the words to explain the unexplainable.

“How did she get in?” she asked, disbelief making her words crisp.

“I don't know. But I'm going to find out.”

“No!” She backed toward the door.

He stalked toward her, desperate to prevent her from leaving. “Jillie, you can't leave. Not now. Not after—”

“Don't remind me of what we did.” Shame brightened her cheeks. Shaking her head, she trembled. From rage or shock, he wasn't sure. “I don't want to think about it.”

“We can't forget it. I can't forget it. Can you?”

“I made this mistake before.” Her throat convulsed, the muscles straining as she gulped air. “But not again. Never again.”

The catch in her voice skewered his heart. He was losing her. Losing her. And he couldn't find the words to stop her. Nothing made sense. None of this. “Jillie, please—”

Unshed tears made her eyes glisten. “You are a bigger fool than me,” she said, venom injected into her voice, poisoning his heart, “for thinking you could get away with this.”

Jerking open the door, she folded her arms over her stomach and escaped. He took one step after her, then felt a hand grip his shirt, yank him off balance.

“You can't go after her,” Gail said, hanging on to him. “She's not worth it.” She wrapped her arms and one of her legs around him, rubbing her body against him suggestively. “I've been waiting a long time for this. I'm not going to lose you to that woman.”

“Get off of me,” he growled. He struggled against her clinging arms. He left the apartment, dragging Gail as she clung to him in desperation. “I have to go get her. Jillie!”

“No!” Gail tugged on his arm. “You're mine.”

He flung his arm wide, and she fell back a step. “I was never yours. Never.”

She launched herself at him again, wrapping her arms around his neck from behind, her wrist pressing against his Adam's apple. He took several awkward steps forward, trying to reach Jillie. Frustrated, he rounded on Gail, pulling her off balance. “What the hell are you doing here, Gail?”

“I heard one of you Fortunes was getting married. I knew you'd come looking for
her.
I couldn't let you marry that woman from Texas. The one you thought you fell in love with at Winslow.” She was clawing
at him, her nails biting into his skin. “And I knew it. I knew you'd be here with her. That's why you came to Texas, isn't it?”

“What difference does it make to you?” He shrugged her off and sped down the hallway after Jillian.

By the time he reached the elevators, the doors were closing. He lunged for the narrowing opening, but it was too late. He caught a glimpse of tears coursing down Jillian's porcelain features. Dammit all to hell.

He ripped at the closed panels of the door. No use. He pressed the button, trying to get the doors to open. Nothing. No response. Frantic, he turned. He started toward the stairs, then he heard another elevator door slide open.

Darting inside, he punched the lighted button for the lobby. But the damn thing went up instead of down. His heart pounded. Each breath came hard and fast. Like an angry tiger, he felt caged, trapped. He stalked the inside of the elevator. Back and forth in front of the doors. Unable to escape. Unable to stop Jillian.

Minutes that seemed like hours later, he reached the lobby. He raced out the glass doorway leading to the circular drive. His gaze darted this way and that.

“Jillie?” he called.

“Mr. Fortune?” the valet inquired, stepping forward.

“The lady…the one with me…did she come this way? Did you see her leave?”

“Yes, sir. I hailed her a cab.” He nodded toward
a yellow car, its taillights flashing red as it veered onto the main street in front of the high-rise.

Brody's world caved in on him, crushing the breath out of his lungs. He'd lost her. She'd never believe him now. Never.

“I
've put in for a transfer.” On Monday, Jillian stood in front of Brody's massive desk, her arms crossed over her stomach, trying to contain the nervous fluttering that felt more like the ravens from Hitchcock's
The Birds
rather than delicate butterflies.

“What?” He stared hard at her, his gray eyes stormy. “Jillie, if you'd just listen to me, we could—”

“It will probably take another couple of weeks,” she explained, dismissing his attempt to make more excuses. He'd followed her to her sister's after she'd run out on him. She'd refused to let him in the house. She'd ignored his phone calls. And she'd come to a hard conclusion. This was the end. “Personnel will get you a replacement—”

“I don't want a replacement!” He slammed his hands on his desk out of frustration. “Why didn't you resign?” he asked.

“Because I need the medical benefits. I can't take the chance—” She stopped herself. It wasn't his concern.

“You couldn't take the chance that I would give you a poor recommendation?” he asked, his face growing red with anger. “Don't you know me better than that?”

“I don't know you at all.” She'd done all the talking, all the crying she planned to do. Now it was time to get on with her life. Once and for all. Without Brody.

She should have felt strong, secure in her decision, but she felt shaky, vulnerable. “If that's all—” she turned on her heel and headed toward the door “—then I'll get to work.”

“No,” he said, his voice curt with suppressed anger, “that's not all. I want to discuss this.” He stood, shoving his chair behind him and leaning his full weight against the desk, his knuckles white against the dark wood.

“The folder you asked for is on the corner of your desk.” With a trembling hand she twisted the brass knob.

He cursed, but she kept walking.

