“There’s nothing wrong with having curves.”
She could have kicked herself for drawing his attention to her shape. “I didn’t mean it that way.” She’d already learned to accept her fuller figure and stop trying to be skinnier than her body type allowed.
He kept checking her out, not overtly, but still looking, still being a guy. “Be sure to tell Millie to include beachwear,” he said. “Just so you’ll have a complete weekend wardrobe.”
“That’s fine.” At this point, Carol wanted to hightail it out of his office. But she couldn’t run off without wrapping things up. She hurriedly asked, “What sort of accommodations do they have on the island?”
“It’s a mansion that Lena is renting. There are caretakers who live on the property, but she’ll be hiring a full staff to run it like a hotel while we’re there. When you RSVP, make sure to let her assistant know that we need two rooms. Otherwise, he’ll assume that my plus-one will be staying with me.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll take care of it.” After a beat of anxious energy, she said, “I better get back to work.”
“You are working.”
“I meant on something other than the arrangements for Lena’s party. You have other commitments besides that.” His calendar was filled with business dinners and charity events and city council meetings.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re good at keeping me organized.”
“I’m just doing my job.” But even so, this discussion seemed oddly personal. She hoped that she wasn’t making a mistake by going to the Caribbean with him. How was she going sit beside him on the beach, wearing nothing but a swimsuit?
Just as she thought about the part of their trip when they’d be scantily clad, the sun shifted in the sky and the light from the windows spilled into the room, brighter than before.
He stood there for a moment, in the afternoon glare, looking as gorgeous as ever, before he picked up the remote from his desk and closed the blinds.
“I’ll talk to you later,” she said, telling herself not to worry, even if she could feel him watching her, much too closely, as she walked out the door.
* * *
Jake pulled his Gullwing Mercedes coupe, one of the many classic sports cars in his collection, into a guest parking spot at Carol’s apartment. He didn’t believe in letting his cars sit around, all pretty and polished and untouched. It didn’t matter how rare or pricey they were, he drove the hell out of them. He treated women with the same reverence and vigor. But Carol wasn’t his lover, and he had no business being here. Still, he’d decided to stop by because he knew that she was meeting with the stylist today. He figured the appointment was over by now. Of course, he’d timed it that way on purpose. He was curious to see what Carol had chosen.
He was curious about all sorts of things about her. Jake had been having some crazy fantasies about his assistant.
Carol was a fascinating woman, with a sinful body and modest values. An enigma, if there ever was one. And damn if her good-girl nature didn’t turn him on. It was weird, too, because proper girls weren’t his usual type. He’d never had the urge to pull someone into the fray, not the way he was doing with her.
Maybe it was because they shared similar backgrounds. Maybe that was why he was daring her to let down her guard and have a good time. Whatever the reason, he needed to curb his desire. He couldn’t seduce her when they were on their trip. He absolutely, positively couldn’t, no matter how tempting the thought was. Jake knew better than to cross that line with a woman who worked for him. Besides, she prided herself on being well-behaved and corrupting her would be wrong.
He glanced toward Carol’s apartment. He’d never actually been inside her place before; he didn’t make a habit of visiting his employees at their homes. He did own this building, though. It was one of his favorite properties. He gave her a discount on the rent, a perk that came with her job. But regardless of the deal they’d worked out, he wasn’t her landlord, at least not directly. A management company ran the day-to-day operations and collected the rent.
Jake got out of the car and strode to Carol’s door. She lived in a unit on the ground floor surrounded by foliage. Built in the 1930s, the complex boasted Spanish-style architecture and was within walking distance to restaurants, shopping centers and farmers’ markets.
He rang the bell, and she answered the summons with a surprised expression.
“Jake? What are you doing here?”
“I just thought I’d check on how the fashion meeting unfolded.” He gestured jokingly to his ensemble. “Not that I’m the epitome of style today.” He was attired in a plain white T-shirt, jeans and scuffed leather boots. “These are snazzy, though.” He removed his sunglasses. They were the pair she’d given him last Christmas, similar to the kind James Dean used to wear. They were even trademarked with the actor’s name.
She looked him over. “In that getup, you really could be him.”
“Oh, sure.” He mocked the comparison, even if he was flattered by it. “Maybe I should get a Porsche like his, the one he smashed himself up in.”
She sucked in her breath, as if the wind had just been knocked out of her. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“I was just goofing around.” And being stupid, he supposed. He should’ve known that she wouldn’t think his comment was funny. “It was a great car, a 550 Spyder that he was driving on his way to a race. That’s a pretty good reason for me to get one.”
She stared at him, unmoving, unblinking. “I’d prefer that you didn’t.”
He leaned against the doorjamb, trying to ease the tension.
“Are you going to invite me in to see your clothes?” For now, she was wearing shorts and a loose-fitting khaki shirt, with her strawberry blond hair fastened into a ponytail at her nape. He imagined undoing the clip and running his hands through it. She had the silkiest-looking hair, with each piece always falling into place. Not that he should be thinking about messing up her hair. He was supposed to be keeping those types of thoughts in check.
“Yes, come on in.” She stepped back to allow him entrance. The brightly lit interior featured hardwood floors and attractive window treatments. She’d decorated with art deco furnishings from the era of the building, mixed with crafty doodads. He noticed a patchwork quilt draped over the sofa. He knew she liked to sew. Sometimes she gave the quilts she made to the other women in the office, for birthdays and whatnot.
“You’ve done a nice job with the place,” he said.
“Thank you.” She had yet to relax. She still seemed bothered by what he’d said earlier.
Now he wished he could take it back. Not his interest in the Porsche, but the way he’d joked about it. He hooked his sunglasses into the V of his shirt, and she frowned at him.
“Do you race cars because you have a death wish?” she asked, rather pointedly.
Cripes, he thought. She had it all wrong. “I do it to feel alive.” Everything he did was for that reason. “I don’t want to look back and regret anything.”
“I
