Up Close and Personal (3 page)

Oh, gosh. He heard me. Embarrassed to be caught drooling over him, I say the first thing that pops into my mind. “Umm, is there a job manual somewhere?” A fair question. He hadn’t been exactly expansive about the job requirements, and I’d like to excel at this job. Not only does my pride require it, but if I don’t do just that, my keister might be out on the street in record time. Mr. MacKay does not appear the type to suffer fools gladly.

“No. There isn’t. I want you to learn as you go along.”

I’m a fast learner and love a challenge, but it would be nice to have something or someone to ask questions about the job. “Was there a previous personal assistant?”

His spoon clatters to the edge of the plate, as his lip curls in derision. “Yes. She didn’t last long, just like the other three before her.”

My breath hitches. The thought of losing this job before I even start terrifies me. I need the money to pay my mother’s expensive medical bills. A year ago, after being diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer, she underwent an aggressive regime of chemo treatments and radiation therapy. The costs were staggering. Her insurance paid most but not all. Wanting the best for her, I signed a note, promising to pay the difference. Unfortunately, by the time they discovered the cancer she’d been too far gone. So the treatments only helped to prolong her misery. Toward the end, she couldn’t take it anymore and asked me to let her go. I honored her wishes and she passed away a few months ago. A wave of sadness sweeps over me and a stray tear rolls down my cheek. I use my napkin to mop up the moisture hoping neither he nor the butler noticed my loss of composure.

Illogical though it might be, a wave of resentment rises within me. He doesn’t know about my mother, so I can’t blame him for his lack of empathy, but you’d think he’d understand my need to do a good job. But he doesn’t. He’s eating his soup like he could care less. Maybe it’s just business as usual for him, but I need to know why his last PA left. “So what happened? Did she quit or . . .”

He snorts. “She left a month ago. Went home to marry her college sweetheart.” He rests his spoon again as if a thought just occurred to him. “You don’t have one, do you?”

I take offense at the personal question. What business is it of him if I have a boyfriend? But then logic comes to the rescue. Of course he needs to know. He’ll want to make sure I don’t up and quit on him like my predecessor did. “No. Between work and school, I was too busy for a social life.” And what little free time I had I spent at the nursing home watching my mother die. But I’m not revealing that part of my past. The pain’s too fresh, too intense to share.

“Where did you work?”

“I waited tables. Lousy pay, good tips.” I hadn’t listed my waitressing job on my resume. My college career adviser recommended against it since she didn’t think it would help me land a professional job.

“How long did you work there?”

“A year.” Against my mother’s wishes who preferred I focus on my studies, I’d gotten a job to help pay her hospital bills. When the cancer advanced to the point she needed more extensive care, she entered a hospice. That had been six months ago. Unable to swing both the rent and her more expensive treatments, I’d terminated the lease on the house we’d lived in since I was little, put our things in storage and found an apartment sharing situation. My part-time wages barely made rent and utilities, so I picked up extra shifts at the restaurant every chance I got. This job’s an answer to a prayer so I’ll do whatever it takes to make it work. Even if Sterling MacKay is difficult as all get out.

“Are you familiar with my business?”

Fine time for him to ask. After he’s hired me. “Yes. I researched MacKay Industries before the interview.”

He puts down the spoon again. At this rate, he’ll never finish the shrimp and corn chowder which is to die for. I’ve already polished off my bowl. Although I’m tempted to ask for seconds, I don’t. If the soup’s this delicious, God only knows what the main entree will taste like.

“So tell me about my company.”

“It’s a biotechnology firm. You develop technologies and products that help improve our lives and the health of our planet.”

He laughs. “Did you get that from the company’s website?”

I blush. “Yes. But I did further research on the internet.”

“Do you approve of my business, Ms. Bennett?”

Odd question that. “Yes. I do. You create useful food products, such as bread and cheese, combat rare diseases, figure out a way to use less and cleaner energy, and devise more efficient industrial manufacturing processes. What’s there not to approve?”

