by Sandra Brown
His hands had cupped her jaw, tilting her head back for a deeper kiss, which had robbed her of conscience and scruples. His tongue left no part of her mouth intact but touched all of it, penetrating even what had until then been virgin territory.
One hand caressed her. With his thumb on one side, and his fingers on the other, he defined the underside of her breast. Lifting it slightly, he found the full nipple worthy of his attention. When his thumb began to slide along it, Megan's head fell back, and a sigh of ecstasy echoed in the night.
As his lips greedily partook of her throat, that talented thumb found the peaking desire of her breast and circled it mesmerizingly.
“Lord, you're sweet. So sweet. I knew you would be. Give me your mouth again.”
Thinking about it now, Megan's fingers clenched in self-loathing as she remembered how docilely she'd offered her mouth for his carnal pleasure. And it hadn't been only his mouth that had kissed her. His body had moved along hers in one tantalizing kiss. His hard chest had pressed against her breasts. His thighs had brushed, lingered, separated, brushed again, stayed. His hand had opened wide on the small of her back and smoothed downward to cradle her hips. Holding her that way, he'd rubbed the rigid flesh in the front of his trousers against her with the same provocative motion of his tongue inside her mouth. Some demonic element in her soul had enticed her to answer with a lifting motion of her own.
“Megan, Megan,” he had whispered. “You don't love James, when you can kiss me like this.”
His words were like an icy deluge on her fired spirit. She swatted at the hand caressing her breast and was ashamed at feeling bereft at its loss. At the same time the heel of her other hand pushed against his chest until he stumbled backward.
“You slimy … Oh, to think I … How could you do this to your friend? How could I … You're disgusting.”
Whirling away in a cloud of sea-green chiffon, she had wiped his kisses off her mouth with the back of her hand and run out into the darkness.
Megan sat up now, feeling all the hatred for the man she had felt that night. He had no sense of propriety, shame, or moral conscience. Selfishly he went after whatever he wanted. Not that he'd wanted her, except maybe for a weekend fling. But he'd proved what he'd set out to, that he could make James Lambert's fiancée melt beneath his practiced kisses and caresses.
“What did it avail you, Mr. Bennett?” she asked now into the empty office. “I despised you then. I despise you now, and with more cause.”
The buzzer on her intercom sounded again. Hauling herself up, suddenly exhausted and lethargic beyond comprehension, she crossed the room to answer it.
“Sorry to bother you, but Mr. Atherton called,” Arlene informed her. “As soon as you return from lunch, he wants to see you. He said it was important.”
“I'll be there,” Megan replied listlessly.
Checking her watch, she saw that she had over an hour to prepare herself for the meeting with the station's general manager. She had a fairly good idea that the important matter he needed to see her about was Joshua Bennett.
Two
Megan's footsteps were silent on the lush hallway carpet. Here there were no constantly ringing telephones, scurrying reporters, clacking typewriters, and squawking police radios, as in the newsroom. Downstairs, engineers, who kept the television station on the air, worked in dim rooms full of whirring computers and lighted dials. Directors and producers used cubicles near the cavernous studios that were cluttered with scripts, storyboards, and timetables.
But this floor, which housed the executive offices of WONE, could have been found in any major corporation building in the country. This quiet hallway didn't even bear resemblance to the one in which Megan and her salespeople were pigeonholed. Her office was nicer than most of the others, because she had decorated it herself, at her own expense, but it wasn't luxurious like the one she now entered through double oak doors.
“Hi,” she greeted Mr. Atherton's secretary. “Is he back from lunch?”
“Back and waiting for you.” The woman smiled. “Go on in.”
Pretending a confidence she didn't feel, Megan crossed the outer office and entered the sanctum where the station manager made all the major decisions regarding the television station.
“Come in, Megan,” he said, making half an effort to stand as she took the deep, plush chair on the other side of his enormous desk. “Coffee?”
“No, thank you, Doug. I just had my daily carton of yogurt for lunch. I'd better let it settle.”
