“So stop thinking about him,” she whispered to herself in the pre-dawn darkness of her bedroom as if the spoken word would have more impact.
She really had to stop thinking about how much she’d enjoyed working with him—despite how demanding he was and how high were his expectations.
She had to stop thinking about how much she’d enjoyed bantering with him, debating the child issue, having dinner with him.
She had to stop thinking about cobalt-blue eyes and mile-wide shoulders, and thighs that tested the limits of his impeccably tailored trousers and hands that could cup the entire back of her head against the pressure of a kiss….
“Stop it, stop it, stop it!” she said more forcefully.
She honestly did not want to be thinking the things she was thinking. She honestly didn’t want to be attracted to any man. And she honestly didn’t want any boosts to her ego that could make her vulnerable again.
Yes, Max had come out of that vulnerability and she adored her son. No, she wouldn’t change anything that would mean he wasn’t in her life.
But she couldn’t afford to risk anything that might make history repeat itself, either. She couldn’t afford it financially or emotionally.
Max’s father had hurt her terribly. He hurt her all over again every time Max asked why he didn’t have a dad like other kids did.
Lucy would never willingly open up herself or Max to more of the grief that had already been caused by a man whose life was clearly set on one course. A man who had no interest, no inclination, no intention whatsoever of altering that course to accommodate a woman with a child.
“So get your head out of the clouds, Lucy,” she told herself as her alarm went off.
Because getting involved with a man like Rand Colton once was enough. In fact it was absolutely, unequivocally more than enough.
Once again Sadie was taking Max to day care later in the morning and had come to sit with the little boy when it was time for Lucy to leave. But today Lucy made sure to say her goodbyes ahead of time so that the moment Rand’s driver rang her doorbell she was ready. In fact she nearly rushed him in her hurry to get out.
But this morning when Frank opened the rear car door for her it was to an empty back seat.
One glance there and another to the tall, stoic driver prompted an explanation.
“Mr. Colton had an early breakfast meeting. I’ve already taken him into the city. We aren’t to go directly to the office either. You’ll find a list of things he wants you to do today in the pocket behind the passenger’s seat.”
“He didn’t say—” Lucy cut herself off, hating the confused, disappointed tone her voice had taken, as if she and Rand had had some sort of private plans he’d changed without telling her, leaving his driver to do the dirty work. In truth, he owed her no explanation and she should have been grateful he’d still sent his driver for her.
“Fine,” she amended in her best businesslike demeanor before the driver saw what she was really feeling. Then she got into the car as if she’d been born to it and didn’t wait for Frank to close the door before searching for the note Rand had left her.
Not that it was actually a note. There was nothing written on the sheet of paper she unfolded but a to-do list. No warm greeting. No “It slipped my mind Friday night that I had these things for you to do.” No “I’m sorry for not warning you that you’re on your own today.” Nothing but one task after another that she was to take care of.
He doesn’t owe you any more than that. You’re just his secretary, she lectured herself, trying not to let it bother her as she read the list.
1. Pick up dry cleaning
2. Make enclosed bank deposit
3. Go to florist to hand-pick three arrangements and sign cards: Happy Birthday Deidre. Rand/Congratulations on your promotion, Bunny. I had a great time celebrating. Rand / Thanks for a wonderful evening, Veronica. Rand
There were other items on the list but she was too struck to read them in any detail. Instead she reread the first three things, the third several times, feeling her pique rise higher with each reading.
What did he think she was, his handmaiden? His servant? His social secretary? Laundry and bank deposits and flowers to girlfriends. Girlfriends! Plural. Deidre and Bunny and Veronica.
Did he imagine himself to be some kind of playboy potentate? Dishing out orders without so much as a please or thank-you. Forcing her to write his love missives to other women at the same time she was supposed to play wife with his cleaning and banking?
What nerve. What gall. What—
What was she doing getting mad?
Lucy put the brakes on the things going through her mind, on the anger that was gaining momentum.
You’re just his secretary, she reminded herself yet again.
Granted, she hadn’t assumed the job would entail his personal errands. That wasn’t what she had agreed to and it also wasn’t something she would have agreed to. But that wasn’t all that was making her mad. Every time she read that third item on the list and saw those other women’s names, she could feel her blood boil.
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