Christine Flynn – The Millionaire And The Glass Slipper (страница 9)
That was fine with her. Especially since the last thing she wanted now was for anyone to think that he had made any particular impression on her at all. Most especially since Candace had staked her claim. She’d heard her on the phone with one of her girlfriends only an hour ago. Candace had declined an invitation to lunch because she had an “extremely hot” new client coming in and wanted to keep the time-slot open in case he suggested doing lunch himself.
Though they tended to be polar opposites of each other in interests, tastes and temperament, Amy had always been a little in awe of Candace. What the woman wanted, the woman usually got.
Not, Amy mentally insisted, that she was all that interested in Jared herself. She’d admit that not a day had gone by that she hadn’t found herself reliving that hour in the elevator with him. Specifically, the moments when he’d held her and reminded her ever so briefly of the sense of security she so desperately missed. But mostly what she felt for him was a certain sympathy for whatever it was he was losing—or had lost—that had caused him to strike out on his own.
“I’m sure there’s a record somewhere, too,” Amy agreed. “I just need to know more about him to get it. Like I told you the other day, there are several Jared Taylors with various initials listed with Dun and Bradstreet, but none are architects. Same with the credit reporting companies,” she continued, only half-focused on the conversation. Needing to return a call, she glanced at her watch, took a step toward the door. “If you’ll get his full name and an address other than the post office box in Seattle that he gave us, I’ll probably have better luck.”
Pulling a small, compact mirror from her top drawer, Candace quickly checked her lipstick. “Will do. I’m not concerned about the agency getting paid,” she insisted. “We already have his retainer. I’ve just never gone into a preliminary presentation without more background information on a client. I think we’ve done a great job considering what we had to work with,” she concluded, confident as always. “I just wish we’d had more.” The compact snapped shut as she rose to pace. “Did you check international? Maybe nothing turned up here because he works out of the country.”
Obtaining background information on a client was standard operating procedure for the agency. Aside from making sure the client could pay his bills, information about a client’s business history, contacts and vendors could help better serve the client’s needs. That was why Amy had fully intended to research the international possibility yesterday. The day had totally gotten away from her, though. Jill had decided to have her living room furniture reupholstered while she attended a weeklong industry conference in Hawaii. It had taken Amy all day to get her organized, procure samples of the fabrics she’d ordered to make sure the bolt colors still blended with her carpeting, and get her to the airport for her six o’clock flight. First thing that morning, she’d had to let the men from the upholstery company in to pick up a sofa, two overstuffed chairs and an ottoman.
The agency was also still without a receptionist until Jill found the sort of young and attractive candidate she felt personified the agency’s progressive image—which meant Amy was doing her job and the receptionist’s, too. And would be until after Jill returned.
Amy had thought at the time that if she trusted her that much, she’d let her hire a new receptionist herself—at least a temporary one. But Jill didn’t feel that temps had a place on their tightly knit little team. In her defense, the woman did have a real knack for finding the right people for the job.
“I haven’t checked international on him yet. But I can’t imagine I’ll get anything more without a full name and address.”
Her own curiosity about the lack of information on Jared was on temporary hold. The bulk of her interest that morning was with the director of the care facility where her grandma lived. The woman had called wanting to talk to her about something “unfortunate,” just as Candace had buzzed for her the first time.
Amy’d barely had a chance to make sure that her grandmother hadn’t fallen or had been otherwise harmed before Candace had come out insisting that she needed her to fix the projector in the conference room ASAP for the Taylor presentation. That had been an hour ago and she’d been running ever since.
“Your notes in the file only indicate that his work is in Europe and Asia,” Amy reminded her. Both were rather large continents. “Which countries should I check?”
“I have no idea.” Nervous energy now had Jill’s daughter moving from her desk to the window and back again. “I know I asked where he was working, but the subject got changed somehow. I’ll ask him again when I see him.”
“Is that all, then?”
“Is the projector fixed?”
“The conference room is all ready for you.”
“Can you pick up my dry cleaning on your lunch hour?”
“Sure,” Amy murmured, too accustomed to such requests to consider the imposition on her personal time.
With a quick smile, Candace snatched her empty Kelton & Associates coffee mug and handed it to Amy to get it off her desk. “Oh, and when he gets here, give me a few minutes with him before you alert the rest of the team. I’ll buzz you when I’m ready for you to call everyone else.”
Holding the mug, Amy acknowledged the request with the lift of her chin, grabbed the water glass and headed into the hall. Another glance at her watch told her she had ten minutes before Jared Taylor’s appointment. In theory that gave her enough time to make her call to the director now.
“Hey, Amy.” Eric Burke, their electronic media director, strode toward her, five feet ten inches of faintly flamboyant creativity in navy worsted and cranberry cable knit.
“Hey, Eric.”
“Where are you going for lunch?”
“Martinotti’s.” It was closest to the cleaners.
He turned as they passed, still talking as he walked backward. “Bring me back a turkey on multigrain, everything but mayo?”
“No problem,” she assured him, now walking backward, too.
“By the way, love the schoolgirl look you’ve got going there.”
Schoolgirl? she thought. That was so not the image she’d had in mind for today. With a grimace she muttered, “Thanks.”
Savannah poked her head out of her office, her sharp wedge of cinnamon-red hair swinging. “You’re making a deli run?”
Amy barely noted the graphic artist’s hopeful expression before her backward progress was halted by hands on her upper arms. Amber Thuy, one of Savannah’s crew, stepped around her. “I’d love a salad, if you are. Which deli?”
“Martinotti’s,” Eric called, and disappeared into the supply room.
Glancing behind her to make sure she wouldn’t back into anyone else, Amy kept going. “Write down what you want and I’ll order it,” she told the women. “Right now I need to make a call.”
She got a thumbs-up from Savannah, a quick “Thanks” from Amber and hurried into the break room to deposit mug and glass in the sink. Reminding herself to wash them later, she headed to the front desk and punched out the number for Elmwood House, the facility her grandma lived in, before anyone else could delay her.
Kay Colman, the facility’s director, immediately came on the line. Just as she did, the main office door opened.
Jared Taylor walked in, six feet, two inches of long, lean masculinity in a charcoal turtleneck and a tailored black leather jacket. His quicksilver eyes flicked from his watch to the clock on the wall. With the command of a man with an agenda to keep, he kept coming, his focus shifting to where she sat at the reception desk with the phone to her ear.
Her glance had stalled on his broad chest. Realizing that, she jerked her focus to his face to acknowledge him and turned her attention back to her call. Now was not a good time to think about how he’d held her there, next to all that hard, solid muscle.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured into the phone, “would you hold for just a moment please.”
Suddenly aware of her heartbeat, she put the director on hold. She just wasn’t sure if her pulse felt uneven because of the hesitation and concern she’d just heard in the director’s voice, or because of the easy way Jared smiled at her as he walked up to her desk.
“How’s the weather?”
“The weather?”
“The black cloud that was following you around. You said bad days get better,” he reminded her, sounding as if he might have doubted her optimism somehow. “I just wondered if yours did.”
A faint smile formed. “I think you witnessed the worst of it.”
Torn between her need to get back to the woman waiting on the phone and wanting to know if he was feeling better about the venture that had brought him there, she glanced back to the telephone console. The line she’d just put on hold was blinking. Candace’s line was lit.
“You’re busy.” Sounding as if he might have had something else to say, he nodded toward the hall. “Is she in?”