Jillian’s Job

by Fran Lee

  She read down the column. So damn many jobs-no wonder. Nobody would take a job that required such high skills for such a pittance. But then, not every CEO or executive demanded 24/7 access to his assistant. She would have nine-to-five days. Weekends to herself.

  As long as the job offered decent insurance and benefits, she could easily afford to take a cut in pay. She’d been damn frugal with her generous salary these past seven years. She had invested in mutual funds, and plowed some into treasury bonds. Not the highest return rate, but one hell of a lot safer than the stock market these days. And don’t forget the bullion she had in her economy-sized lock-box at the bank. Gold would still be valuable even if the dollar dropped out the bottom of the world again, right? Buy low and sell high, right? She’d learned a few things in her stint with Furie Enterprises.

  Yes. She could afford to find a job that paid less. A job where she might actually meet nice, normal men. She gave a snort. Yeah right. Normal, married-but-looking, divorced-but-shopping-around, or single-with-a-momma-complex men. Face it, girl. The unattached males in her age group were seldom actually unattached, and seldom what they appeared to be. She’d had enough of them make passes at her over the past few years. Friends or business associates of Furie’s-producers, musicians, sundry and assorted creeps of every imaginable type and income level. Unfortunately, most seemed to assume that simply being the “personal assistant” of a high-powered, sexy and wealthy man like Michael Furie meant that she was loose, looking and available.

  Furie himself had hired her for her excellent mind, and for her ability to overlook the fact that he was one of the world’s most eligible, wealthy bachelors and one of the world’s most heart-stoppingly handsome and sexy males. Her willingness to do her job without falling all over her tongue as every other assistant he’d hired then fired had done. Her cool, sexually appropriate manner gave him no fear of his assistant grabbing at him and tearing off his clothes and begging to have him take her to bed, as his last assistant had. He had expected total professionalism, total commitment. And he had paid top dollar for such. Jillian Turner was probably the world’s most highly paid personal assistant and gofer. And she had been worth every damn penny.

  Her ability to deal with high-powered, hotheaded men of every kind came from having six older brothers. Six older brothers who had teased, tortured, goaded, antagonized, lorded over and otherwise abused her throughout her tender childhood. Not to mention had kept every cute guy she had a crush on so utterly terrified of asking her for a date, she had grown up without ever once being asked to go to a movie or to a prom until her last brother had gone away to college. But by then she had learned to manage without male attention, and had learned that she could accomplish far more without the uncomfortable entanglements of a male ego bashing its ugly head against her damn stubborn pride.

  So, except for one or two short-lived, abortive attempts at finding a compatible male to share an occasional drink and an occasional sleepover with, she had remained blissfully unattached. Until she had gone to work for one of the most aggravating, irritating and mouth-wateringly delectable males on the face of the earth. And even though she considered herself immune to males of his type-or any type for that matter-Jillian Turner had found herself, for the first time she could recall, wanting a man to notice her as something other than a piece of furniture. She fantasized about her boss in X-rated dreams that brought her awake panting, her panties drenched with cream as she fought to contain her heart rate.

  But her implacable, charismatic, breathtakingly handsome boss had apparently hired her for her very lack of attractive qualities. Her inability to appear feminine enough to distract him. For her ability to maintain a cool, ultra-professional demeanor and not drool all over his shoes whenever she was in his presence. Damn! So she had wisely deferred her drooling to nights when she found him wandering into her fevered, pathetic dreams. Every lean, succulent, delicious millimeter of that six-foot four-inch, Bowflex hardened, wet-dream-gorgeous body that made every female within one hundred yards of the man sit up and whimper. One look from those laser-blue eyes killed most women. And that silky, dark, finger-combed hair made them want to brush back the wayward lock that inevitably fell forward over that smooth brow as he worked.

  And so she remained single and available, so to speak. Nursing a pathetic, unrealistic crush on a man who saw her only as a robot there to do his slightest bidding, without question.