Doug Atherton, balding and paunchy, shuddered. “God, if I ate that stuff, it would never settle.” The most attractive thing about the middle-aged man was his melodious Southern drawl. Even when he was reading the riot act to an unfortunate employee, Doug's voice sounded soothing. He studied his thumbnail as he asked, “How are things in local sales this week?”
“We're above budget, I'm glad to report. I had to call Barnes in on the carpet this morning and give him a pep talk. I think—hope—he'll shape up.”
“You'd better have everyone fired up. I got word that a group of bigwigs from the parent company is coming down in a few weeks. I'm sure they'll want to increase your budget.”
“What else is new?” she asked dryly.
Doug nodded absently. “I'm sure you won't disappoint us. And you certainly won't want to do anything between now and their visit that could cost us an account.” He cleared his throat. “Megan, Josh Bennett came to see me this morning.”
The muscles of her stomach tightened, but she kept her expression impassive. “And?”
“And,” he said, drawing out the word, “he wants you personally to handle this Seascape account.”
“So he told me.” She shifted in her seat and rested her arms on the chair in a vain attempt to appear calm. “I don't see the need of that. I have every confidence in Jo Hampson.”
“Yes, but the client doesn't,” Doug replied. His muddy eyes stabbed into her for a moment before his expression relaxed into one of tolerance. “I know why you have an aversion to him, Megan.”
She laughed shortly. “Aversion is too soft a word, Doug. I hate him. He worked my husband to death. How else should I feel about him?”
“I knew James, and I don't think he needed a slave driver. That young man had more energy than anyone I've ever met. An excessive amount. As a matter of fact, he did everything in excess.” He held both palms out when she began to object. “Wait. I'm not here to speak disrespectfully of him. It's just that I think you've blinded yourself to the facts, or at least colored them in your mind.”
“Are you saying that I imagined all the late hours James worked, the endless cocktail parties, deadlines, querulous clients?” Suddenly the air in the room was stifling, the chair confining, and she pushed out of it. Circling it, she braced her hands on its padded back as she said, “I watched my husband digging his own grave because that man wouldn't let up on him. Don't ask me to feel benevolent toward Josh Bennett.”
“Would it be impossible for you to work with him on this account?”
“Absolutely. In my opinion he's never done anything meritorious. He's an opportunist, a manipulator, a taker.”
Doug sighed and ran a weary hand over his fleshy features. “Sit down, Megan.” When she hesitated, he raised imperious eyes to her. “Sit down.”
Realizing that his words were more than a request, she resumed her previous seat. Instinctively, and for a reason she couldn't name, her heart began to pound with misgiving. She had a strong premonition that she didn't want to hear what Doug was about to say.
“Megan, there's something you should know, something I probably should have told you a long time ago. Josh Bennett was responsible for your being hired at WONE.”
Her instinct to be afraid had been well founded, but she couldn't have anticipated the devastating impact of Doug's words. She stared at him in stunned dismay, hoping desperately that she hadn't heard him right. His eyes looked almost pained. His expression was almost compassio
nate. He wasn't lying.
She tried to record and digest what he'd just told her, but she couldn't. It was unthinkable. That she owed the man she hated most in the world her job, her entire life as it was today, was beyond belief.
“That's impossible,” she said. “I applied for a job here on a whim.”
“Even so.”
Gaining strength, her reason gradually returning, she thought back to the days following James's death, three years ago. “I went back to the radio station, but they didn't need anyone. Then I applied here. How could Bennett have known?”
Atherton's shoulders lifted and fell in an eloquent shrug. “Grapevine. You know what it's like around here. Someone blows his nose and everyone knows about it. If you'll recall, when you applied we told you there was nothing available. There wasn't.”
“You called me back a week later and told me you'd reconsidered my application.”
“Yes, after having been paid a visit by Bennett. He was adamant, Megan. He threatened to advise all of his clients already advertising on this station to spend their money elsewhere if we didn't hire you for our sales force. He personally reviewed the account list we gave you to make sure you were being assigned a fair share of the better ones.”
“My God,” she whispered, covering her face with her hands.
