Fran Lee: Jillian’s Job

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.