  Oh well. That was all going to end very soon. So long, dream-man from hell. Hello, normal, everyday existence and a new lease on life.

  Chapter Two

  She glanced at the overcast sky as she slid into the limo he had sent to the airport for her. The blown flakes of snow quickly covered her light jacket, making her realize that she’d left L.A. without even thinking that not every place on earth was a comfy seventy degrees in the middle of February. At least she wouldn’t be staying long enough this time to need a heavy coat. She would be on the jet back to sunny skies by Sunday morning.

  The driver tucked her bag into the trunk, and came around to his door and got in, then lowered the privacy glass and said, “Mr. Furie is entertaining. Do you want to stop at Dior or Gucci before we arrive? You didn’t bring much in the way of luggage.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “I won’t be joining the party, George. I don’t plan on being here long enough to need additional clothes. But thanks for inquiring.”

  The privacy glass slid back up, and she leaned back to continue reading the classified section. She had circled ten prospective jobs. Only four of them included even close to the benefits package she wanted, but she could always negotiate. She flicked on the overhead light, since the waning daylight was too dim to allow for comfortable reading. That, along with the privacy coating the limo had on the rear windows, made it impossible to see without the added light. Finally she tucked the section back into her oversized shoulder bag, and checked the packet of labeled flash drives she had brought along to drop off with Furie. The important data she wouldn’t need anymore because-she-was-quitting.

  She leaned back again and gazed out the window to watch the tourist traffic that seemed to fill the streets during the ski season. She loved Aspen in the winter. She had learned to love snow, and California was not the best place to live if you liked snow. Yes. She was going to miss this particular perk of her job.

  Mike Furie had homes in Aspen, Los Angeles, New York, Florida, and Virginia. He maintained the homes and spent a couple of months in each area, but called California home. He used the venerable pre-Civil-War estate in Virginia for political activities, the New York apartment was his east coast base, the Florida ranch was surrounded by orange and grapefruit groves, and the California estate in Coldwater Canyon was big enough to house ten families. The house in Aspen was the place where he came to ski and relax.

  Sure. If you could possibly call it relaxing with a hundred guests milling around your house? He gave lavish entertainments in Aspen. Most of the people he associated with spent time there. His ten-bedroom house sported a six-car garage and thirty wooded acres. But then, Mike Furie was always surrounded by the jet set-the beautiful people. Wealth and fame seemed to be attracted to her boss. And a great many leeches and mooches. People who hung around because he was too busy and high-powered to notice they were eating all his food and drinking all his expensive wines and champagne. People who simply needed to be in the shadow of a man like Furie.

  She could sympathize with them. She’d spent seven years in his shadow, and it could be most addictive. But unlike those who clung for the usual reasons, she simply wanted to be anywhere he was. She shook off the feeling she got at that thought. Totally pathetic. What a frigging simp she was. Now she was sounding even to herself like she desperately needed psychoanalysis. Any woman who would desperately cling to a man who didn’t even know she drew breath was one sick puppy. Oh. Right. He knew she existed. She was his highly paid gofer.

  She glanced at her watch again and frowned. They should
have arrived at the house a few minutes ago. She pushed the button to lower the glass, and George glanced into the rearview mirror and said quietly, “Mr. Furie ordered me to take you to Dior. Sorry, Miss Turner. He says you are supposed to be dressed for black tie when you arrive, and I don’t think he’ll take no for an answer.”

  Knowing better than to argue pointlessly with George, Jill merely sighed and nodded. “Very well, George. I’ll humor him this time. Exactly what is the nature of the entertaining he’s doing tonight?”

  The chauffeur smiled. “He doesn’t confide in me, Miss Turner. But his guest list reads like the Who’s Who of the high-society world. I do believe he is having some difficulty…dislodging…one rather tenacious lady.” George knew exactly what this was all about.