“Some people think it’s unnatural.”

“To use the assets in our planet to improve people’s lives? I don’t get it.”

“Neither do I. And yet, they’re out there.”

The butler removes my empty soup bowl, and Sterling MacKay’s which is half full. A shame. He needs to eat more. He’s too thin for his height.

“Is that a problem for you?” I ask.

He temples his hands over the table while waiting for the next course to be served and stares into nothing. “I don’t allow it to be a problem.”

Makes sense. He hasn’t gotten to where he is if he’d allow misguided opinions to interfere with his chosen course.

“What about me? Did you research me?”

His question thumps me back to earth. If I say no, he’ll know I’m lying. If I say yes, he’ll realize I was nosy enough to learn everything about him. Better go with the truth. “You graduated from Princeton, earned a master’s degree from the Wharton School of Business.”

“What about my personal life?”

Uh oh. That information I learned from gossip magazines. But in for a penny, in for a pound. “You enjoy adventure sports—skiing, deep sea diving, racing. That’s how you . . . got hurt. You crashed during an amateur car race.”

“I didn’t crash. Some idiot drove me into a retaining wall. I don’t race any more. Obviously.” His mouth twists.

It’s only then I notice the small scar at the right corner of his mouth. Did the racing car accident cause that or was it there before? Other scars dot his brow and the corner of his right eye, but they’re barely noticeable. Either the accident did not split open his face or he had one hell of a plastic surgeon. Probably a little of both if I had to guess.

“What else do you know about me?”

“You’re engaged to Meredith Duncan.” A socialite, heir to the Duncan fortune. They’d been together for a couple of years and then just before the accident, he’d proposed. The gossip rags reported the engagement ring, with its gigantic diamond, is worth over a hundred thousand dollars.

“Was engaged. We broke it off after the accident.”

Oh, geesh. Now I’ve put my foot in it. I hadn’t read anything in the magazines about that. Are they keeping the break up hush hush? To keep from thinking about the humongous gaffe I made, I butter my roll, tear off a piece and pop it into my mouth. The delicious bread practically melts in my mouth, and I moan.

“You haven’t drunk your wine.” His voice’s gone gravelly.

Curious how he determined that, I ask, “How do you know?”

“I didn’t hear you drink.”

Good lord. Not only do I have to watch what I say and do, but what I don’t. “Red wine gives me a headache.”

“What do you drink then?”

During Christmas, my roommate brought home a wine I’d liked, but other than its color, I didn’t notice what kind. “White?”

He waves a hand at his butler. “Moseley, bring up a bottle of the Domaine Leflaive Les Folatieres Cru.” He rattles off the name in flawless French.

“Yes, Mr. MacKay.” Moseley sketches a small bow before he exits through a door in the back of the dining room.

Folding his hands over his plate, he smiles. Clearly, I amuse him. Is that why he hired me? Because I make him laugh. I fiddle with my glass goblet, not sure if I should be offended or let it go.

When he brushes his hand against his brow and his lips twist in pain, I chastise myself for being so small minded. My behavior gives him a bit of joy. Who am I to take that small comfort from him?

We discuss the weather while we wait for Moseley. After a couple of minutes, he returns with the wine. “We’ll need to let it breathe a bit, Sir. Should I wait on the main course?”

“No. Serve it now.” He waves a hand in my direction. “I believe Ms. Bennett is hungry.”

I blush. So he’d noticed my inhaling the soup. Couldn’t help it. The shrimp and corn chowder was delicious.

“Very well, Mr. MacKay.” The butler disappears through the door which probably leads to the kitchen. He returns with a serving tray which holds two plates. One whiff of the beef bourguignon and the roasted potatoes almost brings me to tears.

When he serves me, I say, “Thank you, Moseley. It smells delicious.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Bennett.”

“You may serve the wine now.” Sterling MacKay clips out.

Did it bother him? That small exchange between his butler and me? I don’t see why. I can’t very well ignore the man, can I?

