The Truth About Numbnuts and Chubbs(5)

He took it down and looked at it. That's how much she made an hour? Hmmm. The miracle worker could make five times that working for him. Not that she ever would consider it.

Permeating the oregano and meatballs there was a very slight touch of spicy perfume, still lingering. He sniffed, tasted it far back on his tongue as if it was wine. Nice. Fruity. Full-bodied. Like her.

What the fuck was he scared of? She was a woman, wasn't she?



* * * *



"Try the rigatoni with eggplant. One of the chef's specials."

She glanced up from the menu, expecting to see the waiter back again. Instead it was Ben, standing at the table, grinning stupidly. Damn. She was actually going to order that dish, but now she couldn't, or it would look as if she followed his advice. Only a man of his arrogance would approach her with that grin on his face after leaving her with five years of badly kept account books. Which she couldn't complain about, because they were supposed to be managed by the firm that had just hired her. She was still puzzling over how Don Philips ever got Mr. Leonato's tax forms in on time.

"I suppose you thought that was funny this morning, when you chose not to tell me this was your place."

"I was in a hurry, Miss Mulligan, and you were late for the appointment." He dropped casually into the seat opposite. "You fixed your shoe?"

"I found some glue in the back of a drawer. It's a temporary fix to get me through the day. The shoes are ruined." Slapping the menu shut, she tossed it down and grabbed her wine glass. "Do you want to hear my recommendations for the business?"

"Depends. Will they involve my head and one of the ovens?"

Sarcastic ass. "First of all you need a computer back there. One with updated accounting software. Leonato's has evidently been operating by the skin of its teeth with processes from the dark ages. I'm surprised I didn't uncover an abacus and some cave paintings. What made you buy this restaurant anyway? It's not the usual acquisition is it?"

He shrugged one shoulder against the burgundy pleather. "Some nights it was so packed I couldn't get a table. I didn't like that. I got annoyed."

Unbelievable! And yet not, since it was him. She exhaled a curt laugh. "So you simply bought the place. Problem solved. What's it like to have so much power?" Fluttering her lashes, she feigned awe.

"The old man was ready to retire anyway and looking for a buyer. I gave him a good deal. He's happy."

"Right. One of your deals."

"What's that supposed to mean, Chubbs?"

"It means, Numbnuts, that your deals are only good for you." She remembered, to her surprise, almost every word in that interview she'd read. "When asked for his definition of a good deal, Petruska laughed and said, Any deal that's good for me."

He looked at her, puzzled.

"Time magazine," she explained, smug. "An article on the city's top ten, over-achieving, thirty-something assholes."

"I'm surprised you bothered to read it."

She sipped her wine. "I was in the dentist's waiting room. I'd run out of everything else to read. It was between you or the instructions for a building evacuation in the event of fire. And I'd read those the last time I was there."

Ben winced and shook his dark head. "Ouch." He changed the subject. "How long have you been back in the city?"

"Almost two months," she answered crisply. It wasn't as if they were likely to run into each other and they didn't have connecting friends, but she was surprised he didn't know through Helena, who was married to his cousin Carl. "I was in France." She couldn't help it—wanted him to know there was something exotic and brave about her. She wasn't that dull, chubby, thirteen year-old bridesmaid hiding cannolis in her napkin. Not anymore.

Oh, why tell him she'd been abroad as if it was something special? He probably traveled overseas every month on business deals. Why the hell did she care what he thought of her anyway? She didn't need his approval.

He leaned toward her, resting his forearms on the table. "You ought to work for me."

She squinted. "Why?"

"I need a new personal assistant. Someone smart, efficient, likes to travel. Someone with a good bullshit detector. Who won't keep trying to sleep with me."

She laughed, but it came out more as a snort. "Is that a common problem for you?"

"Why don't you think about it? I can more than match your current hourly salary."

"I'm a CPA. Not a doormat." That was, no doubt, what he wanted—some poor soul to run around and do his dirty work, all those trivial things he didn't have time for in his busy day. "Why would you want me working for you, anyway, Numbnuts?"