Ms. Bravo and the Boss Read online

  Jed had told Elise that the cat could roam free and he wasn’t a man who reneged on his word. He ignored the creature. It wasn’t that hard.

  Another week went by, as smooth and productive as the previous one. Jed dared to feel confident that he was out of the woods at last. He was going to make it. He would have the book turned in by the final deadline—or maybe even before, at the rate they were going. Elise was a damn treasure.

  His only concern now was her plan to leave once this project was finished. He really needed to do something to keep that from happening.

  Fortunately, he had until November 1 to figure out what.

  * * *

  Two and a half weeks after he hired Elise, Jed woke at 0200 to a rumbling sound.

  He’d been dreaming of a misty lake and the soft roar of a motorboat coming toward him through the fog. Shaking off sleep, he pulled himself to a sitting position and peered blearily into the darkness.

  Gold eyes gleamed at him from down by his feet and the strange rumbling sound continued. The motorboat had followed him right out of his dream.

  But it wasn’t a motorboat.

  It was the damn cat.

  “Out!” he commanded, sweeping an arm toward the door for good measure.

  But the cat was not impressed. It just watched him and continued to purr.

  He stared it down for several seconds and then ordered, “Get!” good and loud.

  No effect whatsoever. In time with the purring, it kneaded his comforter with its big paws.

  Jed gave up glaring and growling and took action. Shoving back the covers, he scooped up the animal into his arms. Unconcerned, the cat kept purring as Jed carried it to the upper hallway, set it on the floor and firmly shut the door on it.

  * * *

  The next morning, he purposely went down to the kitchen early, when he knew Elise would be there.

  And she was. He found her at the counter near the six-burner range with eggs, butter, a golden loaf of homemade bread, milk and several spices spread out in front of her.

  The staircase met the ground floor just beyond the open-plan kitchen. She glanced over her shoulder and spotted him as he descended the last few steps. That wide mouth bloomed in a smile of greeting.

  Strange. It was only a smile, yet it caused a distinct and disorienting stab of pleasure right to his chest.

  “Jed. What a surprise.” She turned to face him fully. She looked good, fresh and well rested in curve-hugging jeans and a big, white shirt of some silky material that clung to her tasty breasts.

  He kept the corners of his mouth turned down and spoke with great severity. “I need a word.”

  Her smile vanished. He missed it the second it was gone and regretted being the reason it went away.

  What was she doing to him? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He entered the kitchen area. Her dark brown eyes were wary now. “Of course,” she said. “Coffee?”

  Why not? He grabbed a mug and poured himself a cup. She waited for him to say what was on his mind, her breakfast preparations suspended. “Your cat was in my room last night. I woke up and found the thing purring on the end of my bed.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Get control of it.”

  “No problem. I’ll go back to keeping him in my room.”

  “No.” He turned to lean against the counter. “I didn’t ask you to lock the thing up. I just want you to keep it out of my room when I’m sleeping. I like leaving my door open at night, but I don’t like waking up to a giant purring cat on my bed.”

  “I understand. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Fair enough, then.” He started for the stairs.

  He’d taken a single step when she offered, “Care to join me? I’m making French toast.”

  Something good happened in his chest right then, a warm feeling. Kind of...cozy.

  He did want to join her, he realized.

  He really did.

  But he should refuse her. Sharing meals was getting too friendly, stepping over the line.

  But then again, maybe he was going about this all wrong. Maybe he didn’t need to stay away from her to keep her.

  Maybe he needed to get closer—no, not in a man-woman way. He had sense enough to see that getting into a sexual relationship with her was too risky in the long run.

  But what about buddying up to her? That should be safer. And if they were friends, he’d have a better chance of convincing her to stay.

  Then again, buddying up? Who was he kidding? He wasn’t one of those guys that women made friends with. He got that, knew that he would never win any prizes in the personality department.

  But she seemed a social sort of creature. If she had to be alone with him in his house day after day, shouldn’t he put a little effort into making the experience a positive one for her?

  “Stay,” she said again, and she did seem to mean it. “Let me give you a delicious breakfast to make up for Mr. Wiggles messing with your sleep.”

  She was being nice to him. Come to think of it, she’d been nice to him often lately. Because of the cat? Probably. After that first Sunday, when he’d told her she should let the cat free in the house, she’d seemed to loosen up around him.

  He’d come to like it when she was nice to him. He wouldn’t mind if she was nice to him all the time.

  “With bacon?” he asked hopefully.

  And she smiled at him again. “Bacon, too. Absolutely.”

  “Well, then, yeah. I’ll take you up on that.”

  So he set the table for both of them. He poured himself more coffee and settled into his chair as the wonderful smells of frying bacon and sweet spices filled the air.

  When the food was ready, she brought him his plate, the silky sleeve of her white shirt brushing his shoulder as she set down the meal in front of him. He felt the slight pressure of her arm beneath the fabric. It was nothing, an accidental touch.

  But it didn’t feel like nothing. To him, that touch was a thunderbolt straight to the heart—and lower down, too. All at once, he was acutely aware that he hadn’t been with a woman in almost a year.