  She nodded and sank back into the seat. O-kay. So running interference apparently meant that some high-society doll face had tried to fasten her claws in Furie’s hide, and needed to be shaken loose by a jealous lover. Not the first time she’d been hauled off the bench to run a fake-out pass at the twenty-yard line. Well, if the man intended to have her pretend to be his love interest again, she was going to make him pay through the nose, with the most expensive, most scandalously sexy ready-to-wear Dior had on its racks. And she might even have them toss in a couple of baubles from Tiffany’s as well. After all, a jealous fiancée was one hell of a lot more impressive than a jealous girlfriend-right?

  * * * * *

  It appeared that she was expected, for the moment she entered the lavish, lush showroom, she was personally greeted by Madame Francine and escorted to a private viewing room. From the obvious quality and expense of the gowns she was shown, she realized that he was giving her carte blanche to rig herself out in one-of-a-kind regalia, so she spared no expense and pampered herself outrageously. It would be his going-away gift to her, for seven years of hard work and dedication. To hell with a chintzy gold watch.

  An hour later, decked out in Dior’s finest evening gown, and wearing matching necklace, bracelets and earrings that had just set her boss back a couple hundred thou, and wearing a three-carat diamond and platinum engagement ring that had set him back another one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars, she pulled her full-length white fox fur about her body and slipped into the backseat of the limo, giving George a wicked wink as the man stared, open-mouthed.

  “Can’t argue with the man, eh, George? Maybe next time, he’ll think twice before turning a pissed-off woman loose with his credit cards.”

  * * * * *

  The secluded, three-level house was ablaze with lights as a snow-filled dusk fell, and when George pulled into the underground garage to save her from entering the front door through the snow, she suddenly felt as if she had seriously overstepped the boundaries of her relationship with Michael Furie, clad in finery that had set him back well over three hundred fifty thousand dollars. But he deserved it, ignoring her wishes and insisting she take this damn trip. Besides, he could always return the jewelry, and probably even the gown. The Manolo Blahniks gold open-toed pumps with a dainty toe buckle crusted in faceted blue and white sapphires might not be able to be returned, but the rest? Yeah. He could get his money back.

  An attendant offered her the crook of his arm as she stepped from the limo, and she graciously accepted, allowing the uniformed man to escort her into the entry foyer guests used when inclement weather prevented entrance through the wide double doors above. She noted the carpeted stairs had been covered with a red cloth, and smirked as she wondered who warranted the red-carpet treatment tonight.

  As she reached the main level where a uniformed attendant was waiting to take her coat, she glanced about at the cathedral-ceilinged open area that served as a ballroom or a party room, and she smiled. “Hello, Cecile. How’s Eddie doing?”

  The woman blinked at her questioningly before she recognized her, and dark eyes widened in amazement at the stunning vision the gown, fur and jewelry must be projecting. “Señorita Turner! My, you are truly a vision. You’ve been hiding your light under a bushel, I think.”

  The housekeeper’s daughter, Cecile, came in to help out with parties, and to assist her mother in cleaning up after the holidays. Her husband Eddie had broken his hip and thigh in a car accident the last time Jill had been here, and Furie had given her more hours to help out with expenses because he couldn’t go back to work for a few months. Plus her boss had paid the medical bills. No! Don’t think about things like that. You are here to deal with the problem of quitting.

  Cecile petted the stunning fur wistfully and shook her head with a sigh. “He is much better. Senor Furie has given him a job working on his cars until he can go back full time when his casts are off. Oh, this is lovely!”

  “And where is the great hero?” Jill asked with a grin, knowing that in Cecile’s estimation, that’s exactly what her boss was at the moment.

  “He is on the top level. He wants to know the moment you have arrived. I will have Manuel let him know you are here-”

  “It’s okay, Cecile, I’ll let him know. Don’t bother.” She straightened her shoulders and headed for the curved staircase that led up to the third level of the huge house. She noted the heads that turned to follow her, and bit the corner of her lip. The sapphire-blue silk gown with its overdress of gold netting was certainly an eye-catcher, especially with the back of the dress practically nonexistent. Draping seductively from a crossover halter neckline that left barely enough room for the exquisite diamond and sapphire choker to rest above the material, it fell away to her feet in a sultry, swirling fall that brushed over breasts and hips like a soft hand. The matching tennis bracelet and the long dangle earrings sparkled under the track lights that lit the staircase with a soft glow.

