The Angel Tasted Temptation

by Shirley Jump

  "Why not do the same thing for real milk?"

  "Doesn't this violate your agreement to be Miss Holstein for the year?"

  "Aren't you worried about what the people back home will think of you?"

  She put up her hands—hooves. "Please! Wait! I don't understand what you're talking about."

  "The Globe this morning," one of the men in the back shouted. "The No-Moo Milk story."

  "The Globe? What story?"

  A second later, someone handed her a newspaper. The stupid hoof gloves made it impossible to grasp the thin pages, so she had to resort to reading it while the reporter held the paper open. The others jostled forward, waiting to write down her exact reaction.

  The images hit her like one-two punches. The headline. The photo of herself. And then, the caption, saying essentially that Miss Holstein had given her stamp of approval to a synthetic milk product.

  Oh God.

  Everything around Meredith began to spin. The mob of reporters felt like a straightjacket, suffocating, scary. She tried to back up, but they were behind her. She stepped to the right, but found several blocking her way. She stepped to the left and they were there, too.

  There was no room to move. To breathe. To think.

  "What do you think about this, Meredith?"

  "What are you going to do about it?"

  "What are you going to tell the Lincoln County Dairy Farmers? They're counting on you to help the milk industry, you know."

  And then, the one question that hit her like a right hook to the gut. "I understand your family owns a dairy farm. What are you going to tell them about all this?"

  Meredith lunged forward, breaking through the crowd, using the hard plastic of her fake hooves to clear a path. The reporters parted slightly, but kept up their dogged pursuit, throwing questions at her retreating form like hunters with their quivers full of arrows.

  Meredith did the only thing she could do—she ran. She heard the photographer from Dairy Farmers Monthly shouting at her but she didn't stop. Crowds of gawking strangers watched her hurried exodus, but she didn't care.

  She ran for the first cab she saw and dove headfirst inside the black-and-yellow Checker sedan like Michael Phelps going for gold at the Olympics.

  "Let me guess," the driver said, his dark eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror. "You want to go see the giant Hood Milk Bottle on Congress Street." He shook his head and put the cab in gear. "Some of you milk people are real fanatics."

  Travis hadn't worked this hard in ...

  Well, hell, his whole life. He suspected, no he knew, he'd gotten by at Belly-Licious on the occasional burst of brains and because he hadn't fought Larry too much on his evil schemes to take over the beverage world. Larry had rewarded Travis and Kenny by tossing the two of them the occasional name-only promotion. It had been, as Kenny called it, a cake-walk of a job. Sweet and easy.

  Until now.

  Yet, even though he hadn't slept the night before, he felt renewed, energized. The ad campaign he'd come up with was damned good. Now all he had to do was find a way to sneak it past Larry—who would veto anything that didn't fit his plan to use Meredith— and up to the president's office. Then he'd get it into place fast and find a way to undo the damage done to Meredith by Larry's stupid version of a P.R. campaign.

  He had finally given up on his other idea, which, in his defense, had come before he'd had any caffeine. At the time, though, it had seemed mighty smart to call in Ray Jr. and Vernon and their unlimited supply of duct tape.

  Kenny had shot that one down, pointing out that an aggravated assault charge might not be the best way to keep his job.

  Plus, Travis needed to get to Meredith and he couldn't do that if he was in jail for having Larry beaten up by the bruiser twins. Undoubtedly, she'd seen the debacle in the Globe and thought he'd arranged it. Somehow, he'd make her understand. After he found a way to fix this pile of crap—a pile that seemed to be growing faster than the one behind the Budweiser Clydesdales.

  From outside his office, Travis heard the first stage of the plan he and Kenny had concocted being put into action. He rose and pressed himself to the wall near his door to listen.

  "Hey, Larry," Kenny said, sidling up to their boss. "I'm going out to lunch with Delia and one of her friends. Travis can't make it, which leaves Delia's friend all alone. You want to come along?"

  Kenny, as usual, had come up with the perfect bait to get Larry out of the office—a single, attractive woman. With Larry gone, Travis would head down to Jerome Herman's office and convince the president that Larry was not only a danger to himself, but also to the company. All Travis needed was five minutes with Jerome and he'd be able to sell him on the campaign he'd designed for No-Moo.

