Jo Leigh - Ms. Taken

It wasn’t until she was inside that she remembered to check her teeth for lipstick. She closed the door behind her as quietly as she could, then nonchalantly ran a finger quickly over her teeth. Good. He hadn’t seen. In fact, he hadn’t looked at her at all.

She headed for his massive teak desk, so highly shined it was almost a mirror. With each silent step across the thick gray carpet her heart pounded harder in her chest. The closer she got, the more difficult it was to breathe. Luckily, even when she was as close as she could get, she was really quite far from the man himself. You could land a plane on this desk. “Yes, sir?”

He didn’t look up for a long moment. Long enough for her to drink in the sight of him. He wasn’t classically handsome; his face was too flawed for that. But it was the flaws that drew her to him. The slightly crooked nose, the small scar on his forehead. His eyes were perfect, however. Dark brown, penetrating. Captivating. And when he smiled it was sheer heaven. He wasn’t terribly tall, maybe six feet, but he had one of those wiry, strong bodies. She’d seen his bare arms once, when he’d rolled up his sleeves. They were corded with muscle and sinew and had been a major part of her dreams ever since.

“I need you to take some dictation.”

She jumped, but just a little. “Yes, sir,” she said as she went to the small chair in front and to the right of the desk. She crossed her legs, making sure her skirt crawled up her thigh so much and no more. Then she put her pad on her knee and smiled brightly. He just kept reading the papers on his desk.

“Take this down exactly—Holly Baskin, late of Vassar, call C.W.”

Jane looked up, pen poised. “Go on.”

“There is no more. I want you to type that up and, first thing tomorrow morning, take it to the offices of Attitudes magazine. I want it in the December 18 issue.”

“In the personals?”

“Yes.”

“Holly Baskin?”

He spelled both names slowly. Then he looked at Jane. Maybe glanced would be a better word. But there was no fooling her. She’d seen the unmistakable passion in his dark, dark eyes. He loved her. He did. He just didn’t know it yet.

So, who was Holly Baskin? Why would Charles, of all people, have to find her in the personal ads? At least Attitudes was an upscale magazine, glossy and terribly hip—must-have reading for those in the know. The ads ran to Beemers and PalmPilots. But the real popularity of the magazine was in “The Personal Touch,” the column where twice every month, Gen Xers paid $4.98 to find love, spurn love, make friends, blast friends. The city had been enamored with “The Personal Touch” for years now, some people making it their goal in life to have the coolest ad. Jane bought the magazine from time to time, when she could afford it, and, after she’d read the ads, she’d cut out pictures of things she wanted for her dream home.

But that wasn’t important now. The ad was. Holly Baskin. Was she an old friend? From his Harvard days, perhaps? Maybe she was a business associate. A lover? Oh, please, not that.

Jane studied Charles, searching for clues. Nothing. His gaze was inscrutable. Beautiful, yes, but still not easy to read.

“Ms. Dobson?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you still here?”

She snapped out of it, trying like hell to look as if she hadn’t been caught with her pants down, so to speak. Giving him one of her best smiles, she got up and backed away until her butt hit the door. His gaze stayed on her as she fumbled with the knob, then dropped her pad, but halfway to picking it up, he went back to his papers. She scurried out, closed the door and sagged against the frame.

Not a particular success, that. He rattled her so. Of course, he hadn’t meant to. It was her own fault, really. But couldn’t he just once smile?

As she headed back to her desk she glanced down at the name on her notepad. Holly Baskin. Holly. It didn’t seem the kind of name Charles would go for. With his firm footing in the world he needed a woman with a stronger name. A traditional name. Jane, for example.

The phone rang and she hurried the last few steps to her desk. “Mr. Warren’s office.”

“Hi, Janey.”

“Oh, hi, Darra.” Jane sat down, propping the notebook open before her. “How are you?”

“Great. Listen, I wanted to let you know that we’re opening another restaurant three weeks from Sunday. It’s not far from your office.”

Jane put her pad facedown on the desk and gave her sister her whole attention. Darra never invited her to any of her celebrity-studded events. She and three other models, whose combined income could wipe out the national debt, had opened five restaurants, subtly named Haute Couture. They’d done so without Jane’s attendance, so what was different this time?

“Jane? Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Would you like to come?”

“Me?”

“Of course you, silly. It’s about time you saw what I’ve been up to.”

“I’ve been to the restaurant in SoHo.”

“You have?” Darra cleared her throat, but from her it sounded sophisticated, sexy even. “How did you like it?”

“It was nice. Very, uh, modern.”

“Good. Now, I can mark you down as a definite?”

“I think so. What’s the date?”

“December 23. It’s a Sunday.”

Jane had flipped the pages on her calendar to see that she had nothing jotted on the twenty-third. Or the whole week, for that matter.

“And Janey?”

“Yes?”

“Maybe you could, you know, ask your boss if he wanted to come, too. As our guest, of course.”

A feeling as familiar to her as breathing hit her chest: disappointment, dark gray and sticky, her old friend, her childhood companion. It was as if she were full to bursting and empty, both at the same time. Merry Christmas, Janey. “Mr. Warren has a very busy schedule,” Jane said, her voice not even hinting at her condition.

“But couldn’t you even ask?”

“Why?”

“Because…because he’s just the kind of clientele we’re looking for. If he likes it, maybe he’ll come back. And bring his friends.”

“He won’t.”

“He won’t what?”

“Be able to come. I just looked at his calendar. He’ll be out of the country.”

“Damn it.”

“But I’ll tell him about it when he comes back.”

“Thanks,” Darra said, and Jane could practically see her patented pout. It was a doozy of a pout, and it had made her sister a household name. Gorgeous Darra, whose face haunted Jane from billboards all over Manhattan.

“Put it there.”

Jane almost asked her sister what she was talking about, but then she realized the comment hadn’t been addressed to her. It was probably for Darra’s boyfriend, Guy. He pronounced it “Gee,” like some French baron or something when Jane knew perfectly well that he’d been raised in Omaha, Nebraska. Oh well. Guy pronounced “Gee” went better with Darra, whose real name was Darlene.

“I gotta run, Janey. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Bye,” she said, but the phone cut her off. It wasn’t that Darra meant to be mean. She really didn’t. She just had this rather myopic view of the world. Copernicus be hanged; Darra was the center of the universe. At least when she wasn’t around their other sisters.

The remarkable Dobson girls. Jane’s eldest sister, Pru, had just finished a triumphant concert series with the Boston Symphony. Just days ago Jane had seen a little piece on her in the Times, about how her precious violin had been stolen. It turned up the next day, and Jane would bet the price of the Stradivarius that Pru had lost the damn thing. She was notorious for misplacing stuff.

Then there was Felicity. Two years younger than Pru, and already on the USA Today bestseller list. “The novelist of our generation,” according to People magazine. All Jane knew was that Felicity hadn’t answered her last three letters.