That Boss Of Mine. Elizabeth BevarlyЧитать онлайн книгу.
spite of his little pep talk to himself, though, Wheeler felt anything but reassured when, very, very cautiously, he pushed the front door open. He hesitated a moment before entering, just to get a feel for things. No smell of smoke, he noted, heartening some. No strange sounds of mechanical upheaval. No power outages that he could readily discern...
Okay, so everything was fine, he realized with a long sigh of relief. See? He really had been overreacting when it came to memories of the previous week. Heartened some more, Wheeler strode into his outer office with all the confidence of a brass band, and found...
...chaos.
Truly. Chaos. What else could it be called when one’s secretary had one’s number-one client—the very, absolute last of one’s reliable accounts—in a choke hold, clearly striving to throttle the life right out of the man? Because that was exactly what was happening. Audrey Finnegan stood behind and had both arms wrapped resolutely around the neck of Otis Denby, CEO of Denby Associates, and Mr. Denby was turning blue as he fought for his very life. He had gripped both hands around Miss Finnegan’s forearms, but she clearly had the upper hand, pumping his body back and forth as she was with much abandon.
And all Wheeler could think was that he couldn’t possibly allow her to murder Mr. Denby. Denby was, after all, the only client Wheeler had left who paid his bills on time.
“Miss Finnegan!” he shouted at the top of his lungs as he rushed forward. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
Without awaiting a response, he gripped her wrists fiercely and yanked her hands free of his client’s throat, pushing her backward as he pulled the other man forward. Immediately Mr. Denby curled one hand around his nape, stretching his neck tight as he rolled his shoulders forward, then back. His face and bald pate were red and mottled, but he didn’t seem to be struggling. Well, not too much, anyway. His barrel chest rose and fell as he inhaled great gulps of breath, and his pale blue eyes widened in what could only be a combination of relief and terror.
And then, much to Wheeler’s surprise, the other man expelled a bark of delighted laughter. “Well I’ll be damned, Miss Finnegan,” he said with a chuckle. “That really did the trick. You’re absolutely amazing. I never would have suspected that a woman of your, uh...your attributes... could have such a gentle touch. Thank you.”
Thank you? Wheeler echoed to himself. Gentle touch? What the hell was going on here?
“What the hell is going on here?” he cried. He glanced first at his client, then at Miss Finnegan, further demanding an explanation.
She shrugged. “I worked for a chiropractor for a while,” she said. She waved a hand negligently through the air. “You pick up little things on your jobs. For example, everything I know about fashion accessories, I learned from just two weeks at The Limited.”
And speaking of fashion accessories, Wheeler noted through narrowed eyes that Miss Finnegan was in a blue mood today. Sapphire blue, to be specific. Her sapphire miniskirt was topped by a sapphire sweater that actually covered her hips. Sapphire hose ended in sapphire boots, and sapphire earrings swung from her ears. Her black hair, as always, was caught atop her head in a riot of curls, but even they seemed to be touched with blue.
Whatever she had learned about fashion during her time at The Limited, it must have been, well...limited. Because one thing he could definitely say about his temp—she was a color palate just waiting to happen. If she ever learned how to mix colors.
Wheeler pushed the thought away. “Just what the devil is going on?” he demanded again.
Before Miss Finnegan could add anything to her earlier explanation, Mr. Denby turned to him instead. “Your new secretary just fixed a back problem I’ve had for decades, Rush. Decades. I can’t tell you how much money I’ve spent on specialists over the years, only to have Miss Finnegan fix me up—” he snapped his fingers merrily “—like that.”
She shrugged again. “My father suffered from the exact same thing,” she said, sidestepping the accomplishment. “You just have to know where to look, that’s all.”
Where Wheeler decided to look was at the ceiling, while he tried not to think about the potential bodily damage his new secretary could have done to Mr. Denby. What on earth was he going to do with her? he wondered. Do with her that wasn’t illegal, he meant.
“You should give her a raise, Rush,” Denby suggested, answering that question, if none of the other numerous ones parading through his brain. “Hell, I might just hire her away from you myself. She’s delightful.”
When Wheeler looked down again, it was to find Miss Finnegan blushing furiously and shaking a teasing finger—one encased in what appeared to be a Scooby-Doo Band-Aid—at Otis Denby. “Oh, now, Mr. Denby, that’s very sweet of you,” she said. “But I couldn’t possibly come to work for you. My first commitment right now is to Mr. Rush. It’s not the One-Day-at-a-Timers’ way to shirk our responsibilities to our employers.”
Shirk, Wheeler commanded her silently. Please. By all means. Shirk to your heart’s content.
But what he said was, “Mr. Denby, did we have an appointment this morning?”
The other man shook his head. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.” He glanced anxiously at Miss Finnegan, then back at Wheeler. “Can we, uh...can we speak privately, Rush?”
Here it comes, Wheeler thought with another sigh. The big kiss-off. Otis Denby, his last, best client, was about to take a powder. “Is that really necessary, sir?” he asked halfheartedly.
Denby nodded fatalistically. “I’m afraid it is,” he said. “We’re long overdue for this... uh...discussion.”
Wheeler sighed heavily again before nodding, and was about to open his mouth to accept defeat, when Miss Finnegan stepped in to interrupt him.
“Mr. Denby,” she said, “do you by any chance know anything about monopodial orchids?”
As questions went, it wasn’t one Wheeler might have expected from his secretary. Or anyone else on the planet, for that matter. But Denby perked right up at the query.
“Why, yes, I do, Miss Finnegan. As a matter of fact, growing orchids is an absolute passion of mine. That’s amazing that you’d share an interest like that, too.”
She nodded. “Actually, it’s more my mother’s hobby than my own, but I think it’s more common than you realize,” she assured him. Then she hurried on, “Before you talk to Mr. Rush, do you mind if I ask you a few questions? Mom is having such a hard time trying to figure out what she’s doing wrong with her Phalaenopsis.”
Denby nodded sagely. “Oh, those are tricky little bastards, aren’t they?”
“Boy, you said it.”
He launched into what promised to be a very technical discussion about the plant in question, then, almost as an afterthought, turned to Wheeler. “You don’t mind, do you, Rush?” he asked in a voice that pretty much answered his own question in the negative. “This won’t take but a minute.”
Wheeler nodded wearily. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Denby. Just come into my office whenever you and Miss Finnegan are finished. My morning’s pretty much clear.”
Hoo-boy, was that an understatement.
But Denby wasn’t listening to Wheeler, because he had lost himself completely in his conversation with Miss Finnegan. She was pouring him a cup of her infamous coffee—as if Wheeler hadn’t already done enough to terminate his business relationship with Otis Denby—and nodding at something the other man was saying, when Wheeler closed the door behind himself and made his way to the bar stool and drafting table that constituted what was left of his work station.
For some reason, he had the “Death March” stuck in his head, and he just couldn’t shake it. Go figure. That didn’t, however, prevent him from sitting down, making himself comfortable and pretending he had a really good idea as