by Hoff, Stacy
“Sure. No problem.” Hey, condemned prisoner! There’s a gun pointed at your head. It’s loaded and waiting to be fired, so chill out.
“You won’t even need to set foot in the Everglades if you don’t want to,” he added, pulling out a glossy black and white photo from a thin leather folder and thrusting it at her. “Here’s a picture of the guy who will be stepping head first into trouble. See, he’s built tough. A croc’s got nothing over him.”
Stephanie looked at the photo and tried to stop the heat from coursing up her face. The man, shown from the waist up, shirt off, was breathtakingly beautiful. And not just because of his eight-pack abs, either. His chiseled jaw and regal nose were softened by big, broad-set, light-colored eyes. His cropped blond hair did its best to bring about a look of severity with moderate success. There was no way of accurately gauging how tall he was, but she guessed he was way past six feet.
Staring at his photo, there was no stopping her wonderment. Or the tingling sensation invading the area right below her midriff. Hopefully, she could at least stop her pooling saliva before it turned into giant gobs of drool. For one thing, it would be embarrassing. For another, watery substances ate away at paper, no matter how glossy the finish. That would be a shame, because the man’s image should not be marred.
But besides being gorgeous, what kind of man was Colin Brandt? A tough guy? The sensitive, hero type? Or just plain wild? It looked like she was going to either find out—or find another job. And a much cheaper apartment. Not in Manhattan anymore. She didn’t need one of Magic 8 Ball’s predictions to tell her that. She already knew the writing in the magic window. Outlook not so good.
“Croc Man’s here already,” Mark said, enthusiasm bubbling. “Ready to meet him in ten minutes?”
Stephanie swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes. I’ll be ready.”
“I’m sure you will.”
The minute Mark left, Stephanie downed her Extra-Strength Excedrin and raced to the ladies’ room across the hallway, locking the door behind her. The metal discs on the bottom of her purse scraped against the granite counter top. Her black Coach bag’s woven handles were flipped over to one side so they wouldn’t fall into the sink.
The mirror reflected an ugly “V” shape between her eyebrows. Forehead mini-mountains formed by stress tectonics. It’d pose a challenging course for imaginary, miniature, face skiers. Maybe the magical power of Mark’s words could finally be used for something good, rescuing any skiers who tumbled off.
She tried to relax her facial expression, her posture, and her too-active imagination. Sliding the tortoise shell clip out of her hair, she shook her head until all her hair flew free. The bliss of having her hair loose and scalp relaxed was short lived. Reluctantly she grabbed a brush out of her purse, brushed vigorously, and clasped it all back into a chignon in less than thirty seconds. Shoving the brush back in her purse, she dug around for a lipstick, applying a warm shade of apricot. The lipstick gave color to her pale skin and complemented her hazel eyes. Looking in the large mirror, she gave herself the final once-over, straightened her black suit jacket, and smoothed out the matching pencil cut, knee length, skirt. Her silk top and four-inch spike heels, both blazing red, gave her conservative suit New York edginess. The suit looked good, she thought, shoving the lipstick back in the bag and zipping it closed with satisfaction. For what she’d paid for the outfit, it should.
What would Croc Guy be wearing? Stetson-type hat, like the one worn by Crocodile Dundee? Would he have a necklace of gator teeth strung up on leather? Or would he just show up in a loincloth? Stephanie shivered at the thought, feeling the vibrations travel all the way through her. Considering how hot Croc Guy’s headshot looked, maybe seeing him in a loincloth wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all.
And what would he think of her? That she was Queen Corporate? Uptight New York Bitch? Probably. But the reality was something different. She only took the producing job at Teleworld because she liked to create and tell stories. Liked using a little of her imagination. She did not like, however, steamrolling over people, wielding power, or playing the corporate game. Executives always bullied their way to get what they wanted. Take Mark—Exhibit A.
Unlike Mark, her ability to work as a member of a team was something the other execs liked in her. The more she moved up their ranks, and the more money and creative freedom they gave her, the harder it was for her to leave.
