Dom sank down on the couch and reached for his laptop. Some guys kept their remote controls always at hand. What did it say for him that it was his computer that was constantly handy? It allowed him the illusion, at least, that he wasn’t a workaholic. Sure, he’d hit the office at seven, go straight through until six or seven at night, but then he’d go home.
And maybe he’d crack open the laptop to finish up a memo or send a few e-mails after dinner, but that wasn’t the same thing as working night and day.
Right?
With a click of the mouse and a mental blessing to the people who invented wireless networks, he was hooked up to the Internet.
He didn’t, however, find Delaney in West L.A. when he checked the online white pages. It could mean that he’d misremembered her city, or it could mean that she was unlisted—a possibility that seemed increasingly likely the more he thought about it. Searching surrounding cities didn’t yield any better results. Neither did searching the whole damned state. The upside of the fact that she had an unusual name was that there weren’t a lot of false positives to sift through.
The downside was that he was tired of being taunted by “0 results” messages.
So he searched the Internet itself. It was where he should have started, if he’d been thinking. He didn’t get “0 results” this time. He got a whole bunch of hits. Delaney had been busy, he thought in satisfaction. Or someone with her name had. A college alumni letter, of all things. Delaney Phillips, Business, Class of 1998. The age was right.
He smiled and checked some more results, this time unearthing a press release with her name on it. He dug a bit more. He hit a few false leads, but that was only to be expected. And suddenly there she was, in living color, her headshot showing him that sunbeam smile.
“At Vision Quest Marketing, our people are our primary assets…”
And Delaney was one hell of an asset, Dom knew, taking another drink of his beer. She was dressed in a fire-engine red suit that made her eyes very green. Matching red slicked her mouth. The suit looked sharp, the blouse a little low cut. And though the picture ended at midchest, he was betting that skirt showed off plenty of those long, toned legs.
Long, toned legs he’d been missing. It was Thursday and she was due home in four days.
He clicked on the “Contact Us” button.
“Call us to find out what our Vision Quest staff can do for you!” the page read.
He’d like to find that out, thought Dom as he wrote down the phone number. He’d like to find out a lot.
NOTHING, DELANEY DECIDED as she stared balefully at her computer screen, was worse than reentry. You worked like a dog in order to be able to go on vacation. You got away and about the time you’d relaxed enough to stop thinking about schedules and wondering what time it was every five minutes, you were flying back home. Only to find a sky-high pile of things waiting.
She could catch up with everything by week’s end, she calculated. By which time she’d have probably been at it enough extra hours to earn back her vacation as comp time. It made her cranky. Then again, everything did. She was restless, unsettled, uncomfortable in her own skin.
Damn Dom Gordon anyway.
She rose abruptly and walked down the hall to the ladies’ room in the hope that a quick break would help her regain her attention. Inside, tiny spots with neat glass shades in cobalt-blue lit the aluminum and glass fixtures. Vision Quest Marketing was nothing if not stylish, right down to the lavatories. Paige would have approved of the design; Delaney approved of the aesthetic.
Usually.
It was ridiculous, she thought as she washed her hands. She and Dom were supposed to have been a vacation fling. Sure, it had been fun to see him again, but she’d gotten through sixteen years fine without him and she’d easily get through sixteen more. She didn’t need to be encumbered. She wasn’t used to guys taking up residence in her head. She was the one who decided when things were over, and this needed to be over.
Impatiently, she settled back at her desk and spun her chair around to stare out the window. Sure, it had been a good time but it wasn’t as if it was some kind of a match made in heaven. And she wasn’t looking for one anyway. The last thing she wanted was to get boring and settled. Fun, free and answering to no one, that was the life she wanted.
“Nice to see you back hard at work.”
Delaney jumped and glanced over to see her boss, Janet, standing at her open office door.
“Oh, Janet, hi. How are you?”
“Fine.”
