Jillian’s Job

Chapter One

“Does the bastard ever tell you he appreciates your work?” Tim’s voice was like a small irritating gnat buzzing around Jillian Turner’s head, bothering her as she frowned down at the schedule she was working on on her laptop.

“No, and he pays me enough I don’t have to hear it.” She ignored his sarcasm, and added the recording studio date for Tuesday the 23rd, before hitting the save button and closing the window on her screen.

“Bullshit, Jill. Everyone has to hear it once in a while. Why the hell you insist on killing yourself for that thankless prick, I’ll never understand!” Her brother ran a hand through his already-mussed blond hair, and frowned down at her. “You haven’t had a real vacation in the entire seven years you’ve worked for him, and now the son of a bitch expects you to give up the one weekend we had planned a special family party for your birthday as well?”

Jill sighed, and looked up into Tim’s blue eyes. “I’ll be back in time for the party. I promise. It shouldn’t take more than one day. The party is set for Sunday evening, right? So I just won’t have the full weekend off, that’s all. That’s no big deal.” But it was a big deal, and she damn well knew it.

Tim frowned at her pale face. “You don’t even have a set schedule-the bastard expects you to drop everything and run whenever he decides he needs you. When’s the last time you had a decent night’s sleep?” He glared at the computer screen as if it were a nasty bug. “You aren’t eating right. You look like shit. Mom’s worried sick about you. Have I missed any of the other great perks you have in this job-of-a-lifetime?” Jill had no intention of openly agreeing with him. Even if he were right. Too humiliating-

She smiled at him and put one hand over his lean fingers where they rested on the edge of her desk. “Thanks for worrying about me. But I love my job. I don’t need a nine-to-five schedule. I love the variety. I love the rush. I never get bored.” But that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to quit when she saw her boss this evening.

His eyes bored into her. “Your boss treats you like shit. The son of a bitch walks all over you like you don’t even exist, and you just follow him around and clean up his fucking messes. Quit, and get your life back. The money isn’t worth it.”

Yeah. Right on. Tim’s words sawed through her like a dull knife. Her breath caught in her throat. She knew he didn’t intend to be cruel. He was just worried about her. He cared about her. Her entire family cared. And they all pitied her. Pity-just what she needed for her thirtieth birthday. She swallowed hard and bit the corner of her lower lip. No way was she going to admit that she was going to get her life back as early as tomorrow morning. To admit defeat was to accept it.

“I like my job. I may not have the most thoughtful or considerate boss on earth, but he pays me exceptionally well, I have great insurance and benefits, and I get to go places and see things I would never have been able to as a professional assistant in some corporate office on Wall Street. I travel first class in a private jet. I have an expense account. And if I don’t get all my weekends free, that is just one of the drawbacks to being indispensable.” For one more frigging day, anyway.

Tim bent and kissed her forehead, and growled something about working for selfish pricks who thought money was the remedy for everything in life, and he left her to brood about her job and her life alone.

She shut down her laptop and rested her forehead in her hands. He was right, of course. They all were. And she was pitiful, utterly pathetic. She sighed. She truly didn’t mind working for a man like Michael Furie, as long as he genuinely appreciated and needed her. She gave a sharp, unamused laugh.

Fat chance of that. Michael Furie didn’t need anyone-or appreciate anything.

Michael Furie was an all-powerful, hard-nosed, shoulder-to-the-wheel, totally misogynistic male chauvinist. She stretched and closed her laptop with a groan. And she often wondered if he even knew she existed, beyond her capacity as steadfast, efficient, easygoing doormat and babysitter. Oh yeah. And the most important aspect of her cushy job-professional disaster cleanup.

She knew why Furie wanted her to fly to Aspen at the drop of a hat. As if being treated like she was wallpaper weren’t bad enough. He needed her to “run interference” for him once again. Did she look like a fucking linebacker? She growled and rose from her chair and unplugged the computer cords and cables, stuffing them irritably into the carry bag. She shoved a flyaway curl out of her face and glared at her reflection in the bezel-cut antique mirror over her fireplace mantle.

