smell, but he figured a clean smell was better than a dirty one. He’d carefully reviewed more than a dozen nursing homes for his grandfather Waterson and chosen this one based on a comprehensive checklist. Despite his numerous responsibilities at Bellagio, he’d felt the heaviest burden in choosing a home for his grandfather. Since his own father had passed away and Grandpapa’s other children lived on the other side of the country, he’d been the only one to do the job. He was the only one to visit, too.
Marc showed his identification to the receptionist and she pressed a button to allow him entrance through the locked door. The security feature had been important to Marc because Grandpapa had a tendency to wander sometimes. Doctors blamed the old man’s increasing peculiarities on dementia.
Marc never knew what to bring, and he hated to come empty-handed. Today he brought a photo book of beautiful gardens. Grandpapa and Grandma had tended a garden together when they’d both been healthy.
He found his grandfather sitting in the day room looking out the window. “Grandpapa?”
His grandfather turned, and his blue eyes lit with recognition. “Marc, boy, it’s good to see you.”
Marc felt an easing inside him. He hadn’t realized he’d been tense. It was a good day. His grandfather had remembered him immediately. He extended his hand and his grandfather grabbed it with both of his.
“I brought you a book,” Marc said, sitting beside him. “Some nice gardens in there.”
Grandpapa flipped through the pages with his gnarled hands. “Pretty pictures. You didn’t need to bring me anything.”
“I wanted to. How are you feeling today?”
“Pretty good. I can tell it’s gonna rain.” He wiggled his fingers. “My joints are a little stiff.”
“Who needs the weatherman when you’ve got arthritis, right?”
Grandpapa grinned. “That’s right. What about you? Done any fishing? Gone to any Braves games lately?”
Marc shook his head, remembering the many times he’d gone fishing with his grandpapa when they’d both been younger. Since his grandfather had broken his hip last year, Marc feared he was too frail for field trips. “Too busy at work, but I saw one the other night on television.”
“Same one I saw. That shortstop needs to get his act together.” He looked at Marc and nodded. “You found a wife yet?”
Marc shook his head and smiled. His grandfather had been asking him the same question for at least five years. “Not yet. But I’m looking.”
“You need a wife. A wife is a good thing,” Grandpapa said.
“As long as it’s a good wife,” Marc added, thinking about Miss Brunswick County, the woman he’d met for dinner the other night. She was a knockout who had hung on his every word. Perfect wife material. And he couldn’t remember feeling so bored in his life. He was starting to wonder if his plan needed some modification. Especially the celibacy part.
“Humph. Your trouble is that it’s too easy for you. You don’t have to work at it,” Grandpapa said.
“What do you mean?” Marc asked, his mind naturally turning to Bellagio. “I know what hard work is,” he said. “I work sixty hours a week or more at Bellagio.”
“I’m not talking about the shoe company,” his grandfather said, wagging his finger at Marc. “I’m talking about women. You get them too easily. You don’t have to work for them, so you don’t appreciate them.”
Marc wanted to protest, but his grandfather’s words were too close to the truth.
“You don’t want a woman who will upset your applecart, but that’s exactly what you need.”
Marc shook his head. “I know what I need. I need a nice, lovely, nondemanding woman who will be happy to be Mrs. Waterson and be the mother of no more than two children.”
“And what are you going to contribute to this besides money and your seed?” his grandfather asked.
The question got under his skin.
“Your trouble is you don’t know how to take care of a woman for more than a weekend.”
Marc scowled. Too close again. “I admit I need some work in that area. Why does everyone feel the need to tell me where I need to improve? One of my employees told me I should get a dog to prepare me for making a commitment to a woman.”
Grandpapa gave a rusty-sounding laugh. “Good idea. Don’t get a puppy, though. You’re not ready for a puppy.”
Marc gave his grandfather a double take. “That’s exactly what my employee said.”
Grandpapa raised his eyebrows. “This employee a woman?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Is she young?”
Marc nodded.
“Pretty?”
Marc shrugged. “I don’t know if you’d call her pretty. She’s got nice eyes, nice skin, pretty hair, but—” He broke off at the gleam in his grandfather’s eye. “Oh, no way. She’s too ambitious. Plus she’s an artist, and trust me, they can be kooky.”
“But she’s smart,” his grandfather said.
“I guess you could say that,” Marc conceded. The way Jenny had handled Sal and Brooke showed she was people smart, and she was obviously talented.
“She bothers you,” his grandfather said. “That’s good.”
Marc mentally disagreed and shelved the subject once and for all.
THE NEXT DAY Jenny wore the same skirt and shoes and a different sweater. She didn’t own a lot of business-sexy clothes, and her raise hadn’t shown up in her paycheck yet. She’d had to fight the urge not to wear her red glasses, but the memory of Chad’s words had goaded her, You’re not a risk taker.
The truth was she wasn’t much of a risk taker. There hadn’t been anything she wanted enough to take risks. But this job was different. She liked it. Even though Bellagio wasn’t likely to give her a signature line of her own, she could take her experience and go somewhere else. And even though she wasn’t marriage material for Marc Waterson, she wondered if she had what it took to at least get his attention.
Not likely, she thought as she cooled her heels in his office while his other meeting ran long. She’d already put a small, masculine-looking leather box filled with peppermint patties on the corner of his desk as a thank-you for helping her out the other night when her battery had died. Feeling fidgety, she rose to her feet and meandered around the room, taking in the polished, gleaming furniture. She noted and approved the artwork on the wall. Spying some photos on shelves behind his desk, she couldn’t resist the urge to check them out.
She saw a photo of a dark-haired woman and man with Marc in a cap and gown. Mom and Dad, she thought taking in the family resemblance. She spotted another photo of a silver-haired couple. Grandparents, she supposed. Then another of a toddler with the originator of Bellagio, Antonio Bellagio. She looked closer and studied the photo. Bet the toddler was Marc. Cute kid, she thought, and glanced at his desk.
The desk was neat with only a couple of files on top of it. She noticed a drawer left open and spotted a jewelry flyer on top. Feeling nosy, she bent closer and glimpsed a page filled with diamond engagement rings. Gaudy diamonds piled with more diamonds, they reminded her of something she’d seen in a sci-fi flick. She wrinkled her nose. Jenny had nothing against a nice big rock, but those rings were ugly. She would have thought he’d have better taste.
Hearing his voice outside the door jolted her. She quickly stepped around his desk next to her chair.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. Board meeting ran long,” he said as he breezed through the doorway.
“No problem,”