  He reacted on instinct, grabbing her wrist as she put down the plate. “What are you doing?” The words rumbled up from the depths of him.

  “I... Nothing.” Her wrist bones felt fragile in his grip, the skin over them far too soft. “Really, Jed. Not a thing.” She was shaking a little.

  Was he scaring her? He hadn’t meant to scare her. “Don’t brush up against me.” He released her. “It’s not a good idea.”

  * * *

  Her stomach was flip-flopping and her mouth had gone dry, so Elise straightened and stepped back from him.

  What had just happened?

  Oh, please. She knew what had happened.

  She’d gotten too close and he wanted to scare her off. Because he’d really meant what he said that first day. He was attracted to her and he didn’t want to be. She shouldn’t let that please her so much.

  But it did.

  She set down her own plate, pulled back her chair and sat. Smoothing her napkin on her lap, she hid a sly smile and remembered the way he’d looked at her when he came downstairs this morning, a burning sort of look, a look that could almost have her imagining that he found her irresistible—which was totally crazy. She was so not the irresistible type. Men never gave her burning looks. They looked at her fondly or indulgently or sometimes like maybe they wished she would quit talking, but never as though she might be driving them wild with desire.

  Just the possibility that she might have that kind of effect on Jed gave her a lovely little thrill. Because Jed was...well, if a woman could go for the strong, scary, noncommunicative type, he was hot. Way hot. And lately, in the past week or so, as she soaked in her bubble b
ath at night or caught a glimpse of him on the way upstairs, bare-chested and sweaty after a workout, she found herself thinking that she could get interested.

  Not that she would. Uh-uh. That would be seriously unprofessional. Not to mention, hadn’t she made enough bad life decisions in the past few years? She finally had a job that could put her back on track. No way would she mess up this chance by falling into bed with the boss.

  Jed let out a groan.

  She slid him a glance. He had his eyes closed and he was chewing slowly. Pure pleasure showed on his hard face.

  Her French toast?

  Sure looked like it.

  She hid another smile. Her French toast was quite excellent if she did say so herself.

  He swallowed. “Damn it to hell. On top of everything else, you cook.”

  Did those rough words make her feel lovely and desirable and talented? Oh, yes they did. Talk about a boost to her battered ego. Impossible macho madman Jed Walsh saw her as capable and sexy and maybe even slightly irreplaceable. He was a tough critic, yet he found her exceptional—at work, in the kitchen and as a woman.

  She hadn’t realized how much she needed that, how much she yearned for a little admiration, for some honest appreciation.

  After all those endless months and months of doubt and fear and awfulness, Jed’s reluctant approval was a vindication. As he groaned over her French toast, Elise felt strong. Indestructible. A superheroine.

  But only for a moment. The surge of powerful emotion was just too much. She was the queen of the world—and then her fragile equilibrium snapped.

  Hot tears welled, pushing at the back of her throat. Her cheeks burned and her heart set up a wild, out-of-rhythm tattoo. In the space of an instant, she hurt so much and she hated herself for it.

  Just a moment of confidence. A flash of womanly power.

  And she was completely undone.

  She had to get out of there before Jed saw her like this and knew she was not the unflappable super-assistant he believed her to be.

  Shoving back the heavy studded chair, she tossed her napkin on the table.

  Jed looked up, startled, a slice of crispy bacon halfway to his open mouth. “Elise? What’s the matter?”

  Clapping her fingers over her mouth to hold back the sobs, she whirled and raced for the sanctuary of her room.

  Chapter Four

  Bewildered, Jed called after her, “What the hell, Elise?” But she was already gone.

  As she vanished into the hallway that led to her room, Jed set down the slice of bacon without taking a bite of it. What had just happened? He could have sworn those were tears he’d seen in her eyes.

  Tears? Elise?

  Not possible. She was far too tough for tears.

  “Mrow-mrow?” The fur ball trotted toward him across the great room.

  “Not a clue,” he answered, as though the cat had actually asked him a question.

  Was he losing it?

  Quite possibly.

  The cat bounded to him, plopped down at his feet and stared up at him expectantly. “Mrow?”

  “Yeah.” He stood and tossed his napkin onto his chair. “You’re right. We’d better go check on her.” He headed for the hallway to her room, Mr. Wiggles in his wake.

  When he got to her door, he tapped on it gently. “Elise?”

  “Go away!” she shouted from the other side.

  Going away was exactly what he wanted to do, but somehow he couldn’t. What if she was sick and needed a doctor? What if she did something crazy in whatever strange state she was in?

  He tried the door handle. Locked. “Elise, come on. Let me in.”

  “I said, go away!” She shouted it even louder that time. And then she sobbed—a short sound, swiftly muffled. But definitely a sob, no doubt about it.

  “She’s crying,” he whispered uneasily to the cat. It returned his gaze steadily, but had nothing helpful to offer.

  Jed decided to try coaxing, though God knew he was no good at that. “Elise.” He tried to make his voice gentle. “Come on, now. Let me in...”

  “Go away, Jed!”

  He probably should go. She’d made it more than clear that she didn’t want him there.

  But that seemed plain wrong, somehow. He had decided to try and be her friend, hadn’t he? Well, clearly, she needed a friend right now and he was the only one available—well, except for the cat. And what could a cat do at a time like this?