She did look like shit, just as Tim had said. Okay, so she wasn’t getting any younger. Okay, so she never got a chance to meet decent men who saw her as something more than Mike Furie’s tag-along. Okay, so the only reason she tolerated the jerk was because she had been pathetic enough to fall for him somewhere along the way. As if he would ever notice.

She stared at her flushed face. Was that another frigging wrinkle?

Closing her eyes, she counted slowly to fifty. Twenty wasn’t long enough anymore to regain her composure. It was definitely past time. Of course, she’d had this conversation with her reflection many times before, but she really meant it this time.

It was time to grow up. Become her own person again. Cut and run. As her mom had once so succinctly put it, “stop being a kitchen carpet”. She drew a deep breath and glared at herself. Okay. She would go bail him out again. But he was going to have to find himself another babysitter in the future. Her life was flying past at record speed, and it would be just plain stupid to be following Mr. Hunk-Of-The-Century around like a drooling puppy for another seven years of her life. It was way past time to cut the umbilical that ran from his fine, tight ass to her navel, and get a job that might pay far less, but that would give her some measure of pride back.

Pride? What the hell was that? Oh yeah, she remembered now. She’d always taken great pride in her management capability. In her competence. In her skills as a public relations expert. That’s what had gotten her this job in the first place. And those skills would get her another job that might not pay as much, but would give her back some measure of herself. Some sense of being a real person again, instead of a gofer-escape-artist-interference-runner par excellence. Yes. Keep it up. Repetition was good. She had to keep up the momentum.

Tearing her eyes from her unhappy reflection, she crossed to the sofa and set her computer bag down beside her suitcase. She hadn’t packed much. Just an overnight case with cosmetics, toothbrush, nightgown and robe, and a change for the return flight Sunday morning. The usual hit-and-run assortment of necessities she would require.

She ran her fingertips over the expensive piece of luggage, a gift from her boss from a couple of years back when her luggage got lost somewhere between a photo shoot in Spain and the airport in New York. A sigh escaped, and a sad smile curved her lips. Sometimes-just sometimes-her boss could show compassion and thoughtfulness.

Her old luggage had been ratty and scarred from years of abuse. When he’d found out about the loss, she’d come home to find a fifteen-piece set of the most elegant, expensive matched luggage on the market, filled with the most elegant, expensive clothing money could buy. Everything from underwear to shoes to a floppy brimmed hat (she’d complained about getting a sunburn in Spain) all in the correct sizes and in colors she loved. She had been shocked, elated. But when she’d tried to thank him for his thoughtfulness, he had brushed her appreciation aside like a bothersome gnat, stating flatly that he’d simply had somebody replace stuff she’d lost. No big deal.

But to Jill it had been a very big deal. Another juicy bone tossed to the faithful puppy. It had led to another decision that he was just possibly worth not flaying the delectable skin that stretched so primely over that buff, mouthwatering mass of muscle. Another wasted discussion with her reflection.

That’s the way it always went. She would make up her mind to tell him to take his high-paid job and stuff it, and then he’d do something that totally blew her away. Such as the time she’d broken her ankle dashing across the street on an errand he’d dropped in her lap with no concern for the fact that she’d already had something planned, and he’d come to the hospital in a rented helicopter, landing on the life-flight helipad and rushing to the emergency room straight from a high-class party, wearing black tie and a cummerbund of shot silver silk, his dark hair wet from the pouring rain. And when they’d put her into a cast and had released her, he’d picked her up out the wheelchair they’d taken her to the helipad in, and carried her to the waiting chopper.

And then he’d hired a nurse and a housekeeper for her until she was able to get up and around again.

Damn him! And she’d planned on telling him to hire himself another chump to clean up his messes for him. She paused to get her timeframes straight. That had been…right-last year’s failed attempt to quit.

She frowned at her watch. If she called a cab now, she would be at the airport, on her flight, and on her way to quit again. And this time, she wasn’t going to let anything stop her from giving him notice. Broken bones, lost luggage be damned. And she would take deep satisfaction watching his face when she handed him back the sat phone he had given her just so he could reach her at any and every hour of the day or night. Hah! He wouldn’t be able to find another indentured servant like Jillian Turner. He would have to treat the next one like she had a brain. A life, maybe.

Yes. She would get her life back. Right. Now, if she could just hold that thought.