Still, if she had it her way, she’d be writing romance novels instead. But after a too long stretch of being the starving artist, it had been time to move out of mom’s apartment in Brooklyn and start paying her own bills. Almost thirty-one, she was too old to depend on her mother for support. And too wise to depend on a man. She would not be making that mistake. Again.
Besides, living in her very own apartment was gratifying. Upper West Side. One bedroom, with loft. Sure, the apartment was small, but so was Manhattan. The island managed to hold the best of everything in its twenty-four square miles. Her building, barely bigger than twenty-four feet across, managed to hold the best of everything as well. The Pre-War edifice offered both a doorman and a gym. The workout room was diminutive, yet efficient. The laundry room managed to hold four washers and dryers. With so many machines, an entire week’s worth of laundry could be done in one shot, if done on a Friday or Saturday night when all the machines were free. Easy enough to pull off. Best of all, however, was the building’s double bonus feature—only four blocks away from Central Park.
The address was more than a job perk, it was a lifestyle perk. Jogging three times a week through Central Park gave her the Zen moments she needed to survive this job in the first place. The park’s curvy asphalt roads helped her avoid too-high hills, as well as inner chaos. Jogging forced her mind and body to focus on endurance, and not on life’s annoyances.
Each time she jogged, she’d head east toward the man-made, mini-lake where tiny sailing ships raced from spring to fall. Once there, she’d shoot slightly north to the sculpture of Alice in Wonderland. She related to the larger-than-life statue of Alice on a mushroom—life was so crazy sometimes, she felt she was in Wonderland. With Mark as the Mad Hatter. A little yappy man, barking out crazy ideas. Unlike Alice’s statue though, she didn’t have children hanging around her. Maybe someday.
New York was full of wonderful spots. As nutty as her job was, she was grateful Teleworld paid her well enough to live here. Enough for her to live in one of Manhattan’s best neighborhoods. But they paid others even better. It wasn’t Stephanie who would be getting a million dollars for twelve days’ worth of work. That kind of money would go to Croc Guy. Speaking of which, it was time to meet him.
Flying down to the other end of the floor, she opened the door to find the room not as crowded as she’d thought. A stunning man, way over six feet tall, his rear resting lightly on the conference table, sprang up as she entered. Mark, the only other attendee, gave her an acknowledging nod. “Ah, Stephanie. I was just talking about you with Colin. We’re having everybody meet him, one-on-one, in five-minute intervals. You’re up first. I’ll be back in a few. Colin, if a wild panther somehow breaks in here while I’m gone, you’ll protect Ms. Lang, won’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I promise she’ll be safe with me,” Colin said, deadpan, raising his right hand up, Boy Scout style. Colin’s mock-solemn expression was betrayed by lips pressed into a quirky smile.
Mark laughed and closed the door behind him.
Their banter was funny. But laughter wasn’t the immediate urge she was fighting. Too bad, because laughter would have been way easier to suppress than the heat shooting through her. Somehow, Colin became even more stunning when he smiled like that. It set his blue eyes shining like the stained glass of a sanctuary, illuminated by afternoon sun.
As stunning as his black-and-white headshot had been, it truly did not do the real man justice. Maybe not having a preview
as to the full effect was a good thing—at least she hadn’t entered the room as a drooling idiot. She could only hope she didn’t become one. Technicolor, three-dimensional Colin extended his hand out to her. Taking it, his warm fingers wrapped around hers. Feeling tingly, she tried not to blush. Quickly, she pulled her hand away.
“Mark’s warning was unnecessary, Ms. Lang.” He grinned. “I already know all about Midtown Manhattan’s recent rash of panther attacks. Pit Bull attacks are so passé.”
Unable to stop herself, she burst out laughing. “Call me Stephanie. It’s good to meet you, Colin. I wasn’t sure what to expect.”
“Hmmm, let me guess, a guy with no clothes and an alligator necklace?”
