Mood Swing. Jane Graves

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СКАЧАТЬ of three, she gritted her teeth and tried not to cry.

      She was used to bosses who wore raw silk and Italian leather. This guy was double-knit polyester and leatherette. He was pushing sixty, with a shiny scalp showing through an embarrassing comb-over and a hefty set of jowls tumbling over his shirt collar. If the guy happened to smile, which at the moment didn’t seem likely, she was sure he’d have tobacco-stained teeth.

      He wore no wedding ring. No surprise there.

      She took a deep, calming breath, reminding herself of her dwindling savings and the mortgage payment she wasn’t going to be able to make in a few months if she didn’t get a paycheck coming in soon.

      She rose from her chair, gave him a dazzling smile and extended her hand. “Hello, Mr. Cargill,” she purred, like the lioness she was. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

      His eyes never met hers. She was used to that from men because they were usually busy checking out other parts of her body. But when he didn’t bother looking at any of the rest of her, either, she felt a shot of apprehension.

      He gave her hand a cursory shake. “This way.”

      She followed him into his office, where he plopped down in his pseudo-leather executive chair.

      “Catch the door,” he said.

      Strike one: he was ugly. Strike two: he had no manners. God only knew what strike three was going to be. Just the thought of unleashing her feminine charm on this man was making her a little queasy.

      She closed the door and took a seat. He slouched in his chair as he looked at the application she’d filled out, frowning the whole time. “It says here your most recent experience was as an executive assistant to a bank vice president.”

      “That’s right.”

      “You worked for him for five years.”

      “Yes.”

      His frown deepened. “I’m not seeing much computer experience. What programs do you know?”

      “Well, Word, of course. And Excel. And maybe a little bit of PowerPoint.”

      “Those are pretty much the baseline. What else do you have?”

      Not a blessed thing. Her job at First Republic Bank had been to keep Jerry Womack’s calendar, make travel arrangements, answer his calls, chat up any clients who came by for meetings, order lunch and look like a million dollars.

      In the past five years, while she’d been working her way toward the forty-fourth-floor executive suite where the espresso machine was the most complicated thing she’d have to run, technology had taken a quantum leap. Unfortunately, she hadn’t leaped along with it.

      “What about office machines?” Cargill said. “Typing?”

      She could type. Just not very well. As far as office machines, a simple phone system, a fax machine and a copier were about the only things she was sure she could handle.

      If he persisted in this useless line of questioning, they were going to get nowhere.

      “Let’s cut right to the chase here, Mr. Cargill.” She leaned in and folded her arms on his desk, slowing her words and letting her voice drop to a deeper register. “You and I both know that you can hire just about anyone to perform all those technical tasks. But that’s not what makes an executive assistant so valuable, is it? In the end, there’s only one qualification that’s even worth talking about.” She fixed her gaze tightly on his, giving him a smoldering look that had been known to bring men to their knees. “What you need, Mr. Cargill, is an assistant who can anticipate your every need—” dramatic pause “—and fill it.”

      She nearly choked on the words, even though they were something she could easily take back later. You thought I meant what? Her words appeared to have the desired effect. He sat up slightly, his bland brown eyes widening with interest. His gaze roved over her face, dropped slowly to her breasts, hovered there for a moment or two, then rose again—every flick of his eyelashes so blatantly assessing that she knew she had him on the hook.

      Five seconds passed. Then ten. And no matter how unsightly he was, she forced herself not to look away.

      “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I don’t think you’re qualified for the job.”

      Monica felt a jolt of shock, followed by a deluge of humiliation. He tossed her application onto his desk, pushed away from it and stood up.

      Oh, God. He was brushing her off. How could this be happening?

      “But…but I’m a very fast learner,” she said, “if only you’ll give me a chance.”

      “I don’t think so.”

      “I know I’m a little shy on technical knowledge, but I’m perfectly willing to—”

      “Thank you, Ms. Saltzman.”

      Just like that, rock bottom sank even lower.

      Monica rose from her chair, feeling a little shaky, but she forced herself to thank him for his time and walk away with her chin up because she had more class than this big, blind bozo could ever hope to have.

      She opened the door to his office and stepped into the lobby. Another woman was waiting there now to be interviewed, a platinum blonde who looked as if she’d cut cheerleader practice short to make it on time. And suddenly a different man was standing in Cargill’s fake leather shoes.

      “Well, hello, there,” he said with a smile, practically tripping over himself to usher the woman into his office. As he closed the door behind them, Monica stared with disbelief, feeling like a wallflower at a high school dance.

      “Well, she’s a shoo-in,” the receptionist said.

      “Why do you say that?”

      “Because she’s got all the qualifications he’s looking for, if you know what I mean.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re lucky he didn’t hire you.”

      “Why?”

      She leaned over and whispered. “Because he’s a dirty old man. I’ve got more bruises on my ass than I can count.”

      When she turned back to her Cosmo, it occurred to Monica that she used to read that magazine herself when she was younger.

      About twenty years younger.

      During the other job interviews she’d had recently, she’d told herself that she just wasn’t pouring on enough charm to get the attention of her prospective employers in a tight job market. But now she had to face the truth: she had nothing left that even a man like Cargill would be interested in.

      One of two things was going to happen here. She was going to cry, or she was going to get mad. Since getting mad had recently bought her eight weeks in an anger management course, she left the office and hurried down the hall to the ladies’ room, where she grabbed a tissue from her purse just in time to keep mascara-laden tears from rolling down her cheeks.

      She turned her gaze up to the mirror, leaning in to take a closer look СКАЧАТЬ