After Moseley fills our glasses with the wine, Sterling MacKay sniffs the spirit, takes a small sip and swirls it in his mouth.

Wanting to not appear a complete yokel, I follow suit. Oh, my Lord. The cool wine tastes of honey and some spice. It’s the best thing I’ve ever drunk. “Ummmmm.”

Both men stare at me like I’m some exotic animal.

“Sorry,” I say returning the wine goblet to the table.

“Don’t apologize, Miss Bennett. I’m glad you appreciate the wine.” Once more, he tucks his napkin over his lap like it’s in danger of slipping off.

The rest of the dinner consists of him asking me questions about my college life, my studies. I answer them as truthfully as I can while I gobble down the food. Dessert is chocolate cake. I almost faint with pleasure on my first bite.

Once our dessert plates and coffee service are removed, he asks me to leave. He probably doesn’t want me to see him stand. I gladly comply. For the food alone, I would put up with any amount of odd behavior on his part.

Chapter 4

______________

Sterling

THE NEXT MORNING, I stroll into the dining room in my usual Sunday morning attire—trousers, shirt, a v-neck cashmere sweater. The trousers are gray, the shirt white and the sweater a heather blue. Not that I can tell. My valet chooses my clothes for me.

“Mr. MacKay?” Moseley sounds bewildered. “I sent the maid up with your breakfast. I thought you’d be eating in your room.”

“Not today.” I couldn’t resist the temptation of hearing Ms. Bennett enjoy Belgian waffles with strawberries and whipped cream, our usual Sunday morning breakfast fare.

She arrives in a rush and, from the sound of it, wearing the same skirt from the interview. Given the state of the weather—it snowed twelve inches overnight—I’ll probably enjoy a couple more days of suffering through that particular outfit before she can replenish her wardrobe.

Why am I so preoccupied with her? I never felt this way about her predecessor. Inwardly, I shrug. Maybe it’s boredom setting in. Six months with no outlet for my energy—no skiing, no racing, no mountain climbing—would do that to a man used to physical activity. Problem is, she more than amuses me.

Against all odds, I’m attracted to her.

Why? She’s not my type. She’s too bubbly, too enthusiastic, too unsophisticated. I like the quiet mysterious types, not the ones who blurt out every thought that rumbles through their heads, or reveal their states of mind through every sound they make. But there’s something about her. Her innocence, her appreciation of food. Her joy in the smallest of things. Maybe it stems from the lack of luxuries in her life which apparently has not been easy. Or maybe she was born that way. Whatever the reason, I can’t help but be fascinated by her.

I’ll need to ask Anton to run a security check on her just like I have on my other employees. Of course, I usually investigate them
before
I hire them, not afterward. Which begs the question. Why exactly did I offer her the job on the spot? A security check would have taken barely a day or so to complete. I could have waited that long. But I couldn’t stand the delay. There’s something about her that attracts me. Like a moth to a flame. I laugh to myself. Hope not. That usually ends with the moth getting burned.

When she joins me at the dining table, I detect the same essence from the night before. It angers me she didn’t obey my request. “I thought I asked you not to wear perfume.”

Her steps come to a dead stop. “I’m not.”

“Then what on earth do you have on?”

“The soap the maid provided me. Since I didn’t have mine I had to ask for one of yours.”

“My soap doesn’t smell like that.” I grit my teeth against the sudden urge to breathe her in, to taste her skin, to lick her.

Taking her time, she drops into the seat Moseley’s pulled out for her, flicks her napkin. “Ooookay.”

She sounds confused. No wonder. She must think me a madman.

“I’ll buy non-scented soap as soon as I can get to a store.”

“See that you do.” I’m being a bastard, but my body’s reaction to her scent is growing troublesome. Last night my cock stood at attention all through dinner. My glass dining table would have revealed my reaction to her proximity, so I’d used the napkin to cover it up as best I could. Except it hadn’t been just her nearness, but the sounds she’d made. When she ate her food, drank her wine, I couldn’t help but imagine the noises she’d make with my shaft buried inside her.