Fran Lee: Jillian’s Job

Whoa there. Sweet? Nothing about the man could remotely be called sweet. She had halfway expected him to ask her to model it for him, but he hadn’t mentioned it, so neither had she. She’d started locking the bedroom and bathroom doors after that. No more unexpected visits from a ranting boss, thank you very much.

She was going to try to forget all the times she had been fully prepared to walk out on him, only to be brought up short in her efforts by something oddly out of character that he did, or some unforgettably kind action that he’d taken. Like the time he’d been driving to an appointment and a ten-year-old accidentally swerved and plowed into his fender, falling off his ancient, second-hand bike, and the man had ended up buying the kid a top-of-the-line replacement, and had bought the entire down-on-its-luck family a fabulous Christmas, as well as stocking their pantry for half a year with food.

The Mercedes had taken twelve hundred dollars in repairs to the paint and chrome, and the kid hadn’t even been scratched.

She shook her head in disgust. Stay on track, Jill. Don’t go getting soft, now. You’ve made up your mind. No more! He was toast. She had even brought the classifieds with her to look for a new job. She sipped her water as she circled another personal assistant job in red ink. She winced at the lousy pay offered. Oh well. At least she could count on having a decent, normal schedule where she could even see her family when she wanted.

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.

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.