  She had not had time for a hairdo, so she had simply swept the thick red-gold curls up into a high-set ponytail at her crown, and had wound another bit of sapphire silk around the band to conceal the elastic. It gave the impression that her neck was longer and left the gorgeous earrings plenty of space to sway and glitter breathtakingly.

  She stepped up the final carpeted stair and paused, glancing around the smaller salon that opened up over the gallery at the head of the stairs, before narrowing to the corridor that led to the bedrooms at the back of the level. The bronze and smoked glass chandelier at the apex of the vaulted ceiling cast warm light over the area, and made her shimmery gold overdress and glittering jewels look even more amazing than they had in the showroom. She decided that not a soul would recognize her unless she introduced herself, so she gathered her courage and moved slowly toward the center of the gallery, looking about for Furie.

  Heads turned to follow her progress, but no one called out her name. She was not a familiar face to the beautiful people. Only his employees knew her well enough to recognize her. Her anonymity was assured.

  And then she saw him, standing uncomfortably in a tight group of people, with a stunningly beautiful supermodel type holding onto his arm like she had grown there, her laugh a high tinkle of feigned amusement that never quite reached those gorgeous amber-colored eyes. Jillian stood for a long moment, relishing the amount of discomfort he was experiencing, waiting for his eyes to swivel her way before she made her grand entrance.

  A man turned to glance at her from a jovial conversation beside her, and gave her a keen once-over before sidling up to her and introducing himself. He didn’t have to. She knew his face from the magazine covers and the tabloids as Jerrod Lane, two-time Academy Award winning actor and heartthrob of millions of females the world over. She glanced at him with a cool smile and replied to his outrageous compliment with a simple “thank-you” before turning her gaze back to her boss.

  “I haven’t seen you around before. And from the look of that boulder on your hand, I’d say you were taken…but Heaven help me, I wouldn’t be a red-blooded male if I didn’t try.” Jerrod slid one lean hand around her waist, and tried to draw her closer. His reward was an acid stare that could have wilted the entire White River National Fo
rest. He grinned and released her waist, and said in a husky tone that had dropped an octave, “Who’s the lucky devil who’s got you wrapped around his pinkie?”

  The moment he spoke, Michael Furie glanced up, his ice-laden dark blue gaze locked with hers, and his body unfurled from the defensive posture he’d assumed, forcing the female hanger-on to loosen her grip. Jill tried not to look shaken. She tried not to react to the heat that ran through her like a shot of fire from head to toe-tips, making her wonder numbly if the Manolo Blahniks had melted off. She smiled across the room at him, and Jerrod followed her gaze, instantly whistling softly and backing off a step.

  “I should have guessed, Gorgeous. But if you ever decide to trade up, I’m always around.” He vacated his spot beside her as Furie slowly extracted himself from the other woman’s grasp with a quiet, “Excuse me.” Heads turned as he stepped out of the tight knot of bodies and moved across the gallery toward her, and she fought the urge to bite her knuckles and whimper. That man had such a walk.

  She managed a brilliant smile up into his eyes as he stopped so close she could feel his body heat through the silk of her gown, and she placed her hand with the blinding rock on it on his forearm, and said just loudly enough to be overheard for about ten feet, “Mike! Darling! I’m sorry I’m late.”

  She noted the circuitous route those eyes took as they slipped over her gown, her jewelry and the impressively breathtaking engagement ring she was prominently displaying, and a muscle twitched in the deep groove beside his mouth. He seemed to be fighting some dark and angry emotion that she feared she would hear about later-and in the most uncomplimentary tones possible-but surprisingly, he gave her a sexily crooked smile.