Feet First. Leanne Banks

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СКАЧАТЬ Marc Waterson’s office reminded Jenny of the principal’s office at her elementary school. Funny, she was having some of the same feelings she’d had as a child when she’d been called to the principal’s office. She still remembered the conversations.

      “Jenny, both your brother and your sister were in our gifted program. We know you’re intelligent. You could be in the gifted program, too, if you would just try a little harder.”

      She had tried. But math and science bored her to death.

      As she sat across from Marc Waterson while he finished a phone call, she rubbed her damp palms together and took a deep breath to get rid of the tight feeling in her chest and stomach. She had told herself to reach for her inner diva for this meeting, but so far she wasn’t feeling successful.

      This wasn’t the same as being in the principal’s office, she told herself. This was a promotion. Kinda, anyway. It was the desk, she thought, eyeing the mammoth cherry desk that separated her in her little chair from the hot and almighty Marc Waterson. The hot Marc Waterson who clearly had no problem ignoring her, despite the fact that she’d dressed “office sexy” in a little black skirt and fitted sweater.

      A growl of frustration bubbled from her throat, shocking her when it came out of her mouth like an ill-timed burp. Oh, crap, she hoped he hadn’t heard…

      Marc glanced at her, lifting his eyebrows. He raised an index finger, signaling one minute.

      “Okay, Gino, I’m clear for tonight. Do you know if she likes Italian or seafood? Not on the application,” he said with a chuckle. “I’ll think of something and get Cynthia to make the reservations.” He groaned and raked his hand through his gorgeous thick hair. “God, I hope Miss Brunswick County is Miss Right. This is getting old.”

      Marc chuckled. “Remember you get something out of this, too, if it works out.” He nodded. “Ciao.”

      Miss Right? Marc was looking for Miss Right? And he sounded pretty intent on it. Miss Brunswick County, a pageant winner, she thought, turning up her nose. How superficial. She would have thought he’d be beyond that. She felt a stupid pull of disappointment in her belly. Lord knew she wasn’t pageant material, not unless she was backstage.

      Seconds later he set down the phone and punched his intercom button. “Cynthia, please make reservations for two tonight at the Atlanta Grille at The Ritz. Then hold my calls. Thanks,” he said, and turned his attention to Jenny.

      Having him look at her made her feel even more squirmy. She allowed herself one little shift and crossed her legs.

      “Jenna, have you decided to do the project?”

      She fought a spurt of irritation. “Jenny,” she corrected.

      “Sorry, Jenny,” he corrected, although he didn’t appear particularly sorry at all.

      “I’m interested. I’d like some more details on exactly what will be expected of me and what my compensation will be,” she said, pleased that she hadn’t stuttered and thankful that she’d spent the morning rehearsing. I am diva, hear me roar, she mentally chanted. At the same time she wondered if Marc wore aftershave, if she’d ever get close enough to smell.

      He named a figure for her increased salary that made her want to sing hallelujah, but she restrained herself and tried not to stare at his mouth while he talked. He listed her duties and expectations along with her new job title—assistant designer.

      The two words were music to her ears. How interesting, she thought. Her jobs had always been a means to an end, a way to pay the bills and she hadn’t cared about prestige. She’d usually been too busy looking for the next job because she’d either quit the last one or her company had gone out of business. She hadn’t loved anything she’d done enough to give much thought to how long the job would last. This one was different.

      “The salary is fine,” she said, forcing herself to make the understatement. “The job title is fine, but I’m concerned about my position once the project is over. What will I do then?”

      “What do you want to do?”

      I want to make wild monkey love with you…whatever wild monkey love entails. She cleared her throat and tried to clear her mind. Diva, diva, diva. “I’d like to design my own line of evening shoes,” she said, the words boldly popping out of her mouth.

      Marc blinked.

      She would bet he hardly ever did that. He was the type who didn’t need to blink. “That’s a tall order.”

      “Not according to you and Sal. You must agree with him that I’m up to the task of designing if you’re willing to give me such an important project.” Except for the fact that Marc was in a sticky spot.

      “This is an unusual situation,” he said, adjusting his tie.

      Jenny was shocked by the subtle display of discomfort. She had made Marc Waterson uncomfortable. Would wonders never cease.

      “I haven’t seen enough of your designs to know that you can create an entire line and sustain it. Creating a line requires a huge investment from the company.”

      “If Sal doesn’t come back, you’re going to have to make that investment in somebody.”

      “I have no reason to believe he won’t return. And if he didn’t, we would still continue his line for years to come.”

      Sounded like no to her and it sucked. For the first time in her life, Jenny was doing something noteworthy and she wouldn’t mind if people knew.

      He met her gaze. “You’re not going to get credit for the shoes you’ll design for Brooke.”

      She nodded.

      “And it bothers you,” he said.

      She nodded again.

      He tapped his Waterman pen on his desk. “I’ll tell you what. Put together some sketches of some evening shoes and if I think they’re good, I’ll show them to marketing. We can go from there.”

      It was a chance. More than she’d had when she’d walked in the door.

      CHAPTER THREE

      THE NEXT DAY Jenny’s promotion felt more than ever like a pretend promotion. She fielded calls for Sal, filed and did everything she used to do, plus now she also needed to design.

      During the lunch she took at her desk, the phone rang again. She frowned at it and almost didn’t pick up. Mentally grumbling, she answered the phone. “Jenny Prillaman for Sal Amoré.”

      “Take the Tarantino job, Jenny. You can do it,” Sal said.

      She nearly dropped the phone in shock. “Sal! Where are you?”

      “In rehab. I had to sneak this call. I won’t be able to call again. Just do the job.”

      “But Marc Waterson thinks I have a degree from a design school.”

      “In this case, what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Sometimes upper management doesn’t understand the way an artist creates.”

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