  "I don't know, Kenny," Larry said. "I thought I'd sit by the phone. Wait for the orders for No-Moo to come pouring in. That Globe thing was sheer brilliance, I tell ya."

  Travis's fist clenched at the sound of smugness in Larry's voice.

  "That's what a secretary's for," Kenny said. "Come on, Lar. Delia's friend is a flight attendant. You know what that means."

  A pause. "No, what?"

  "She likes to have a man in every city. You never know. This might be your city."

  It took another second before Larry made the connection. Clearly the glue in his hair products was starting to affect his neurons. "You really think she'd want to fly in and see me sometime?"

  "If you don't come to lunch with us, you'll never find out." Travis heard the sound of Kenny playing with his keys. "Well, I'm running late, so if you don't want to go ..."

  "Let me check my—" Larry cut himself off. "I, ah, have to make a quick stop in the little boy's room."

  From his hiding place inside his office, Travis pumped a fist into the air. On the way home today, he'd buy Kenny a case of beer for this. No, make that two cases. His roommate was going to need the double alcohol after spending his lunch hour with the most annoying human being on the planet.

  Ten minutes later, Travis was standing outside of Jerome Herman's office, the ad sketches he'd created in his hands. Herman's secretary had also gone to lunch, leaving no additional barriers. Travis knocked on the door, waited for the gruff, "Come in," then entered Larry's cousin's office.

  Unlike Larry, Jerome had all his hair, neatly arranged in an artful gray wave across the top of his head. He wore tailored blue suits and pale blue shirts almost every day, usually with a tie in a contrasting dark color like maroon, or deep purple. Today he sported a violet shade.

  Lining the shelf behind his head was a bottle of each of the products made by Belly-Licious through the years, some of which had actually done well—like the Kick-Butt Tomato Juice. There were also a few that had not, like the Hibiscus Spinach Juice.

  "Travis, "Jerome said. "What can I do for you?"

  "I'd like to show you some ad campaign ideas for No-Moo Milk." Travis didn't waste any time getting to the point, just in case Larry came back for some hair glue or something.

  Jerome shook his head. "Larry's got that under control. I love what he's doing. That coup of snagging Miss Holstein to be our spokesmodel is going to put our product on the map."

  "We haven't exactly snagged her, sir."

  "What do we mean we haven't? Isn't that her picture I saw in today's Globe?"

  Travis took in a breath. It was now or never. He wasn't sure how Jerome, who was fiercely loyal to his family members, would react to Travis essentially being a tattletale. But there was no other way to get this idea of using Meredith off the table. "Larry took it without her permission."

  Jerome templed his fingers and studied Travis. "This wouldn't be an attempt to undermine your boss, would it? Some weird way of assuring yourself a promotion or a raise or something? Larry assured me everything was on the up and up with this."

  "Larry isn't telling you the truth."

  A vein throbbed in Jerome's neck. "Are you saying my cousin is lying to me? My own flesh and blood?"

  The silence i
n the room weighed more than the president's cherry desk. If Travis said yes, it would tick off Jerome because the Herman blood loyalty was as sticky as Super Glue. Jerome, for some reason, never saw a single fault in Larry, and if Travis was the one to point them out, he was quite sure the messenger would be the one shot in the end, not the cousin.

  "I think Larry is just... misinformed," Travis said. "We can go about this another way."

  "No." Jerome shook his head in such a way that left no room for disagreement. Not a hair on his head moved, evidence of a strong hairspray. What was it with these Herman men and their obsession with their hair? "I'm not entertaining any new ideas. I like the Miss Holstein one. We're running with it Larry thinks he might be even be able to get her into her cow outfit and get her in here, drinking some No-Moo."

  What the hell was Larry planning on using for leverage? Meredith would never do that. She was probably already pissed that Larry had used her image illegally. The chances of her agreeing to anything more—

  And then Travis realized what his plan should be.

  Nothing.

