Who, whom, can, may-what the hell difference did it make? She was among friends, her very best friends. Though Jen was sorely tempted to say something very impolite to her mother, she held it back, not wanting to spoil her friends' good humor and lunch. Besides, she didn't want to endanger the accord she and her mother had reached yesterday afternoon.
Tony had prepared a wonderful warm day luncheon. In the center of the table he set a large pitcher of freshly brewed iced tea with mint. "There's more of everything, ladies," he said as he turned away, "including the tea. Just give me a call for refills."
"I swear," Celia muttered, "that man grows more familiar every day."
"Maybe," Jen agreed dryly. "But, keep in mind, he is one of the best chefs in the city."
Her mother surprised Jen by smiling at her. "Well," she conceded, "there is that," she added, continuing to peck daintily at her meal.
The rest of the women, including Jen, set to devouring every morsel on their plates. Before they had reached the fruit salad, her mother patted her lips with her linen napkin and set back her chair.
"I have a bridge date this afternoon, Jennifer." She sent a friendly smile around the table. "Enjoy the rest of your time together, girls. It was nice seeing you all again." She hesitated in the doorway. "We'll be leaving for the Terrells' at nine o'clock, Jennifer."
"I'll be ready," Jen replied.
With the stature of a queen, she walked away, a chorus of goodbyes following her.
"The Terrells'?" Marcie said the minute the door closed behind Celia. "Are you actually going to that old people's party?"
"I am," Jen said on a sigh. "But this is the last year. It really isn't just old people who go. There are still some younger ones there."
"And every one of the young lions hell-bent on kissing butt to get to the top." Kathie's voice held an acid tint.
"That's the name of the game, isn't it?" Leslie observed. "Wasn't that the reason we all decided to get our degrees and concentrate on breaking through the glass ceiling?"
Marcie grinned. "I opted out by grabbing my delicious husband and immediately having his babies."
Jen felt a funny pang in her chest at her friend's innocent mention of marriage and babies.
"Speaking of delicious, Jennifer, it's time you told us what in the hell is going on with you and Marsh Grainger," Leslie said.
"Yes," said Mary. "Let's get down to discussing something way more interesting than a fusty old party or our careers."
Jen took a deep breath, and launched into her story. She decided not to tell her friends exactly what had sent her fleeing from her parents' house-she did truly believe that what her parents did was their own business. All she said was that there had been an issue, and she'd decided it was time to strike out on her own and get some distance.
And that was how she ended up working for-and living with-Marshall Grainger.
Her friends were all ears-until they were all questions. This time, their questions were serious.
Jen launched into a recitation of her activities since accepting Marsh's offer of employment. She told them everything having to do with the job. But for reasons she couldn't quite explain, she left out the personal side of the story.
They wanted to know what he was like to work for, and whether he was as tough and aloof as gossip described him.
And they also wanted to know how she kept from jumping his bones.
"I've got strong principles, and he has a bad rep," she said, and they believed her. It was the truth, to some degree. Jen stood by her principles, and Marsh did have a reputation for using women...but, she had fallen for him. And, after all, he had asked her to marry him.
But for reasons she couldn't entirely explain, she didn't tell her friends about that. She could tell by the expressions on their faces that they weren't buying her story, but they knew when to quit, and didn't press her. When her story came to an end, too much time had passed and her friends needed to go. With hugs and promises to stay in touch, they went their separate ways.
Jen went back to the patio to begin clearing the table. Tony was beside her as she reached for a second plate.
"I'll take care of that," he said, moving her out of the way with a nudge. "You ladies sounded like you were having a good time."
Jen's smile was soft. "Yes, we did have a lovely time. Your lunch was superb."
He flashed a bright smile at her. "Thank you, ma'am, that's what I like to hear." His eyes teased her. "Now go away and let me do my job."
"Yes, sir, master chef," Jen said. "But never say I didn't offer to help."
He waved a hand as she walked into the dining room from the patio.
Back in her room, Jen glanced at the bedside clock. It was a little after three and her mother had said they'd be leaving at nine. Six hours. Time enough to do the ranch books before she needed to get ready.
Clicking on to her laptop, Jen logged in to the ranch accounts and got to work untangling the facts and figures the technology-challenged foreman tossed into the PC at the ranch. It didn't take her long to straighten out the mess, pay the couple of bills due and cut the checks for the employees.
After logging off the ranch server, she decided she might as well wrap up the end-of-week with the home books.
Home. The word filled her mind and brought a wave of longing so intense Jen gave a soft gasp. Marsh.
Oh, Lord, she wanted to go home. To Marsh.
Damn. Damn, damn. What in the world was she going to do? He had proposed to her. But he didn't want her, the person. He wanted her body, and she readily admitted, at least to herself if not to her friends, that she wanted him as badly.
But he didn't really want her.
He wanted an assistant, a cook, a housekeeper, a wife, a mother to his children. And she, Jennifer Dunning, would do. It didn't hurt that she was bright as well as beautiful.
Big flipping deal.
Feeling her eyes begin to sting with threatening tears, Jen closed the computer, set it aside and curled into a ball on her bed. Impatiently, she brushed her fingers over her eyes. She wouldn't cry. Not over the high and mighty Marshall Grainger. She damn well would not cry.
Jen sobbed into her pillow.
* * *
She woke to darkness. Reaching out her arm, she flicked on the lamp on the bedside table and stared bleary-eyed at the clock set next to it. It read 7:10 p.m.
Time to get it together, she told herself, dragging her listless body from the bed.
Her face was a mess. Shoulders slumped, Jen stared at the sorry excuse for a woman reflected back at her from the wide bathroom mirror above the sink. Salty tracks of dried tears lay stiff on her cheeks.
Pathetic.
With an impatient shake of her head, Jen set to work on making herself presentable. It wasn't easy. She still felt tired. That in itself was annoying as she rarely felt tired, especially not emotionally tired. The last thing she wanted was to put on that stupid costume and pile makeup on her face. Heaving a sigh, she adjusted the water temperature and stepped into the shower.
Fifteen minutes later, her body glowing from the hot shower and her hair hanging in dripping tendrils down her back, she stood shivering as she wrapped herself into a long fluffy bath sheet.
As soon as her body was dry, she went to work on her hair. Drying her hair was always a project-there was so much of it, a veritable mass of blond locks that became tumbled waves and curls as it dried. But, at last, she turned off the appliance and pulled on her lacy panties before facing the next challenge.
Standing before the dresser mirror, Jen set about piling her hair on top of her head, fastening it there so she could slip on a net cap. The cap would contain her hair beneath the wig of long, riotous black curls she had bought on impulse.
After more than a few damns and some stronger words, Jen had the wig securely fastened in place.
Deciding it didn't look half-bad, she shook her head. The wig stayed in place and long black curls went flying wildly around her head and down over her shoulders.
Offering her image a smile of satisfaction, she went to work on the makeup. Being a blonde, Jen was naturally fair. Opening a container of makeup a shade darker than her usual shade, she applied it smoothly. Blush next, high on her cheekbones. She darkened her eyebrows with a black brow powder, and swept black mascara on her lashes. She finished with a generous coating of scarlet lipstick.
"Jenny, I hardly know you!" she said to the stranger in the mirror. She shook her head. "No, not Jenny, not even Jen." She needed a sexy, sultry name to go with this getup. She mulled it over as she stepped into the costume. Carmen? Nah, too obvious. Rosa? Nope. "Margarita." She drew the name out in a throaty voice. Yeah! Perfect. Now, a big spray of perfume, a pair of black soft leather ballet flats and-