She’s got nice eyes, nice skin, pretty hair, but—” He broke off at the gleam in his grandfather’s eye. “Oh, no way. She’s too ambitious. Plus she’s an artist, and trust me, they can be kooky.”
“But she’s smart,” his grandfather said.
“I guess you could say that,” Marc conceded. The way Jenny had handled Sal and Brooke showed she was people smart, and she was obviously talented.
“She bothers you,” his grandfather said. “That’s good.”
Marc mentally disagreed and shelved the subject once and for all.
THE NEXT DAY Jenny wore the same skirt and shoes and a different sweater. She didn’t own a lot of business-sexy clothes, and her raise hadn’t shown up in her paycheck yet. She’d had to fight the urge not to wear her red glasses, but the memory of Chad’s words had goaded her, You’re not a risk taker.
The truth was she wasn’t much of a risk taker. There hadn’t been anything she wanted enough to take risks. But this job was different. She liked it. Even though Bellagio wasn’t likely to give her a signature line of her own, she could take her experience and go somewhere else. And even though she wasn’t marriage material for Marc Waterson, she wondered if she had what it took to at least get his attention.
Not likely, she thought as she cooled her heels in his office while his other meeting ran long. She’d already put a small, masculine-looking leather box filled with peppermint patties on the corner of his desk as a thank-you for helping her out the other night when her battery had died. Feeling fidgety, she rose to her feet and meandered around the room, taking in the polished, gleaming furniture. She noted and approved the artwork on the wall. Spying some photos on shelves behind his desk, she couldn’t resist the urge to check them out.
She saw a photo of a dark-haired woman and man with Marc in a cap and gown. Mom and Dad, she thought taking in the family resemblance. She spotted another photo of a silver-haired couple. Grandparents, she supposed. Then another of a toddler with the originator of Bellagio, Antonio Bellagio. She looked closer and studied the photo. Bet the toddler was Marc. Cute kid, she thought, and glanced at his desk.
The desk was neat with only a couple of files on top of it. She noticed a drawer left open and spotted a jewelry flyer on top. Feeling nosy, she bent closer and glimpsed a page filled with diamond engagement rings. Gaudy diamonds piled with more diamonds, they reminded her of something she’d seen in a sci-fi flick. She wrinkled her nose. Jenny had nothing against a nice big rock, but those rings were ugly. She would have thought he’d have better taste.
Hearing his voice outside the door jolted her. She quickly stepped around his desk next to her chair.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. Board meeting ran long,” he said as he breezed through the doorway.
“No problem,” she said, thinking it was a crime for a man to look that good in a black suit.
Pushing the door closed behind him, he took a seat. “Okay, you have something you want me to look at, Gena?” he asked.
Jenny bit back a groan. “Jenny, my name is Jenny,” she corrected with a little more bite in her voice than she’d intended.
He finally met her gaze. “Jenny,” he repeated, and gave her a once-over. “Sorry.”
“Uh-huh,” she said in a noncommittal tone and placed the sketches she’d drawn for evening shoes on his desk.
He glanced at the drawings, then back at her. Then back to the drawings. He looked at her again. “Excuse me, but are you doing something different with your hair or something? You look different.”
“Yes,” she said, and felt suddenly self-conscious. She nodded toward the sketches. “Which do you like the best?”
“I like it this way,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Your hair. I like it down.” He furrowed his eyebrows as if he couldn’t quite figure out what else was different.
Feeling a quick rush of adrenaline, she decided to let him figure it out for himself. “The shoes,” she said, pointing at the sketches. “Which do you like the best?”
He glanced down at the sketches. “This one,” he said of the cutout velvet pump. “But this one has potential, too,” he said of the red strappy leather sandal with a stiletto heel. “Good start,” he said, and looked up at her again.
She felt his gaze linger on her mouth, then lower to where the sweater’s top two buttons were undone to reveal a glimpse of her cleavage. Another rush of adrenaline mixed with self-consciousness. She automatically reached to adjust her glasses, but they weren’t there, so she pushed her hair behind her ear instead.
“I’ll sketch some more,” she said.
“Good id—” He broke off when the intercom buzzed and picked up the phone. “Brooke. Okay, I’ll take it.”
“Hi, Brooke,” he said.
Jenny could hear a feminine tone, but no words.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “And when is this?” His mouth tightened. “Short notice, Brooke. Okay, okay,” he said and pinched the bridge of his nose. “And you want Sal’s assistant there, too. Yeah. See you there.” He hung up the phone. “Brooke wants us to come to a party at the house Saturday night. It’s a prereality show gathering before the cameras start rolling. She says it’s mandatory.” He paused. “It’s glasses. You used to wear glasses.”
He seemed pleased with himself, as if he’d solved a puzzle. “Yes, I did. What time is the party?”
He stood, still staring at her. “Eight o’clock. When did you get contacts?”
“I’ve had them. I misplaced my glasses, so I had to wear the contacts today. Do you know what the dress will be for the party?”
“You should misplace your glasses more often,” he said in a deep voice that did something weird to her tummy. “You have amazing eyes.”
“Thank you. So do you,” she blurted without thinking, immediately horrified.
His gorgeous eyes widened with surprise. “I do?”
She felt the temperature in her face rise at least fifteen degrees. She figured she’d turned tomato red and that made her feel very grumpy. “Yes, of course you do. Just like you have gorgeous hair and awesome bone structure and a killer body, but you already knew that, so I’m sure I’m providing unnecessary duplicates of the information.”
He blinked. “Thank you, I think.”
“You’re welcome,” she said as briskly as she could. “What type of dress for the party?”
“Cocktail,” he said, his gaze still on her like radar on a car clocking 95 in a 55 mph zone.
“Okay, thanks for your time,” she said, and scooped up her sketches. “I guess I’ll see you Saturday night.”
“Sure. Don’t you need directions to the house?” he asked.
“Good