Janet Whitcher, an account supervisor and Delaney’s boss. She was an attractive woman who worked out religiously. Her perfect haircut and color cost a fortune to maintain. Undoubtedly expensive makeup gave her a subtle glow, her clothing startlingly beautiful. But an undertone of discontent perpetually tightened her mouth and narrowed her eyes, negating all her efforts.
Janet passionately wanted to be promoted to director. As far as she was concerned, it was long overdue. So far, though, her best efforts had only left her watching others make the jump. After all, the ticket to the executive boardroom wasn’t talent so much as the demonstrated ability to bring in money, important clients.
Like Carter Price had done. With Delaney’s help, Carter had bagged NASDAQ darling DataStor, catapulting himself out of the rank and file and into the upper levels. And although he couldn’t take Delaney with him, he’d ensured her promotion to account manager and given her a salary bump that had shocked her into silence, no easy feat.
It had also left her making almost as much as Janet, her new boss. With predictable results.
“How did the DataStor shoot go?” Delaney asked now.
“It was the shoot for their fall campaign and the account manager couldn’t bother to be there,” Janet said tartly. “How do you think it went?”
“I think they should have counted themselves lucky to have someone like you overseeing things. They didn’t get the account manager, they got an account supervisor.” Reminding Janet of her title had been a strategic error, Delaney realized a beat too late as she watched Janet’s mouth pucker over the phrase.
“It’s a good thing someone was supervising. What in God’s name were you thinking, booking a food photographer?”
Delaney stared. “Richard Selkirk is not a food photographer.”
“Well, that was what I saw in his portfolio.”
“That was one campaign. Anyway, it’s irrelevant. DataStor loves him.” Or, more precisely, Liz Prisco, DataStor’s marketing manager. “He’s shot their last three campaigns.”
“But not this one.” Janet gave a tight smile.
“You took him off?” Delaney felt a little stab of frustration. “Why would you do that? We’d already had a brainstorming session with Liz. She even approved his sketches.”
“He had the wrong style. I brought in someone else. She was worth the delay. We came up with some shots that I really liked.”
“How did Liz like them?”
Janet hesitated, and a second later, gave a bad-tempered shrug. “She’s still reviewing them.”
Liz Prisco was nothing if not decisive. Not to mention choosy. If Liz had been sitting on the shots for a week, there was no way she would use any of them. Delaney sighed. “I’ll call her.”
“You’ll make her happy,” Janet enunciated. “I don’t have time to do your account maintenance work, Delaney. It was irresponsible of you to leave with a shoot scheduled.”
Delaney’s mouth opened and snapped shut. “Liz cooked up that photo shoot idea two days before I left. My trip was planned and paid for. You’d already approved the vacation request.”
“Vacation request? Next, you’ll be telling me you have to leave in the middle of a deadline because it’s 5:30 p.m. and quitting time. This is a salaried job,” Janet reproved. “You do the work that needs to be done no matter what it takes.”
“I do the work.”
“Not well enough,” she retorted. “You might be interested to know that
DataStor’s rethinking their 2008 product launch campaign.”
“Why?”
“How did Prisco put it? She’s not sure we can provide them with the service and care that they require.”
“That’s total BS,” Delaney said hotly. “Do you have any idea how much time I’ve put into developing that account? I get thirty or forty e-mails a day from them.”
“All I know is that the time it really counted, you were more interested in flying off to a beach somewhere than in helping your firm hold on to a Fortune 500 client,” Janet snapped.
Translation: help Janet hold on to a Fortune 500 client so that she didn’t look bad to the Powers That Be. In Janet’s view, Delaney had violated the code by putting her personal life first, imperiling Janet’s march to the executive boardroom. No matter that Janet had played the major role in screwing things up; in Janet’s mind, the fault was all Delaney’s.
And if Delaney didn’t manage to do something to fix the damage and make Janet the hero, the woman would do her best to see that she suffered.