Without a backward glance, she settled in at her desk, ignoring the bagel he'd placed on the corner before she'd arrived that morning, and managing to focus on the spreadsheet she was preparing. A couple of hours passed without a word from Brody. But her gaze drifted often to that toasted bagel. Her tangled nerves wound tighter as she tried to deny his thoughtfulness.

When noon arrived she retrieved her purse from the desk drawer and a sweater from the back of her chair and headed for the elevator. She wouldn't wait for Brody to order her lunch. She needed peace, quiet, the coolness of the fall weather. She'd grab a sandwich at the corner deli and take a leisurely stroll through the downtown district, beneath a canopy of red, brown and orange foliage.

At first her steps were fast, clipped. Anxiety chased after her like a bull snorting and pawing the ground. But as the hour dwindled and her turkey on rye digested, her footsteps slowed to a leisurely pace, until she was almost dragging her feet before she had to return to the office, to face Brody.

She absorbed the sun's warmth as she concentrated on putting one foot ahead of the other. That was all she seemed capable of these days. If she focused on the moment at hand, on the immediate, she could survive each second, minute, hour, day. Then her thoughts couldn't drift toward Brody.

And she couldn't feel the anguish clawing at her. She wouldn't hear the voice in her head reminding her how stupid she'd been. Or the contradictory voice telling her Brody was the man for her.

When she settled back into the chair behind her desk, she situated the spreadsheet beside her computer and studied the figures for accuracy. The blinker on her phone buzzed.

“Yes, Mr. Fortune,” she said in a strained, reserved tone. It took every ounce of restraint to remain calm, collected.

“I need to dictate a letter, Jillie.” His nickname nettled her.

She gave a heavy sigh. Why couldn't he use the Dictaphone machine like everyone else? Irritated but unwilling to give him the satisfaction, she reached for her steno pad and pencil. Maybe he was testing her, trying to find a reason to let her go or to give her a bad recommendation.

Somehow that assessment didn't strike her as on target about Brody. Still, she wouldn't be careless,
she'd be cautious. Avoiding his direct gaze as she walked into his office, she felt him watching her, studying her, observing her every move. Pushing a lock of hair behind her ear, she poised her pencil over the pad. Why had he continued to play innocent? Why did he
act
as if he wanted her when he had Gail to play with?

“How was lunch?” His warm, rugged voice drew her gaze to him like a bee to honey. He leaned back in his black leather chair, the sun from the windows along the far wall backlighting him. He templed his fingers beneath his square chin. His eyes looked like molten lava.

“To whom shall I address the letter?” she asked, her voice shaking.

He frowned at her avoidance of his question. “My brother, Griff. You remember him, don't you? You can send it to the Double Crown Ranch.”

She wondered why he couldn't pick up the phone and call, but tilted her head, gave a crisp nod, and scribbled the name on the top of the paper. Then she paused, waiting for him to continue.

“Dear Griff,” Brody dictated, swiveling his chair sideways until he faced away from her and stared out the windows.

His hawklike profile seemed remote, harsh, uncaring, as if he'd dismissed her as easily as someone shooed a fly buzzing around a bowl of soup. As easily as her father had discarded her from his life. A trembling rage shook her to the core.

“I have a situation that needs your attention,” he stated, slowly, enunciating each word carefully.

Concentrating on each word, she blocked out the
pounding of her heart, the way it always beat chaotically when she heard him speak.

“Six months ago, when I was working in Sydney, I became acquainted with an old…friend of mine. Gail Harken, an investment banker with Jones, Blanchard, Seymour and Elliott…”

The pencil lead snapped off. Her stomach rolled. She glanced at Brody. Her pulse pounded in her ears. But he wasn't paying any attention to her. He simply continued speaking in a low monotone. Falling behind in the dictation, she grabbed for a spare pencil and tried to catch up, tried to ignore the roaring of her pulse in her ears.

“…and we were able to work together on several deals. It was a platonic relationship.”

Jillian's shoulders stiffened. But she kept writing.

He grew silent, his eyes focusing on some distant spot out the window. Finally he said, “Uh, Jillie, where did I leave off?”

She frowned and read her shorthand. Grinding her teeth, she said, “‘A platonic relationship.'”

“Ah, yes.” He rubbed his hand over his jaw and she could almost feel the rasping along her nerve endings. “Recently,” he said, “Gail surprised me…” He paused, scratched his temple. “Yeah, that's right. She surprised me with a visit here in the States. She had an offer, a new—” he cleared his throat “—proposal.”

Jillian's pencil stilled, the lead digging a tiny hole into her pad.

“It came out of the blue,” he said, “and threw a wrench into my plans.” He glanced at her then. “Are you getting this?”

She nodded. But she wasn't taking shorthand anymore. Her hands shook too much.

Settling back into his chair, smugly looking away from her, he continued. “It was an offer I had to refuse. As it would have cost too much. And offered very few returns for my investment.”

Her jaw clenched tight. She knew exactly what he was trying to do. And it wouldn't work. “Brody—”

He lifted a finger to stop her. “I don't want to lose this thought. I explained the situation to Gail. That my heart wasn't in the project.” His gaze shifted toward Jillian. “I didn't want simple, short-term gains. My interest was occupied with something more permanent.” He swung his chair around and faced Jillian again, the strength of his conviction leveling her with one look. “A lifetime investment.”