  Carrie had always said he was hopeless when it came to understanding what went on in a woman’s head and heart. He knew his ex-wife was right. What could he do to help right now?

  Most likely nothing.

  “I give up,” he said glumly to the cat.

  He turned and started back up the hall—at which point he heard the click of the lock disengaging behind him. Relieved and yet simultaneously terrified of the hundred ways he could screw this up, he turned back to the door as it slowly swung inward.

  She looked so small. He hated that. The Elise he knew might not be all that tall, but she carried herself proudly, head back, shoulders straight.

  She wasn’t proud now. She hung her head and her shoulders sagged. And she was sniffling, her pretty eyes red and her nose even redder.

  It hurt him to see her this way. “Aw, now. It can’t be that bad.”

  “It can, Jed. It is.” And with that, her face contorted and she burst into tears again.

  This time, she didn’t even try to hide them. She just stood there, clutching the door handle, her pretty face twisted, tears running down her cheeks. That was the worst, to see her so broken, to see her drooping and sobbing, stripped of her pride.

  What should he do? He had no idea. But it turned out not to matter. His arms just kind of reached for her without conscious direction from his brain.

  That was all she needed. With a hard sob, she threw herself against him. What could he do but gather her close?

  “There now, there.” He patted her back, feeling awkward. Inadequate. But she wasn’t complaining. She scrunched in even closer, crying hard enough now that he felt the dampness of her tears through his shirt. “It’s okay, it’ll be okay,” he promised, though he had nothing on which to base that assumption. “Come on. Sit down.” He guided her into her room and over to the sitting area, where he pulled her down onto the sofa with him. Alternately patting her back and smoothing her hair, he held her and waited until she ran out of tears.

  Eventually, she sniffled and asked, “Tissues?” into the soggy fabric of his shirt. Still curved tight against him she reached out a hand and groped for the box on the coffee table. He gave it to her.

  “Thank you,” she whimpered on a watery sob, pulling free of his hold and scooting away from him. Huddled against the sofa arm, she began whipping out tissues, dabbing at her wet cheeks and blowing her nose. Once she’d mopped up most of the tears, she let her hands fall to her lap and groaned, “God, I’m a mess.”

  “No,” he lied.

  “Yeah.” She nodded glumly. “Yeah, I am.” There was a long, heavy sigh. She tossed the wad of tissues toward the wastebasket in the corner and tugged at her shirt, straightening and smoothing as she squared her drooping shoulders.

  The cat, which had jumped up and stretched out on the back of the couch during her meltdown, lifted its giant orange head from its paws and asked, “Mrow?”

  “Fine, really,” she replied. Then she looked directly at Jed for the first time since he’d pulled her into his arms. “Well.” She tried for a brisk tone and mostly succeeded. “We should get to work, huh?”

  He thought of his page goal for the day. Screw it. “What made you cry?”

  A soggy little snort escaped her. She patted at her hair. “Believe me, my list of reasons is endless and you don’t need to hear any
of them.”

  “Sometimes it helps to talk about it.” Did he actually just say that? Never in his life had he willingly offered to listen to a woman tell him her problems. But this was different. This was Elise, who kept her cool no matter how many knives he threw, who typed his words steadily, error-free and unflaggingly, two hours at a stretch, ten to twelve hours a day. Elise, who was simultaneously soothing and stimulating. And because it was Elise, he really wanted to know.

  * * *

  Elise studied his craggy face. Those jade eyes regarded her, unwavering.

  She should ask him to leave now, say she would meet him in the office in fifteen minutes. And once he was gone, she should wash her face and comb her hair and get ready to work.

  It had to be a bad idea to confide in a man whom everyone in town thought was crazy, a guy who cleaned his guns while he killed off bad guys and good guys alike, one by one. A guy who signed her paychecks, for crying out loud.

  But, oh, he’d been wonderful just now. Gentle and caring and patient while she sobbed uncontrollably and dripped tears all down the front of his T-shirt. He’d been a complete sweetheart and she was so tired of holding her head up, of remembering her pride, of keeping it all inside.

  For once, she would just like to tell someone all the things that had gone wrong in her life.

  “You’ll be sorry,” she warned.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  So she did. She told him about her trust fund that had matured when she was twenty-one, of the thousands of dollars she’d thrown away in the stock market because she’d been so sure she could figure out for herself which stocks were the best bets. About the bad boyfriend, Sean, a struggling artist who’d coaxed twenty thousand from her a year and a half before, supposedly as an investment in the Denver art gallery he was opening with several “world-famous” artist colleagues. As it turned out, there was no gallery and those colleagues didn’t exist. Sean vanished with her money never to be seen or heard from again.

  And Biff Townley, who’d been her friend forever. Biff’s wife was a cheater who walked out on him and then took him to the cleaners in the divorce. Biff had only needed a little help, he said, to get back on his feet financially. Elise had lent him the money he needed so badly. Then he’d declared bankruptcy. “He said he was so sorry, but he couldn’t pay me back my money because he’d been forced to discharge all his debts and he needed to start over with a clean slate.”