The driver handed her luggage over and took the bills from her with a nod, and she turned to head into the private terminal, nodding to the uniformed guard who opened the door for her.

“Miss Turner-” He touched his hat and smiled at her as she strode past him.

“How’s the wife today, Jimmy? Has she had that baby yet?”

“She’s a week overdue, but so was our last one. No sweat.”

Jill smiled at the pilot, who handed her bag to the copilot, before offering her a hand as she climbed the metal steps that led to the open hatch door of the Learjet-85. Once seated comfortably in one of the four custom-fitted leather seats, she accepted a chilled bottle of Evian, and nodded that she was belted in securely.

“Weather reports say that Aspen is getting a heavy snow warning. We may have to reroute, but as of one hour ago Sardy was still up and accepting air traffic. I’ll let you know if we have to change the flight plan in midflight.” The pilot smiled, handing her a packet holding the latest magazines. “You know the routine-once the light goes out, you can get something to eat from the galley. Mr. Furie had us stock plenty of microwavables. And I put in some fresh salads too.”

Jill smiled up at Greg Landers, and thanked him for his kindness, before he closed and secured the door and entered the cockpit. Moments later, they were taxiing, and within ten more minutes, the jet was airborne. She sighed and leaned back in the lush comfort of the seat. She was so going to miss this. No commuter lines. No waits for delayed flights. No paying extra for first class.

Damn, she loved this setup, but that was not going to prevent her from taking a stand and telling her boss what he could do with his demands and his lack of consideration. He had been fully aware of her plans for this weekend. She’d put it onto his schedule so he would know that she was unavailable this weekend. A damn lot of good that had done.

He was supremely selfish, self-centered, thoughtless of her needs and totally ambivalent toward her privacy, never thinking once about barging in on her when she was in residence at one of his homes. When she was able to get back to her own apartment once in a coon’s age, she liked being able to walk around in her underwear and flop on her sofa with a snack and watch TV. But she never dared do anything like that when he was around.

He had once even walked into the luxurious bathroom attached to the guest bedroom she normally used at his Aspen house, while she was in the middle of a shower, jerking the glass door aside to yell at her over some minor mistake she’d made in his schedule. He had ignored the fact that she was trying very hard to cover her breasts with the fluffy white washcloth, and was angling her hip to him so she wasn’t flashing him with a view of her pubic hair.

He had simply raked her up and down with one angry glare and had told her to get the hell out of her shower, put something on, and get his fucking schedule fixed-stat! She doubted that the asshole had even realized she was naked, for all the notice he took. She had exited from her bathroom three minutes later wrapped in her terry robe, to find him pacing in her bedroom, rifling absently through her personal stuff on the dresser. He had glanced up and had said tersely, “Get rid of my appointments for the rest of the day. I have someplace to be, and I don’t want to be bothered with business.”

And then he had unexpectedly dragged her along with him to the Aspen Music Festival, where he had insisted that she accompany him and take notes on anything he found interesting.

There had been a minimum of note-taking. It had been a wonderful outing, and she had loved it, but he had acted as if she had destroyed his entire day with that one measly error where she’d forgotten to enter an appointment with Gretchen Gaines, the movie and music editor who had been trying her damnedest to get an exclusive interview-or possibly get him in a compromising position-for months. Ms. Gaines had shown up on time, and had made herself at home while he was talking on the phone with his attorney about getting a new rock group under contract.

After ten minutes of backpedaling, and finally getting her out of his house, he’d marched into Jill’s private suite and had blown his gasket. And he hadn’t even bothered to apologize for invading her privacy and embarrassing the hell out of her. But the next day, when she’d tried to find her terry robe, she found in its place a stunning, extremely sexy and expensive satin dressing gown. And to add to her humiliation, he had taken it upon himself to replace her flannel nightgown with a filmy, scandalously sexy one she felt half-naked in.

Just like him to point out that she owned ratty, dowdy sleepwear, and an old bathrobe that she’d had for over ten years. What the hell was it to him? She realized he was just trying to be conciliatory, but she would have greatly preferred a verbal apology. However, Mike Furie wasn’t one to apologize or admit fault. Money fixed everything. Still, the gown and dressing gown had been breathtaking, and she had to admit that it had been rather sweet of him-

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.