Delaney took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll get right on it.”
“See that you do.” Janet turned and left.
First step, triage. Delaney had to find out just how bad things were and what she needed to do to repair the damage. Sighing, she slipped on her headset and punched Liz’s speed dial number.
AFTERNOON SHADOWS WERE stretching out by the time she managed to pin down Liz Prisco. An hour and a half later, she hung up, shaking her head. For a woman with talent, Janet had done a remarkably ham-fisted job with DataStor. Delaney could fix things, perhaps, but it wouldn’t be easy. She’d known that the minute she’d heard the cool note in Liz Prisco’s voice.
There would be more phone calls, lots of them, and e-mails and lunches, probably even a rescheduled shoot on the Vision Quest tab. Janet would pitch a fit about that but Delaney would call in Carter if she needed to. DataStor was too important a client to lose. It was going to take some serious courting to undo the damage Janet had done.
Delaney was rubbing at her temples as the phone rang. She pushed the button to answer. “Delaney Phillips.”
“About time you got home,” a voice said.
And adrenaline surged through her veins. “Who is this?” she asked, doing her best to sound impersonal.
“Dom.”
“Dom? Dom who?” she repeated, in a puzzled voice.
“Gordon.”
“Oh, I don’t think I remember any Dom Gordon. Can you tell me what account you’re with?”
“Multiple orgasms,” he said testily.
Against her will, her mouth curved. “Oh, the name sort of rings a bell now that you mention it.”
“I guess you made it home in one piece.”
“I guess you did, too.”
“More or less.”
“Why are you calling me here?” She didn’t need him distracting her on her first day back. Anymore than he already had been.
“Your home number’s unlisted.”
So he’d hunted her down. And she’d be fooling herself to say the idea didn’t please her. “You didn’t think there was a reason for that?” Or maybe he had, but not one that applied to him.
“I want to see you.”
The words set butterflies fluttering loose all through her stomach. “I just got back. I’m slammed. Besides, it’s better to leave it be. I think we talked about that.”
“No, you talked about that.”
“You’re not a very good listener.”
“Apparently. How’s tomorrow night?”
“For what?”
“Is your memory that short?”
And abruptly she could all but feel his hands on her. No, her memory wasn’t that short. Then again, those kinds of orgasms came with strings she wasn’t sure she wanted to deal with. Enough. “So we were good in bed together.”
“Make that amazing.”
“Good,” she repeated.
“You’re full of crap and you know it.”
She grinned. “Testy, isn’t he?”
“I’m also part of your history.”
“Hah. How do I even know you’re really Jake the Snake?” she asked carelessly. “You say you are, but you’ve got a different name. The Jake I knew didn’t have that moustache or goatee or whatever it is that’s on your face.” Of course, he hadn’t had washboard abs and those wide, strong hands, either, she reflected, feeling her stomach flip at the thought.
“I was fourteen,” Dom reminded her.
“You shouldn’t let all that hair cover up your mouth,” she said, her voice ripe with amusement. “It makes you look untrustworthy.”
“I don’t shave when I’m on vacation.”
“Ah. Lazy and untrustworthy. That’s hardly a recommendation.”
“I’ll work on it,” he said. “Look, I’m going out of town and I want to see you before I go.”
Butterflies. A whole flock of them. “I’ll resist the urge to talk about people in hell and ice water.”
“Good. That means we’re getting somewhere, here.”
“Ice water has many uses,” she pointed out helpfully. And if she didn’t watch it, she might need it herself.
“Are you going to keep dancing around this, or are you going to give me your number?”
“You always were stubborn.”
“You’re right. And I still am.”
“Look, it’s not my problem. You broke up with me, remember?”
“Sixteen years ago.”
“Hey, you’ve got to learn to live with the consequences of your actions.”
“Now who’s being stubborn?”
“I am,” she said. “Bye, Jake the Snake. Gotta go.”
And with a click, she hung up.
