Leigh Michaels - The Boss's Daughter

“What do you think you’re doing?” she snapped, shrugging his hand away.

“Following orders,” Dylan said innocently. “You told me to get out of your chair.”

“I didn’t tell you to hug me.” She sat down with a thump.

“If that’s what you call a hug, it’s no wonder you…” He saw the gold sparks of anger in her eyes and prudently moved around the desk to a safer distance. “Which stack of folders do you want first? Do you want to bring yourself up to date on the auctions that are coming up next, or start with the list of people Gavin was cultivating?”

She looked thoughtful. “You’ve talked to the people he’s been working with, haven’t you?”

“Most of them, I suppose.”

“Then you can tell me much more about them than a bunch of dry notes can.”

She looked very small and fragile, sitting in Gavin’s too-big chair. Dylan told himself this was no time to get a Galahad complex. In fact, his best move would be to keep all the distance possible between him and Amy Sherwood.

But the message didn’t seem to get through from his brain to his tongue. “I’ll get the folders,” he heard himself say, “and we can go through them together.”

The once-neat surface of Gavin Sherwood’s desk looked like a filing cabinet had exploded on it. Untidy stacks of file folders nearly covered the polished teak. Those detailing Gavin’s dealings with prospective clients were piled on the southeast corner, while upcoming auctions occupied the southwest corner. Amy’s head was bent over her father’s desk calendar when Dylan pushed the door open and came in, carrying a large white paper bag.

“Don’t you believe in knocking?” she asked absent-mindedly. “I hope you can read the cryptic codes Gavin uses to keep his schedule straight, because I certainly can’t. He’s got something written on the page for today, but it could be either ‘confer with Rex’ or ‘confirm tickets.’ Or maybe it’s ‘conifer forest.”’

Dylan grinned. “As far as I know, he hasn’t taken up tree-hugging. If it’s for this evening, I expect he meant Rex Maxwell.”

Amy reached for a folder in the pile of prospective clients. “The one who’s thinking of selling his Picasso?”

“That’s the one.” He started to unload small waxed paper boxes from the bag.

Amy pushed the folder aside to make room. “How much do I owe you for lunch?”

“Nothing, but next time it’s your turn to buy.”

Amy glanced at the files stacked on the desk. At this rate, there were going to be plenty of “next times.” She hadn’t even made a dent in the piles.

“The Maxwells are having a cocktail party tonight,” Dylan went on. “The invitation is on my desk because I was just about to phone them with Gavin’s regrets when you came in.”

“You might let them know I’ll be coming instead.”

“I might let them know?” Dylan tipped his head to one side. “This,” he said, pointing to the telephone on her desk, “is an instrument of communication. Do you know why it’s here? Because you pick it up and press the buttons and talk to the person who answers.”

Amy stared at him in disbelief. “What difference does it make if you call the Maxwells about Gavin or about me?”

“You’re not confined to a hospital bed.”

“You mean you don’t make calls for Gavin when he’s here? What kind of personal assistant refuses to use the telephone?”

“One who is not a secretary.” He handed her a pair of chopsticks.

How ridiculous could he be? “You didn’t object to going downstairs to wait for the deliveryman. That’s pretty secretarial.”

“Oh, but that’s different.”

“Why? Because you were hungry?”

“You got it in one try. Congratulations. Anyway, it’ll be your turn tomorrow.”

Amy dipped her chopsticks into a container of sweet and sour chicken. “Take a letter, Mr. Copeland. To whom it may concern—that’s you, of course. This is to inform you that there has been a change in policy concerning the duties of personal assistant—that’s also you—to the acting CEO—that’s me—”

Dylan was still wielding his chopsticks. “Sorry, boss. I don’t do dictation, either. If you’d like to get someone up here from the secretarial pool, call extension seventy-two.”

Amy fixed him with a look. “And how would you know that, if Gavin does all his own telephoning?”

“Because whenever I need typing or photocopies, I call them.”

Of course. “It’s a shame you don’t do shorthand. It wouldn’t be nearly as fun dictating a character reference for you if you’re not enjoying every word along with me.” She set the chicken aside and investigated a container that seemed to hold mostly broccoli. “Gavin made a note on tomorrow’s schedule, too. It’s something about running an errand, I think, but I don’t have any idea what.”

Dylan glanced at the calendar. “Not running an errand. Just running.”

“You mean like jogging? My father doesn’t jog.”

“Maybe he didn’t in his previous life.”

Another thing we have to thank Honey for, Amy thought. I wonder if that’s why he had the heart attack. She kept her voice level. “How often does he do this?”

“Whenever he thinks it’s time to once again nudge Mitchell Harlow into thinking about getting rid of his family’s autograph collection.”

“I should have known it wasn’t for the exercise,” Amy said glumly.

“Mitchell runs through Country Club Plaza every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday morning starting at 6:00 a.m. sharp. Rain or shine, he’s religious about it—and it’s the only time you can rely on catching him. So about once a week Gavin’s been going, too.”

“And this collection of autographs is worth it?”

“Gavin hasn’t actually seen it, but someone who has told him it includes Martin Luther and Catherine the Great.”

Amy sighed. “Then I guess I’m going jogging in the morning.”

“Your father would be proud of you.”

His face was perfectly straight, but Amy was certain she detected a note of suppressed laughter in Dylan’s voice. What she wouldn’t give to make him swallow his amusement…but once she started to think about ways to get even, the answer was obvious. “Of course, I wouldn’t know Mitchell Harlow if I tripped over him, so I’ll need you to come along and introduce me. Six in the morning, you said? Shall I pick you up?” She was pleased to see that his face had tightened just a little.

Dylan began gathering up the debris of their lunch. “No, thanks. I’ll meet you at the fountain.”

“Wait a minute—the Plaza has at least a hundred fountains.”

“The big one. Neptune and the seahorses. I’ll get you the Maxwells’ invitation so you can let them know you’re coming.”

Amy bit her lip to keep from smiling at the resigned note in his voice. That evens things up a little, she thought. And about time, too.

It took Amy all afternoon to make a perceptible dent in the stacks of files Dylan had sorted out for her to look at, and the experience had left her with a new appreciation of the challenges of her father’s job. Then, just as she was congratulating herself for everything she’d accomplished, Dylan appeared with yet another stack.

Amy wanted to groan. “What are those?”

“More prospects that I found lurking on top of a filing cabinet. Gavin must have left them there instead of putting them back.”

“Let me guess. You don’t file, either.”

“Of course I file, but only the things I pull out myself.”

“Good. You’ll know right where to put all these back when I’m finished with them.”

He didn’t comment, but Amy had the feeling he’d like to. Instead, he said, “Perhaps I should warn you that the Maxwells are sticklers for punctuality.”