  Just step back, let Larry fall on his face, then step in with his own ad concept and save the day. Jerome would never see the bad side of his cousin, no matter what Travis said. And with Brad a few weeks away from getting married and buying a house, quitting or in any way shaking the No-Moo boat was not an option.

  He'd just sit back and let the boat sink all by itself.

  "It might just work," Travis said, plastering a smile on his face as he rose. He tucked the ad sketches under his aim. "I'll get with Larry and work on fleshing out the plan."

  "That's what I like about you, Travis. You work so well with Larry. He says he barely has to bring you guys in to meetings with me because you and Kevin are such whizzes behind the scenes. Really run with his ideas and take 'em to the next level." Jerome punched a fist forward as if rah-rahing the team, even if he couldn't get the team members' names right.

  Travis's smile started to hurt and he tried to keep his Larry-the-jerk feelings from showing on his face. "That's us, the behind-the-scenes guys."

  And that's where he was going to stay, for now, Travis thought as he left Jerome's office. Larry could be front and center so he'd get all the attention when this blew up in his face.

  In the meantime, Travis was going to look for a way out for himself, Brad and Kenny, and most important, he would find a way to fix this for Meredith.

  She hadn't asked Larry to come along and ruin her life. Somehow, Travis was going to get revenge ... and get the girl.

  Yeah. That should be a piece of cake. Right?

  Candace's Time-to-Celebrate Lobster Thermidor

  1 whole lobster, boiled

  1/4 cup butter

  2 shallots, minced

  1/4 cup flour

  1/4 cup white wine

  2 cups milk

  1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

  Salt and pepper

  1/2 cup Parmesan cheese, divided

  When you've just made a major life change, it's time to celebrate. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Next, start by halving the lobster, removing the claws and all the meat. Save the half-shells and dice the lobster meat, setting it aside to add later.

  In a separate pan, heat the butter, cook the shallots, then add the flour and stir until the flour is cooked through. Gradually add the wine and milk, then bring it up to a boil and reduce it to a simmer for about four minutes, until it's thickened. Voila! A sauce. You should be proud of your culinary skills. They're almost as good as your other skills.

  Season with salt and pepper, then fold in the lobster meat and half of the Parmesan. Divide the mixture among the lobster shells and place them on a foil-lined baking sheet. Looks decadent and celebratory already, doesn't it? Believe me, you're going to have something to celebrate yourself soon, too. And if you don't, create something.

  Sprinkle with the remaining Parmesan, then bake for 8 to 10 minutes, until it's golden brown and as ready to go to the next level as you are.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  "I got married!"

  The words brought work to a halt inside Gift Basket to Die For early Tuesday morning. Maria and Meredith turned to see Candace hurrying into the kitchen, wearing a white suit and flashing a diamond band above her engagement ring. "I'm officially Mrs. Michael Vogler!"

  They rushed to hug her, exchanging cheers and whoops and a few tears. "Did Elvis do the honors?" Maria asked.

  "You betcha. You can't get married in Vegas if you don't have Elvis marry you. It wouldn't be right." Candace grinned. "My grandmother cried when I told her I eloped."

  "Because she missed your wedding?" Meredith asked.

  "No, because I pulled the kind of stunt she's always doing. She told me she was proud of me for ditching the family, the plans and the whole big hullabaloo to do it my way."

  "What about Michael?" Maria asked. "How'd he take the whole surprise thing?"

  Candace blushed. "Quite well. You can say he thanked me many times over."

  "See? I was right," Maria said. "As usual."

  Candace grinned and drew her friend into a second hug. Then she turned and gave Meredith an extra one, too. "Two of us down, two to go."

  "Hey, I set a date. Meredith hasn't even fallen in love yet," Maria said. "Or have you?"

  Meredith got the distinct feeling they were ganging up on her.

  "That's a little hard to do, considering I'm not even talking to Travis." She pivoted away and busied herself with wrapping a box of chocolates to add to the large wicker arrangement they were working on— a thank-you to a local plastic surgeon for a facelift gone right.

  "Why? What happened?" Candace headed over to the counter, laying her purse on the opposite side and slipping onto one of the bar stools. "When I left, everything seemed to be going so well."

