Besides, walking to work might be a good idea. He figured that the cold air, a brisk pace as he headed crosstown, would improve his mood.
It didn’t.
Some bozo trying to get his truck through a blocked intersection sent a spray of wet, dirty snow flying onto the sidewalk and over Jake’s shoes; a guy on Rollerblades—Rollerblades, on a day like this—damned near rode him down.
By the time he reached Rockefeller Center, Jake’s mood had gone from glum to grim. He gave a cursory look around as he strode into the building but he knew Brandi would be a no-show on a day like this. Not even her sudden determination to keep their affair alive would stand up to the possibility that her hair or makeup might get damaged. It was an unkind thought but, dammit, he was in an unkind frame of mind.
That was what staying awake half the night did to a man. Left him ill-tempered and mean-natured, especially when there was no good reason for him to have spent more time pacing the floors than sleeping.
It had to be the caffeine, Jake thought, as he stepped from the elevator onto the pale gray marble floor and walked to his office. The health food pundits made him edgy, with all their doomsaying. He liked coffee, and steak, and if he’d ever accidentally consumed a bite of tofu in his life, he didn’t want to know it.
Still, what else could have kept him up until almost dawn, if it wasn’t caffeine? Or maybe that Chinese takeout he’d picked up for supper had done him in. Not that he’d eaten much of it. Jake frowned as he reached his office. A hell of a night he’d put in, not eating, not sleeping…
The kid who delivered the mail came skidding around the corner.
“Morning, Mr. McBride,” he said cheerfully. “Here’s your mail.”
Jake, in no mood for cheerful banter or a stack of mail, scowled at the kid.
“What’s the matter?” he growled. “Don’t you deliver it anymore?”
“I am delivering it. See?” The kid shoved an armload of stuff at Jake, who took it grudgingly.
“This goes to my P.A., not to me.”
“Your what?”
“My P.A. My E.A….” Jake’s scowl deepened. “My secretary,” he said. “You’re supposed to hand her the mail.”
“Oh. Emily.”
For reasons unknown, Jake felt his hackles rise. “Her name,” he said coldly, “is Miss Taylor.”
“Uh-huh. Emily, like I said.” The kid grinned. “Nice lady. Pretty eyes.”
What was this? Did every male who walked in the door have to make an appraisal of Emily? What about her eyes? She had two of them. So what? Most people did.
“I always hand the mail right to her. But the door’s locked. It looks like nobody’s home.”
Jake’s scowl turned to a look of disbelief. He shot back the cuffs of his Burberry and his suit jacket, checked his watch and looked at the kid.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course someone is home.” He grabbed the doorknob. “It’s after nine. Miss Taylor’s always at her desk by—”
The knob didn’t move. The kid was right. The door was locked.
Jake’s mood, already in the cellar, began digging its way towards China. He shifted the armload of envelopes and magazines, dug out his keys and let himself into his office.
“If Emily is sick or something,” the kid said, “when you talk to her, tell her that Tommy sends—”
Jake slammed the door, stalked across the office and dumped the mail on Emily’s desk. It was, as always, neat as a pin. Even when she was seated behind it, not so much as a paper clip was ever out of place. Still, he could tell she wasn’t there. Her computer monitor stared at him with a cold black eye. The office lights were off, too, and there was no wonderful aroma of fresh coffee in the air.
E.A. or not, Emily had no feminist compunction against making coffee every morning.
Jake turned on the lights, marched into his private office, peeled off his wet coat and dumped it on the back of his chair.
Sick? Emily?
“Ha,” he said.
She hadn’t been sick a day since she’d come to work for him. Yeah, she’d said she felt as if she were coming down with a cold yesterday afternoon but it couldn’t have been much of a cold because not an hour later, she’d leaped at Archer’s invitation to dinner like a trout going after a fly.
“Sick,” Jake muttered.
Sleeping off her big night out, was more like it. Who knew where Archer had taken her for dinner, or what hour he’d gotten her home? Who knew how much wine she’d had to drink or how late she’d gone to bed or if she’d gone to bed at all…
Or if she’d been alone when she got into it.
Not that he cared. What she did, who she did it with, was her business. He’d tell her that, when—if—she deigned to show up this morning. The only question was, should he tell it to her before or after he told her she was fired?
From executive assistant to unemployed, in less than twenty-four hours.
The thought did wonders for his disposition. But why wait for Miss Taylor to put in an appearance? He could just as easily fire her right now.
Jake smiled coldly as he reached for the telephone but his smile changed, went back to being a frown. What was her number? For that matter, where did she live? In the city? In the suburbs? In one of the outlying boroughs? He had all that information. She’d filled out a form when she’d come to work for him. Actually, she’d filled out a zillion forms, thanks to all the tax information everybody required, but he’d be damned if he could remember anything about Emily’s private life.
Why would he? Until Archer stirred things up, she’d been the perfect employee. He’d never had reason to think about her, once he was away from the office. And now he was wasting time, thinking about her instead of sitting down and doing all the things that needed doing today. Not that he was actually “thinking” about Emily. Where she’d gone with Archer. Whether she’d had fun. Whether Archer had come on to her. Whether she was late because, even now, she was lying in the bastard’s arms…
“Son of a bitch,” Jake said, under his breath.
He thumbed open his address book, ran his finger down the list of T’s. There it was, Emily Taylor, the phone number written in Emily’s own, careful hand. Her address was there, too. She lived in Manhattan. Good, he thought grimly as he punched the phone number into the keypad. Then, she could damned well get her tail in here, pronto, and never mind what she was in the middle of doing with Archer.
Let her trudge through the snow. Then, he’d fire her. In person, where he could watch her face become pale as he told her to get out of his life.
Jake waited, tapping his foot impatiently as the phone rang. And rang. And—
“Good morning, Mr. McBride.”