Kind of, yeah. “Uh, no, of course not. But I did wonder about you. Your training, for instance. How on earth did you achieve all of your success? Selected for Special Ops? Karate champion? Very impressive. Sounds like you’re the real deal.”
“I’m sure you achieved your fancy TV job the same way. Hard work. Persistence. You just prefer the corporate jungle while I prefer an actual jungle.”
She laughed hard enough a snort escaped her nose. The sound was loud and garish. Her embarrassment could only get worse if a blush bloomed big red roses on her cheeks. A silent prayer, recited in haste, hopefully provided an effective antidote. Snorting was not ladylike. Nor polite. Nor professional. She couldn’t help her amusement, though. This guy was actually funny. She sucked in her lips and locked her jaw in an attempt to calm down and shut up.
Colin seemed way ahead of her, control-wise. He hadn’t laughed along with her. Instead, his gaze bore right into her. “Deep down, we’re probably just the same, you and I,” he said smoothly.
Stephanie tried hard not to gulp. The intensity he radiated was powerful. Strangely, she suffered an inverse effect. Her knees felt as if they were going to buckle, collapse under the pressure of his gaze. If the man’s eyes were this powerful, she could just imagine what his hands could do. Keep it together, Steph! You need to answer him. “Yes, maybe,” she finally said, relieved to be interrupted by Mark’s reappearance. “Looks like our time is up. Nice meeting you, Colin. I’ll be seeing you soon, I’m sure.”
“You’ll be seeing him very soon,” Mark chimed in. “I told Colin you’d be nice enough to take him out to dinner tonight.”
“Don’t you think you should ask me first?” she demanded, trying not to let her irritation show, but failing miserably.
“No,” Mark shot back.
“I promise I’ll be good company.” Colin laughed. He cleared his throat and spoke in an exaggerated Southern drawl. “I polished up on my table manners for this big ’ol city. I don’t even wipe my face with my shirt no mo’.”
It was hard to be mad when Colin was trying so hard to make her laugh. Her lips and nostrils quivered, desperately trying to hold back snort-filled laughter. Determined to act professionally, she took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m happy to be your dinner date. And I trust your table manners. My hesitation was that I’ll need to re-arrange some plans tonight, but it’s no big deal. I’ll have my assistant, Ana, set us up with reservations somewhere.”
Mark puffed out his chest in victory, looking like a male pigeon in mating season. “Anywhere you want,” he cooed. “So pick someplace fancy and submit the bill to Accounts Payable for reimbursement.”
“Trust me, I’m going to,” she responded with a tight smile. “Colin, you and I are going to eat well tonight. Extra special, because soon you’ll be dining only on gator eggs from what I hear.” She turned around to leave, but not before catching an amused wink from Colin. Closing the door behind her, she quickly hustled back to her office.
Chapter 2
Colin waited alone in the conference room for his next five-minute meeting, debating the cup of coffee they’d left for him. He observed the oversized green “Teleworld” mug a few more seconds before finally deciding to leave it alone. Steam didn’t rise out of it. Not a good sign. The network hopefully offered better contracts than they did coffee. Otherwise, he’d be tempted to decline both.
But not too tempted. He really needed the money. It was hard to negotiate properly when so much was riding on this deal. The “hard-line guy” impersonation he’d be giving Teleworld was the best he could muster. Good thing he had years of practice with bluffing in far more desperate situations. If he could play “chicken” when his very life was at stake, he could certainly bluff when only his financial health was in limbo. Less stress. Not by much though.
Hopefully he’d find out more today about his Evergladiator prospects. Four hours, just this morning alone, of meet-and-greets. The endless waiting, then chatting-it-up, then waiting again, was making him cranky. One good thing about the show, assuming he signed on, was twelve days of solitude. Guaranteed. He was used to working alone and liked it that way.
In the meantime, there was nothing to do but wait. He rested his butt back on the conference table and forced himself to relax. He let his thoughts drift to the brightest point of this experience all morning. Stephanie. Stephanie Lang. He had flirted with her.
