She saw his eyes turn to ice once more and stopped in midsentence. True as the comment had been, why take the chance of aggravating him even more? “You can’t just walk out of here, you know.”
“If your next move is to tell me that I have to give you a month’s notice, you can hardly hold me to a higher standard than you used for yourself.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “What’s it going to be, Amy?”
“What’s your hurry?” she asked irritably. “What difference does it make to you if I take a while to think about it?” Even though there was really nothing to think about—and it was apparent that Dylan knew it, too.
“Because if I’m going to be free for lunch, I still have time to make a date. So stop dithering and decide.”
Amy sighed and slid off the desk. “Get out of my chair,” she said. “I’ve got work to do.”
Dylan noted with interest that she’d landed with her neat little Italian sandals placed squarely between his outstretched feet, so close that it would be nearly impossible for him to stand up without brushing against her. He considered for a moment whether she could actually have intended to issue an invitation, and concluded that she’d been too annoyed even to think about where she was standing.
Just as well, he thought. The last thing he needed was to get tangled up with his new boss, and he’d better remember it. She’d already made a few uncomfortably shrewd comments. Accidentally, he was sure, but if he’d had any idea just how astute Amy Sherwood could be without even trying, he wouldn’t have left the decision of whether he stayed or left in her hands.
But he had offered her the choice, and he couldn’t back out now without causing the very curiosity he was trying to avoid. So the key was to keep her too busy to think. Too busy to ask questions.
“What’s first?” he asked as he stood up.
Amy turned at the same moment, and his cheek brushed against the dark brown cloud of hair. Obviously, he thought with a flicker of regret, he’d read her correctly, for she leaped back, bumping into the corner of the desk and almost staggering.
He put a hand on her shoulder to keep her from losing her balance. Yes, her hair was as soft as that fleeting touch had suggested. It lay like silk over his fingers.
“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