And tried to tell herself she didn’t want to hear from him again.
8
FLUORESCENT LIGHTS SHONE above the expanse of the health club’s half-size basketball court. Shoes chirped on the varnished floor, counterpointed by the pinging thuds of a dribbled basketball. The game was one-on-one. The stakes were deadly serious—bragging rights and lunch, bought by the loser.
Eric bought a lot of lunches.
Dom held the ball at the free-throw line, bent low, eyes intent on his opponent.
“Isn’t your beach babe supposed to be home by now?” Eric reached in for the ball as Dom moved it away from him. The fact that Eric spotted Dom a couple of inches in height and arm length put him at some disadvantage. Then again, like a pit bull against a great dane, he’d never much noticed or cared, not when they’d been at St. Joseph’s and certainly not now.
“My beach babe?”
“Delaney.”
Dom faked to his left and drove hard to the right, toward the basket, Eric scrambling to keep up. The ball swooshed through the net. “Yep.”
“So when are you seeing her?”
“At some point.”
“At some point?” Eric caught the rebound. “What does that mean, some point?”
“It means I’ll see her at some point that isn’t now,” Dom said shortly.
“You’re kidding me, right?” Eric stood looking at him, holding the ball.
“We only have half an hour,” Dom pointed out. “Waste any more time and I’m going to have to beat you that much quicker.”
Eric began a slow walk and dribble toward the foul line. “Sorry, I’m just catching up, here. Last week you were pining away for her.”
“I wasn’t pining,” Dom grumbled. “And it’s my ball, in case you’ve forgotten the rules.”
“Don’t change the subject.” Eric handed it over. “And I don’t even believe that you’re being Mr. Whatever over her now.” He looked closer and shook his head. “Definitely not Mr. Whatever. Kind of pissy, as a matter of fact. So what’s the deal? She blowing you off?”
“She’s not blowing me off.” She might try to, although it wasn’t going to happen. Dom attempted to move past again, but Eric darted in and slapped the ball off Do
m’s shin and out of his hands.
Eric smirked as Dom retrieved the ball. “See? It’s even affecting your game. So what’s the problem, Rico Suave? Did you call her?” Taking the ball from Dom, Eric bounced it slowly while he decided on a strategy.
Dom loomed before the basket. “I’ve talked with her.”
“But you haven’t seen her.”
“I’m working on it.”
Eric snorted. “When it comes to women, you’ve never had to work on anything in your life.” He tried to hustle by but Dom moved in hard, taking the ball away in middribble. “Hey, that’s a foul,” Eric complained.
“A foul? You’re calling fouls, now? Should I wait while you put on your dress?” Dom jogged easily to the foul line to start his possession. “I think I should end this and quickly—I’m kind of hungry.”
Eric smiled suddenly. “I just need something to get me motivated,” he said.
“God knows whatever you’ve been doing up ’til now hasn’t been helping.”
“I know…I take you at hoops, I get a crack at the babe. It’ll be the universe evening things out.”
“You get a crack at the babe?” Dom eyed him narrowly.
“Hey, fair’s fair. We’re down there, we run into this group of hot looking women and hey, guess what? You manage to latch on to the only one of them who’s single. So you had your chance, you’re obviously not her type. I get to step in.”
With a quick hop Dom shot for the basket but the ball circled the rim and came back out. “Sorry, I’m not done with her.”
“Hah!” Eric jostled for the rebound and lost out. “You’ve had sixteen years to close the deal. You’re done. It seems like the least you could do is give me a chance.”
Dom scowled. “Nope.” He drove to the basket, knocking Eric aside with his shoulder. “Oh, hey, sorry, buddy. I didn’t see you there. Must be because you’re so short.”
His shot bounced off the backboard. Eric scooped it out of the air, dribbled it between his legs and dashed around Dom to the basket. He grinned. “I might be small but I’m fast.”
Bad Behavior Page 9