was the second thought that went through Wheeler’s mind when he considered her. Really, really pretty. Her ivory complexion was smooth and flawless, a hint of pink riding high on her finely chiseled cheekbones. Her lips—as red and inviting as her outfit—were full and ripe and luscious. And something inside him knotted tight at the sight of her, kneeling there before him in a manner that was in no way appropriate for two strangers. With no small effort, he finally kicked himself into gear and extended a hand cautiously toward her.
As if she were feeling just as wary as he was, she scooped up her sunglasses, then slowly lifted her hand to tuck her fingers into his. Gently, Wheeler tugged her back to a standing position, then pretended he wasn’t noticing as she shoved her skirt and sweater back into place. But he couldn’t quite ignore the scant inch of bare skin that peeked out at him from between the waistband of her skirt and the hem of her sweater. And whatever had knotted tightly inside him grew even more taut, nearly cutting off his breath, wrenching a strangled sound from deep inside him.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly as she gave her sweater one final yank.
Something inside him rejoiced, however, when the sweater bobbed back up again, once more exposing that sleek line of flesh. “No problem,” he replied automatically.
The woman lifted a hand—which he noted absently was decorated with long, red nails and two big Band-Aids—to the curls still dancing wildly about on her head. Then she smoothed her fingers ineffectually over the mass, which bounced right back the moment she completed the gesture, and smiled. “I’m Audrey. Audrey Finnegan? I’m the office temp you requested.”
Wheeler was so caught up in contemplating her flat abdomen that he scarcely heard what she said. “Office temp?” he repeated idly.
“From One-Day-at-a-Timers,” she clarified. “You called them Friday needing someone to start on Monday? Today, I mean?”
It was a question not a statement, and vaguely, way back at the back of his brain, he realized she was waiting for an answer. But, still far too preoccupied by the sight of Miss Audrey Finnegan, all he could manage in that respect was, “I called them Friday?”
Somehow he nudged his gaze from her body to her face, and he realized he’d been doing her a grave disservice to focus on her midsection. As appealing as her torso was—and mind you, it was extremely appealing—her face was infinitely more interesting. Even when she was squinting at him in utter confusion the way she was now.
“Didn’t you call them Friday?” she asked. “Isn’t this Monday? And isn’t this Rush Commercial Designs, Inc.? Or did I come to the wrong place again? I’m pretty sure this is Monday? Isn’t it?”
Did he? Had she? Was it? Oh, yeah, Wheeler finally recalled, shoving his libido to the side. This was definitely Monday, and she’d certainly come to Rush Commercial Designs, Inc. At least, it was still Rush Designs, Inc., for the time being. And he had called for a temp Friday. Right after he’d given his regular secretary, Rosalie, her walking papers and two weeks’ severance. That on the heels of letting go his two associates last month.
As much as he’d hated to lose his staff, Wheeler simply wasn’t able to pay their full salary and benefits anymore. Hell, he couldn’t even pay his own salary and benefits anymore. It was going to strain his newly reworked—and very minuscule—office budget just to have a temp working. But he didn’t have a hope in hell of salvaging his failing business by himself. He was going to need someone to run the day-to-day basics of the office while he focused on his clients and accounts, even if that someone was just a temp.
Clients and accounts, he muttered to himself. Yeah, right. Like he was going to have any of those left by month’s end. They were disappearing faster than leisure suits.
He still couldn’t figure out where he’d gone wrong. When he’d been employed as a commercial designer by a much larger conglomerate, Wheeler had had more work to keep him busy than anyone else at the firm. His designs had been very much in demand, and he’d risen fast and far on the corporate ladder. So fast and so far, in fact, that one day, a year ago, he’d decided to strike out on his own. Hey, he’d built himself an excellent reputation, he’d reasoned then. Why give all the credit to a company that wasn’t his own?
So he’d struck out solo, bringing a number of his old firm’s clients with him. And at first, everything had gone fabulously well. He’d exploded with creativity, had introduced design after design that was cutting edge and savvy. He’d garnered new clients in addition to the old, and had expanded to handle all the new business, hiring two associates to help field their accounts. Rush Commercial Designs, Inc. had left the starting gate at an amazing pace and had been trotting effortlessly right toward the finish line. Until a few months ago, the future had been rosy and warm.
Then...
Well, Wheeler still wasn’t sure what exactly had gone wrong. He’d come home from a long business trip with the flu and had been out of the office for two weeks. In his absence, however, his associates had fared just fine. At least he’d thought they were faring just fine. But upon his return, things hadn’t seemed to run quite as smoothly as they had before. Granted, it had been January, something of a slow month for the business, but still...
His work shouldn’t have come to such a grinding halt the way it had. He’d tried to tell himself it was just one of those slumps that occurred in all types of businesses every now and then, and that they would ultimately pull through it none the worse for wear.
But they didn’t pull through it. The slump became a downturn, and the downturn became a stagnation. One by one Wheeler’s clients had become disenchanted with his ideas. And with every parting account, he had started to feel less and less creative. Ultimately his brain—once a playground for generating original, clever ideas—started to dry up. What few concepts emerged from the muddled pool of his creativity were tired, standard, cliched. And then, even his most faithful clients began to slink quietly away.
It made no sense. In addition to being talented, smart, ambitious and driven, Wheeler Rush had always been just about the luckiest man alive. He’d been born into a close-knit, loving family, one that had never hurt for financial well-being, one whose members were all intelligent, successful, attractive. Not a day of his life had passed that he hadn’t reflected on what a genuinely fortunate person he was. He’d never wanted for anything. He’d always achieved whatever he set his mind to achieving, effortlessly at that. Never once had it crossed his mind that he would be anything but a massive success in life.
At least, it hadn’t crossed his mind until his business had started to go belly-up. Then he hadn’t been able to avoid thinking about his potential for failure. Miserable, humiliating, vicious, rotten, crummy failure.
But that was all about to end, Wheeler told himself now. He was sure of it. Well, pretty sure, anyway. Sort of. In a way. Yes, he’d had to make some serious sacrifices to keep himself from going under. He’d been too overconfident in the beginning, and he wasn’t going to make that mistake twice. He’d pared down what had been an excessive office budget from the start. Hey, you had to spend money to make money, right? Wrong. His newly adopted motto was you had to save money to make money. And that was what Wheeler would do.
Hence, Miss Finnegan. At minimum wage and no benefits, she was a real bargain. The minute he got his business up and running again—and Wheeler vowed then and there that he would get his business up and running again—he could hire back his old staff at their old salaries, provided they were available. If not, he’d hire some new blood. Hey, maybe if Miss Finnegan worked out, he thought magnanimously, he could keep her and Rosalie both.
For