  "This happened," Maria said, handing her the copy of the Globe with the picture of Meredith in it.

  "I thought you promised to burn that," Meredith grumbled, stuffing a nose-shaped paperweight into the side of the basket.

  "No, I promised to frame it." She grinned.

  "Oh. Wow." Candace quirked a brow in Meredith's direction. "Miss Holstein?"

  "That can be explained by this," Maria said, handing her that morning's Boston Herald. The photographers had gotten in several good snaps of the Dairy Farmers Monthly photo shoot, clearly using a telephoto lens to do so, and then another half dozen or so of her fleeing form, all beneath the glaring headline of DAIRY FARMERS' HOPES DASHED BY NO-MOO DEFECTION.

  "Oh. That's much worse."

  "It was even picked up by the Associated Press," Maria said, waving copies of USA Today and the New York Times. "Our Meredith's famous."

  Certainly not the kind of fame she'd been seeking when she came to Boston, Meredith thought. She kept working on the basket, hoping that if she focused enough on the wireless mouse shaped like a breast (complete with a nipple for a wheel), she'd forget all about the debacle at Government Center.

  "Is that why your brothers are out there again?" Candace asked.

  Meredith nodded. "They've become my de facto bodyguards. The press won't leave me alone."

  "Vernon and Ray Jr. work cheap, too," Maria added, handing Meredith a box of candies shaped like collagen-injected lips. "All it costs is a couple dozen cookies a day."

  "Well, we better get baking," Candace said, taking off her jacket and rolling up the sleeves of her silky pink blouse. She grabbed an apron off the hook on the wall and a clean bowl for the KitchenAid mixer, then started pulling ingredients out of the cabinets. "We need to feed those men well if they're going to keep you safe."

  Meredith let out a sigh, the gold ribbon bow in her hands drooping like a sad little portent of what was to come. "Maybe it would be best if I went back home."

  "What, and miss all this fun?" Maria said. "You said you wanted a change. Well, you got one."

  "I didn't want one that would destroy everyone's life getting it. My mother has been holdin
g a vigil at Aunt Gloria's house for the ruin I have brought on our family, Aunt Gloria is trying to soothe everyone by making six different kinds of Hamburger Helper for dinner every night and Caleb won't stop re-reading Romeo and Juliet." Meredith stopped working and buried her face in her hands, choking back the tears that had threatened at her for days. "I've ruined everything."

  Candace patted her shoulder. "You haven't ruined anything for us."

  Relief and a strong sense of kinship washed over Meredith. "Do you mean that? You want me to keep on working here?"

  Maria grinned. "Of course we do. You're one of us, like it or not."

  Tears stung at Meredith's eyes. "Oh, guys, I like being one of you. Really."

  "Good," Candace said. "Now, let's work together on baking some cookies because there's one motto we have here at Gift Baskets."

  "What's that?"

  "Whatever trouble you get into, we're in it together. It's a lot more fun that way." After a quick group hug, Candace turned and got down some measuring cups, doing her part to help Meredith fix the massive mess her life had become.

  For the first time in the past five days, Meredith began to think things might actually work out.

  Maybe.

  She changed her mind when her mother and Aunt Gloria showed up at the store that afternoon. Candace was out making a delivery; Maria was busy with a sales call, leaving Meredith to face the Shordon wrath alone.

  Aunt Gloria strode in first, her white-blond hair poufed out around her face like a sunburst. Despite whatever Glamour had said was in for a fall facial palette, her eyes and cheeks were shaded with spring blues and pink. She had on a tight red two-piece sweat suit, with a hoodie and wide leg pants that were only wide from the knees down.

  Aunt Gloria—the complete opposite to her younger sister, Martha. If Meredith hadn't seen the family pictures, she wouldn't have been able to pair them up, even in a lineup.

  Her mother brought up the rear, clutching a stash of Kleenexes and pressing them to the space above her surgical mask. Momma's denim jumper and pumpkin-print turtleneck were a sign of one thing— she was through with the pity party and about to get serious.