cooed.
Bob turned and took her in his arms. “I approved of you long ago, Ms. Davies. Unfortunately I don’t think they’ll tell me until Monday, either. Neither Hansen nor Hobart are fools.”
Bob was right. George Hansen and Daniel Hobart hadbuilt this agency from nothing thirty years ago. They knew how to play the game.
“So they want to string me along, do they?”
Bob brushed a lock of hair from P.J.’s face. “What they want is to show you they’re not impulsive.”
“They want to string me along.”
Bob smiled. “That too. They want to give you the weekend to keep you humble.” He kissed her gently, then ran his tongue around her lips. “Now how about that lunch?”
P.J. laughed. “Where?”
“I was thinking of the boardroom. We could lock the door …”
“Mr. Jaffee! What kind of agency executive do you think I am?”
He slid his hand up the short, straight skirt of her cobalt suit. “One who is driving me crazy.”
The phone rang. Bob groaned. P.J. put a hand to his mouth and smiled. “I’d better get it.”
She walked to her desk, straightened her skirt. “Hello?”
“Ms. Davies?”
Bob had followed her, his hand on her backside.
“Yes. May I help you?” She tried to ignore the rush of warmth between her legs.
“Hang up,” Bob whispered.
P.J. laughed.
“Ms. Davies, this is Dr. Reynolds’s office.”
Bob’s lips were on her ear. She fought to concentrate. Dr. Reynolds. Her gynecologist.
“Yes?”
“Ms. Davies, you were in for your checkup Tuesday?”
P.J. gently pushed Bob’s hand from her breast.
“Yes.”
“The doctor would like to see you this afternoon.”
“What? Why?”
“He’d like to go over your tests with you.”
Tests? They’d said the pap smear wouldn’t be back for a couple of weeks. She looked at Bob, nuzzled against her.
“What time?”
“Can you be here at two o’clock?”
P.J. glanced at her watch. It was 12:45.
“Yes.”
“See you then.”
“Don’t tell me you have a meeting,” Bob said after she had hung up.
“Looks that way.”
He groaned. “Who?”
“Sound Tech,” she lied. “They need to go over the video sync on the Boyer’s spot.”
“Today? It’s Friday afternoon.”
“And I still haven’t gotten the final word on the partnership,” she reminded him. “Until then, business first. Now out! Let me get my stuff together.”
“What about lunch?”
“I’ll grab a burger on the way downtown.”
“That’s no way to treat that gorgeous body.”
“You let me worry about my ‘gorgeous body.’ ”
He turned at the door. “Are we still on for the Island this weekend?”
P.J. and Bob were supposed to go to his place in Oyster Bay. His two daughters would be there with their families—a weekend of domesticity that P.J. usually enjoyed, as long as it was confined to two days at a time. “Let me see how it goes this afternoon,” she said. “I’ll call you later.”
“Right.” He waved and left her office.
P.J. fell into her chair. Dr. Reynolds. Why did he want to see her? She’d only had her usual physical. Blood test. Pelvic. Pap smear. Mammogram.
Mammogram
. Had something shown up on the mammogram? She touched the fullness of her breasts. No, she thought, not possible. Her breasts were still youthful, perfect—firm enough to go braless, though she preferred her lacy silk bras. No, she thought again. It can’t be my breasts. Maybe something in the blood test … anemia or something. P.J. sighed. Whatever it was, she was certain it would amount to nothing. God, how the medical fieldoverreacted to everything today. Besides, she couldn’t have cancer. She’d quit smoking more than three years ago.
It had been a long time since she’d felt her palms sweat. P.J. sat in Dr. Reynolds’s waiting room, staring at the coffee table, which was scattered with ragged magazines. It was hard to believe she’d been here only four days ago, sitting calm as could be, proud of herself for having
Bob turned and took her in his arms. “I approved of you long ago, Ms. Davies. Unfortunately I don’t think they’ll tell me until Monday, either. Neither Hansen nor Hobart are fools.”
Bob was right. George Hansen and Daniel Hobart hadbuilt this agency from nothing thirty years ago. They knew how to play the game.
“So they want to string me along, do they?”
Bob brushed a lock of hair from P.J.’s face. “What they want is to show you they’re not impulsive.”
“They want to string me along.”
Bob smiled. “That too. They want to give you the weekend to keep you humble.” He kissed her gently, then ran his tongue around her lips. “Now how about that lunch?”
P.J. laughed. “Where?”
“I was thinking of the boardroom. We could lock the door …”
“Mr. Jaffee! What kind of agency executive do you think I am?”
He slid his hand up the short, straight skirt of her cobalt suit. “One who is driving me crazy.”
The phone rang. Bob groaned. P.J. put a hand to his mouth and smiled. “I’d better get it.”
She walked to her desk, straightened her skirt. “Hello?”
“Ms. Davies?”
Bob had followed her, his hand on her backside.
“Yes. May I help you?” She tried to ignore the rush of warmth between her legs.
“Hang up,” Bob whispered.
P.J. laughed.
“Ms. Davies, this is Dr. Reynolds’s office.”
Bob’s lips were on her ear. She fought to concentrate. Dr. Reynolds. Her gynecologist.
“Yes?”
“Ms. Davies, you were in for your checkup Tuesday?”
P.J. gently pushed Bob’s hand from her breast.
“Yes.”
“The doctor would like to see you this afternoon.”
“What? Why?”
“He’d like to go over your tests with you.”
Tests? They’d said the pap smear wouldn’t be back for a couple of weeks. She looked at Bob, nuzzled against her.
“What time?”
“Can you be here at two o’clock?”
P.J. glanced at her watch. It was 12:45.
“Yes.”
“See you then.”
“Don’t tell me you have a meeting,” Bob said after she had hung up.
“Looks that way.”
He groaned. “Who?”
“Sound Tech,” she lied. “They need to go over the video sync on the Boyer’s spot.”
“Today? It’s Friday afternoon.”
“And I still haven’t gotten the final word on the partnership,” she reminded him. “Until then, business first. Now out! Let me get my stuff together.”
“What about lunch?”
“I’ll grab a burger on the way downtown.”
“That’s no way to treat that gorgeous body.”
“You let me worry about my ‘gorgeous body.’ ”
He turned at the door. “Are we still on for the Island this weekend?”
P.J. and Bob were supposed to go to his place in Oyster Bay. His two daughters would be there with their families—a weekend of domesticity that P.J. usually enjoyed, as long as it was confined to two days at a time. “Let me see how it goes this afternoon,” she said. “I’ll call you later.”
“Right.” He waved and left her office.
P.J. fell into her chair. Dr. Reynolds. Why did he want to see her? She’d only had her usual physical. Blood test. Pelvic. Pap smear. Mammogram.
Mammogram
. Had something shown up on the mammogram? She touched the fullness of her breasts. No, she thought, not possible. Her breasts were still youthful, perfect—firm enough to go braless, though she preferred her lacy silk bras. No, she thought again. It can’t be my breasts. Maybe something in the blood test … anemia or something. P.J. sighed. Whatever it was, she was certain it would amount to nothing. God, how the medical fieldoverreacted to everything today. Besides, she couldn’t have cancer. She’d quit smoking more than three years ago.
It had been a long time since she’d felt her palms sweat. P.J. sat in Dr. Reynolds’s waiting room, staring at the coffee table, which was scattered with ragged magazines. It was hard to believe she’d been here only four days ago, sitting calm as could be, proud of herself for having
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