He could only hope he’d been good at it. If he were any rustier at picking up women, he’d be one of the ancient tractors on his parents’ farm. Yet, she seemed to like him. Despite her best efforts to hold back her laughter, she obviously found his jokes funny. A sense of humor was a major plus in a woman.
He even liked the sound of her laugh, though it clearly embarrassed her. Given her blush after she snorted, she must have felt she was acting unladylike, or unprofessional. None of that mattered. So long as the laughter was heart felt and straight from the belly, it was fine by him. He let out an unconscious grin. At least her laughter was more polite than the guys in the military he knew. He thought of his friend Michael Zameldi. When Mike laughed too hard, he farted.
And once, his friend Dan Steen laughed so hard he actually peed on himself. Of course, Dan had been real drunk at the time.
Hell, they’d all been real drunk the night Dan wet himself. They’d been having a well-earned celebration after a very good day on the job. They had successfully taken out a terrorist, simultaneously releasing five female hostages. The youngest hostage was only five, a dark-eyed, olive-skinned little girl who looked so scared, even after being freed, it was piteous. That rescue mission had been one of his earliest, and he’d never forget it. And getting drunk almost made him forget what might have happened to those women if they’d failed. Almost.
He still felt the after-effects—he still felt protective of women. The pressure he felt to protect them was just as great as the pressure he felt to protect his family’s history, finances, and togetherness. At times his responsibility was overwhelming—a leviathan threatening to swallow him whole. It made him almost desperate to make a deal with Teleworld. Make a deal with a modern devil whose logo sat emblazed on the oversized green coffee mug in front of him.
If Teleworld offered him a fair shot at winning the million-dollar prize, he’d finally be able to secure his family’s farm and home. He’d find out soon enough. Picking up the green mug, he braced himself for his next five-minute meeting. Maybe caffeine would rev him up enough to endure more endless talking. Grimacing, he took a sip of the cold coffee and swallowed. Survival 101.
“Hi, I’ll be right with you,” some suit said, popping open the door and then popping back out just as fast. It looked like his survival skills needed to include the ability to patiently wait for hours on end. Damn. So much for being a man of action.
Colin waited, thinking again of the five-year-old he’d rescued. Upon the girl’s release, she’d immediately run home. He understood how she felt. The little girl had obviously known instinctively what he’d learned throughout the years, that one’s family gave sanity, serenity and strength during times of adversity. After experiencing the horrors of terrorist activities, he wasn’t embarr
assed to admit he was ready to run home, too. Maybe that’s why he’d always sent all his extra money to his family—to make sure there was a home for him to run back to. And why he was willing to wait for the next meeting.
Stephanie pressed the intercom at her desk. “Ana, can you come in here a minute, please?”
Twenty-something Ana hustled in, floor-length bohemian dress swishing over Indian-style, jeweled sandals. Her deep brown shoulder-length hair fanned out behind her from the rapid speed.
“Thanks, Ana. Can you make dinner reservations tonight? For two. Somewhere overly impressive and way overpriced.”
Ana’s deep brown eyes sparkled upon hearing the words. Then a sly smile accompanied an arched, ultra-waxed eyebrow.
While long, flowing, clothes were forever “in” to Ana, long, flowing eyebrows were definitely not. A good thing, considering Teleworld’s grooming standards for employees. But waxing was as far as Ana was willing to conform to Manhattan’s uber sense of style. While Stephanie shopped DKNY and Tahari, Ana was all about shopping at consignment stores in Greenwich Village. Ana had a knack for straddling the line between “individualistic” and Teleworld’s definition of “unacceptable.” As far as Stephanie was concerned, Ana’s style was “unpretentious,” which exactly summed up Ana’s nature.
Fortunately, Ana’s work product, as well as her attitude, was so exemplary Mark left her and her “individualistic” style alone. That was good, because if Mark fired her, Stephanie would kill him. Then she could produce a reality TV show all about her own criminal trial. And a sequel about life in prison. No, on second thought, that’d be helping Teleworld a little too much.