She snapped her steno pad shut and rose on wobbly legs. “This won't work. If you have serious work for me to do, I'll be at my desk.”

 

For long moments after Jillian left his office, Brody tapped a pen against the hard surface of his desk. He couldn't hear the erratic tapping, only the pounding of his heart.

You've lost her. Lost her for good.

As if something heavy and restrictive weighted him down, he felt unable to move, unable to even blink. He stared at the door leading to Jillian's desk. To her. But he didn't really see the solid oak door. He only saw the barrier keeping him out of her heart.

He'd lost. Unable to even defend himself. She'd blocked him out. His explanations fell on deaf ears.

It's fate.
He'd believed that before, when she'd left
Winslow suddenly, when he'd received her letter that she'd married James, when he'd come to Texas and found her in his very own office. And now fate was taking her away from him. Again.

But was it that simple? Could he accept that as an explanation and move on? Without Jillian? Maybe it was fate. But was it working for or against him this time? Maybe the odds had been stacked against them from the beginning. But that didn't have to mean they couldn't be together. Unsure, he felt an iron band tighten across the back of his neck.

Until he reached Jillian, until he fought as hard and as long as he could fight, he would be her prisoner, bound to her by a love so strong. He felt the inflexible cords wrapped around his heart.

He couldn't give up. Not this time.

Not after the passion they'd shared. Not when he burned for her. And yearned for more.

I love her.
That was a fact. No longer just a feeling burrowed inside his heart. His soul radiated that truth with every breath.

He believed some part of her, even if it was minuscule, loved him, or had loved him, too. Or else she wouldn't have made love with him. She wouldn't have cared so much about Gail. Or about his perceived betrayal. She loved him. He just had to make her realize she couldn't live without him. He had to show her she could trust him.

At precisely five o'clock, as if she'd been watching and waiting for the clock to reach that time all day, his intercom buzzed. “If you don't have any more work for me this afternoon, Mr. Fortune,” she said, “I'll be leaving for the day.”

His hands clenched each time she used that formality. “There is something I need,” he said back to her, through the crackling speaker. “Could you step into my office?”

A pause pulsed between them, filling his ears with static, before she responded. “Of course.”

When she stepped inside his office, he shut the door behind her. She turned around fast, her eyes wide.

“Brody—” Her voice took on an uncompromising edge.

Without regrets, he locked the bolt and put the key in his pocket. “We have something to discuss.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Brody, I don't have time for this. I have—”

“Tough.” He nodded toward the chair in front of his desk. He walked past her and slung a hip onto the corner. He glared at her. “Sit down. You're going to hear me out. Then if you still want to walk out that door, fine. I won't stop you.”

With an irritated sigh, she moved stiffly to the chair and sat on the edge of the cushioned seat. The prim line of her shoulders looked unrelenting. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap. Her mouth was drawn into a thin, straight line. God, he could remember how sweet and tempting she tasted. He knew it would take one hell of an explanation to convince her now.

But he had to succeed.

“Jillie, the other night, I was as surprised as you were by Gail's arrival. I didn't know she was coming here. I hadn't been in contact with her for months. And then it had only been in a professional way.”

“The way our professional relationship ended up in the bedroom.”

He flinched inwardly but maintained his negotiator's mask. “No. I never slept with Gail. In college. Or after. She wanted to, I won't deny that, but I'm not responsible for her actions. Only my own.”

She grabbed the arms of the chair as if to rise. “I don't want to hear this.”

“Too damn bad. You're going to.” He leaned forward, bracing his hand on his knee. “You're going to hear every damn word of it.”

With a huff of indignation, she scooted back into the safety of the chair and crossed her arms over her growing stomach. “Fine, get on with it. I have an appointment in an hour that I can't miss.”

“A doctor's appointment?” he asked, concern tightening his shoulders.

“It's really none of your concern. Is it?”

“Jillie—” He reached out to her, but let his hand fall back to his thigh. “I love you. I care about you. About the baby.”

She tilted her head and glared at him. “What were you saying?”

He sucked in a shaky breath. He'd laid his feelings on the table. And she didn't care. She didn't give a damn. Yet an urgency inside him wouldn't let him quit. He'd never been a quitter. Never. Either in academics, sports, or in business. This time, he'd handle love the way he handled business acquisitions—with bankable determination. “I figured out how Gail got into my apartment. Are you mildly curious about how she got there?”

“I assume with a key.” Her voice betrayed nothing. “Yours?”

“The manager's,” he countered.

She blinked slowly, as if digesting that news. But her features registered disbelief. “Right.”

“If you want, I'll have the manager confess his sins, his weakness to a pretty woman with a sorry line. Whatever it takes for you to believe me.”

“That won't be necessary. Gail isn't my concern.”

“What is?”

She glanced away from him. She looked pale. Tiny blue circles smudged the delicate skin beneath her eyes. He could see through her anger now to the depth of pain that reflected his own.