Izzy nodded, her glance fastened on the golden faucet for safety’s sake. “Yes, sir,” she murmured, turning away. She had no more desire to idle in the bathroom with Mr. Parish than she did to watch him nuzzle the neck of some svelte socialite. With a sudden thought, she faced him. “Unless you’d rather do it at lunch when you have more time to—”
“No,” he cut in. “Let’s get my wife firmed up.”
As she headed for his desk she almost smiled at the irony. “I don’t imagine any wife you’d choose would need much firming up,” she mumbled, grabbing the Celestial Companion and Chaperon catalog, containing employee photographs and vital statistics.
Celestial was a highly regarded New York firm, providing purely respectable escorts. Even so, the idea of her employer hiring somebody to pretend to be his wife—for a trip to a private, tropical island—didn’t sound all that pure or respectable. Where Mr. Parish was concerned, not many women who spent time in his company seemed concerned about keeping a relationship with him particularly pure or respectable.
She winced at the visions that barged into her mind. “I have to quit this job!” she muttered.
Upon reentering the bathroom, she was only slightly relieved to see that he’d slid on the shirt. It wasn’t buttoned. With a curt nod, he indicated the marble counter. “Lay it there so I can look while I finish dressing.”
She did so, her jaws clamped tight. Keep your eyes on the pictures, she admonished silently, but her wayward gaze drifted to his reflection—and his chest.
“Nothing interesting there. Turn the page.”
She jumped and did as he commanded, relieved to notice the next time her errant glance traveled to his reflection he was buttoning the shirt.
“Nothing there, either, Peabody.” The mellow sound of her name glanced off the walls and echoed in her brain. Peabody—Peabody—Peabody! His impersonal tone taunted her, and she reaffirmed her vow to hand him her resignation. Soon! Very soon!
At his bidding, she flipped through a number of pages, each containing four photographs of lovely women, personal information printed under each photo. Izzy didn’t know what Mr Parish might be looking for, but if the ones he’d rejected so far were any indication, he was very choosy. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. Wasn’t he a perfectionist in every aspect of his work? Why shouldn’t he be that way even with a wife he would only need for a week?
As she turned another page, her glance caught on her reflection. The harsh lighting was less flattering to her image. She seemed very blah—a blah brown. Her chestnut hair, parted in the middle, was coiled at her nape. Her boxy business suit, a dingy mushroom-colored linen, showed nothing of her figure. Even her eyes were an uninspiring shade of brown. She looked like a common brown wren.
Of course that’s how she’d looked for her three years in Mr. Parish’s employ. The day she walked in to the outer office to apply for the job, and met the matronly executive assistant who was retiring, Izzy realized that Gabriel Parish was looking for a top-notch aide, not a glamour girl.
She’d looked around the crowded reception room, knowing she had hours to wait before her turn to be interviewed. Unobtrusively she’d slipped out to make herself into the image of what she sensed Mr. Parish wanted. When she returned, gone was the makeup, the youthful-chic attire. She’d even knotted her long, flowing curls at her nape. She looked older than her twenty-three years, efficient and drab.
And now, right this minute, the image in the mirror looked both drab and unhappy—not a good combination for her mental health. Izzy was not by nature either restrained or drab. She’d repressed her true self much too long. Though the money was exceptional as executive assistant to the CEO of Gabriel Parish AdVentures, money wasn’t everything. She simply had to get away. Get a life!
“Peabody?”
Her gaze darted to his face. “Uh, yes, sir?” He finished knotting his tie, then indicated a photograph. “That redhead. She looks good.”
Izzy stared at the woman he indicated. She was breathtaking; exotic bone structure, full, pouty lips bowed in a Mona Lisa smile and enough fiery hair to stuff a couch. There was no getting around the fact that Mr. Parish had an eye for feminine beauty. “Sir...” She cleared a quiver from her throat. “Maybe you should pick out two or three, in case she’s not available.”
When he didn’t immediately respond, she glanced at him, startled to see a knowing smile on his lips. Her heart flip-flopped at the sight. The man had a real talent for grinning. But what was the grin all about? “Did I say something funny?” she asked, sounding foolishly breathless.
“I don’t think there’ll be a problem.” His eyes sparkled with amusement, and Izzy realized he was laughing at her naiveté. For her to even be concerned about the woman’s availability was laughable. “Take care of it, Peabody.” Clapping her on the shoulder in a comradely gesture, he strode out of the bathroom. “When the Baxter people get here, send them to the conference room, then buzz me.”
Gulping down several breaths, Izzy got her heart rate under control. “Yes...sir.” She touched the place on her shoulder where his hand had so recently been. Her boss never doubted for an instant that the stunning redhead would accept his deal.
He was right, of course. He would pay her more for one week’s work, pretending to be his wife, than she’d make in a month of dinner and theater dates. Not to mention the wardrobe he planned to purchase for her stay on the island. And last but far from least, he was handsome as sin and a millionaire to boot There wasn’t a woman pictured in the catalog who would refuse his offer. They’d probably agree to go for free.
Realizing she was still massaging the place he’d touched, she dropped her hand, irritated with herself for her stupid preoccupation. Clasping the open volume to her chest, she marched out of the bathroom aiming for the double-doored exit from her boss’s high-rise office.
“Oh, and Peabody?” Reflexively she turned as he came out of his apartment, shrugging on a suit coat. With her efficient-executive-assistant facade in place, she gave him an expectant look. “Yes, sir?”
“Try to get that disapproving-maiden-aunt expression off your face.”
Heat rose up her cheeks. She’d thought he was oblivious to everything about her except the part that ran his office. Especially her face.
She swallowed with difficulty as he settled into the leather chair behind his desk. A dark brow arched as he continued to eye her. “There’s no reason I should be married because a potential client is so eccentric he demands that even the head of his advertising agency be family oriented. That’s pure foolishness!”
He lifted a golden pen, shifting toward a stack of papers on his desk. “I can create an excellent advertising campaign as well single as I could married. As a matter of fact, I can do a better job unmarried—considering how much trouble women are.” He paused to write a word or two then glanced her way. “Right, Peabody?”
Her chin went up at his unintended slap. He didn’t think of her as a woman. She prayed he would assume her physical reaction to the slight was a half nod of agreement, rather than pain.
Didn’t she know better than anyone—except Mr. Parish, himself—that women on the receiving end of his charm and good manners quickly became jealous and possessive, choosing to believe his attention meant more than it did. Izzy had witnessed too many dreadful scenes right there in the office between females he dated. No wonder he thought women were trouble. To him, they were.
This was exactly why he opted to hire a fake wife rather than give any current lady-love hope that his affections were stronger than they were—or ever would be.
“Well, Peabody?” he asked, breaking through her thoughts. “Don’t you have anything to say?”
Yes,