She raised one brow. “Based on which facts?”
“The fact that you’re twenty-four years old and still living out of your father’s pocket.”
That stung. He could see it in her eyes, in the infinitesimal lift of her chin and the sudden tightness of her smile. “In my bag is the key to the apartment I’m moving into this afternoon. I won’t be living in anyone’s pocket, especially once I receive my first paycheck. When will that be, Jack?”
He recited the payroll procedures, because that gave him something to concentrate on other than his steadily growing irritation and the haunting trace of hurt in her eyes.
When he’d finished, she asked, “Are there any other procedures I should know about?” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and folded her arms across her chest. Both actions drew his attention to the sunshine-bright, curve-hugging dress…and the body inside it.
“There’s a dress code,” he decided.
“I don’t usually get complaints about my fashion sense.”
“We’re not talking fashion. We’re talking suitability in the workplace.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You want me dressed in one of those drab gray suits like Evelyn wears?”
“Sounds perfect.”
“With my coloring? You must be joking!” She punctuated the remark with a dismissive little laugh, and Jack’s irritation indicator shot off the clock.
“Is that the attitude you’re bringing to this job?” he growled before he could stop himself.
“Hey, I was joking. Haven’t you any sense of humor?”
“Not where this job is concerned,” he snapped.
She took a step closer and touched him on the arm. “Lighten up, Jack. All that hostility can’t be healthy.”
He pulled away with what he hoped passed for indifference, though there wasn’t an indifferent cell in his body. He hated how readily he responded to that one fleeting touch of her fingers, that elusive scent, the mocking smile. Her mere presence. His head steamed at her words, while his body…his body ached to eat them right off her tongue.
“This isn’t hostility. This is right royal pi—” He stopped himself. Reminded himself about not letting her get under his skin and into his head. He lifted a hand and rubbed at the tension that ached in the back of his neck. “Look, I’m under a ton of pressure at the moment. I don’t have time—”
“For baby-sitting,” she cut in softly, and there it was again. That surprising touch of vulnerability in her eyes.
Jack forced himself to ignore it. “Damn right!” he growled.
She took one small step away, and she looked for all the world as if she’d stepped back behind that regal facade. The transformation was that quick. “Believe me, I’ve got the picture,” she purred, all cool disdain. “Why don’t you show me to the crèche and I’ll see if there’s anything there to keep me amused?”
Three
Paris had to wait until Monday before being introduced to her “crèche.” For the rest of the weekend her mood alternated between near-paralyzing attacks of insecurity—What was I thinking? I have no idea how to handle a major PR assignment!—and restorative bouts of anger brought on by replaying any snippet from Saturday’s confrontation. Terms like baby-sit and dubious media contacts still caused her eyes to cross and her blood to bubble, as did the curtness with which he dismissed her.
“I have more important places to be. I’ll see you in my office Monday morning. Eight sharp,” he’d said.
And here she was in the reception area outside his office, forty minutes after “eight sharp.” She didn’t, not for one of the fifty minutes she’d been sitting here, expect he’d forgotten her. Oh no, this was a deliberate snub…or a test. He probably hoped she would tire of waiting and leave, or behave like the spoiled princess he thought her and throw a tantrum.
She would do neither. She would calmly pick up the annual report from the coffee table, and she would use however long he made her wait to bone up on the company’s latest achievements. And every time the report trembled in her hands because of the giant butterflies doing loop-the-loops in her stomach, every time she felt this overwhelming need to bolt for the door, she would close her eyes and imagine the satisfaction on Jack Manning’s face when he found her gone.
No way would she grant him such easy gratification.
Her eyes were closed the second before a Helena Bonham Carter lookalike bounced in, regarded her with open curiosity and asked if she could help.
“I’m waiting for Jack.” Paris smiled back.
“Does he know you’re here?”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure he does.”
The huge brown eyes regarded Paris for a moment longer, as if trying to place her, before she disappeared into Jack’s office. Paris smoothed the skirt of her brand-new Armani suit and gave up trying to focus on the report. Ten minutes later the brunette reappeared. Without the inquisitive smile and wide-eyed friendliness, she didn’t resemble Helena Bonham Carter at all.
A wave of comprehension washed over Paris. All wrapped up in Jack’s reaction, she hadn’t considered how other staff members would feel about the boss’s daughter sauntering into such a plum position.
Oh, they’re just going to love you, Paris. Especially when they realize how poorly qualified you are.
Her stomach hollowed as further implications sank in. Was there someone more experienced who’d been promised the job or who deserved such a promotion?
Paris glanced across at the brunette now seated behind the reception desk, studiously avoiding eye contact. She smoothed her skirt again, checked her smile hadn’t frozen in the suddenly chill atmosphere and approached the desk.
“Good morning.” She glanced at the name plaque. “Julie, is it? I gather Jack has told you who I am?”
“Yes. Welcome to Grantham’s, Miss Grantham.” Except she didn’t look very welcoming. She barely glanced up from the appointment book in front of her.
“If you call me that, I’m not likely to answer.”
Julie’s surprised gaze skittered up, and Paris took the opportunity to smile and extend her hand across the desk.
“I’m Paris.”
The handshake was unavoidable but, at best, Julie’s smile could only be termed polite.
“I gather you know why I’m here?”
Julie’s expression frosted over. “Jack told me you have the PR job on Milson Landing. Congratulations.”
Somehow Paris didn’t feel as if she’d just been congratulated. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but have I taken this job from someone else?”
Before she’d finished the last words, an almost-familiar awareness warmed the back of her neck and crept down her spine. She knew, even before Julie’s focus shifted to somewhere beyond her left shoulder, who had joined them.
“Having a belated conscience attack, princess?”
She turned slowly, annoyed by the little leap in her pulse and the warmth spreading through her torso. How long would it take till her body caught on that she didn’t like Jack Manning anymore?
“It’s not too late to step aside,” he challenged.
She lifted her chin and met his hard, dark eyes. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
He tapped the papers he held in one hand against the palm of the other, drawing her attention to those