Atherton barked a short laugh. “Bennett wields just about that much power. I wanted to tell him to go to hell, but he could make good his threats and cost us a fortune in lost advertising. Oh, yes, once I had my little chat with Bennett, I agreed to hire you in a minute.”
He leaned forward and placed his folded hands on the desk. “But, Megan, I wasn't disappointed. I told Mr. Bennett that if you couldn't cut it, you'd be out in six months. He agreed to those terms. You've proven yourself, just as he assured me you would.”
Megan disregarded the compliment. “He didn't even know anything about me!” she almost screamed. “He still doesn't. When James was in his employ, I had as little to do with him as possible.”
Atherton shrugged again. “He made it his business to know as much as he could about you. And everything he claimed to know was accurate.”
Springing to her feet again, she paced the room restlessly. She felt like a caged beast with the walls closing in. Another thought struck her, and she turned toward her supervisor. “When the job for local sales manager became available, did he have anything to do with my getting the promotion!” Her threatening gaze forbade him to lie to her.
He shook his head. “No. Management had already decided you were the one to take over. Your sales record was outstanding, and you had the necessary leadership qualities. You'd always been able to handle even the most difficult clients.”
“Thank—”
“But,” he cut in, “Bennett called me to suggest strongly that you be appointed to the vacated position. I was glad I could tell him we had already reached that decision.”
“He knew even before I did,” she said in a voice that was deadly quiet.
Atherton paused before cautiously concurring. “Yes.”
“Damn!” She pounded the arms of the chair and slumped back into the deep cushions, overcome by dejection. Atherton allowed her a few moments of introspection. Her thoughts were so tumultuous that she wasn't even aware of him until he cleared his throat softly.
“In light of what I've told you, do you think you'd reconsider Mr. Bennett's request that you handle the Seascape account?”
Her chin rose defiantly. “What is so all-fired important about that account? He doesn't need it. He's mentioned in the newspaper every day for having given money to this charity or another, attending this benefit or another. Why should he care so much about this one account?”
“Because he's a professional,” Atherton shot back. “He doesn't let personal feelings stand in the way of sound business conduct.”
“And I suppose you think I do,” she said heatedly.
“Yes, I do!” he shouted. “Where he's concerned, yes. For the first time I'm disappointed in you. You're not approaching this in a professional manner.”
That hurt. Because it was the truth, it hurt all the more. She tried to stare down Atherton and couldn't. When she lowered her eyes, he said briskly, “Can I tell him that you've consented to having dinner with him and Bishop tonight? Ms. Hampson has been asked to go too.”
Dinner. With him. With Josh Bennett. She had no choice, and she knew it. Without laying it on the line, Atherton, as her superior, was telling her she must put her personal feelings aside for the sake of her career.
She stood up with straight shoulders and a tense rigidity to her mouth. “Very well.”
“Good,” Atherton said curtly, rummaging for something on his desk. “Here, he left this for you.” He extended to her a cream-colored business card with the hateful name embossed on it. “I'll expect a report tomorrow morning.”
“You'll have it.”
When she reached the door, he stopped her. “Megan, this account wouldn't make or break Bennett. He's already proven himself. Maintaining the reputation of his company as the best is what motivates him. To him it's all a game, and money is only the means with which to keep score. But the Seascape commercials will mean a tremendous amount of money to us. I know you'll do a good job of keeping everyone happy.”
“That's right. I will,” she said archly, and proudly exited the office.
The personal, singular J at the end of the terse message galled her the most. Lying in bed, trying to relax after battling Atlanta's afternoon rush-hour traffic, she read the writing on the back of the business card for the hundredth time. “A car will pick you up at seven-thirty. J.”
“Well, I might not want one of your damn cars to pick me up at seven-thirty, Mr. Bennett,” she said aloud. But the car would arrive on time, and she knew she'd be ready. Like it or not, she had been coerced into cooperating with Josh.
After her meeting with Doug Atherton, she had spent the rest of the afternoon trying to sort out what he had divulged. She had never entertained a thought that Josh could have manipulated her life. Why had he gone to all that trouble on her behalf? Was he only trying to relieve his conscience over James's untimely death, to absolve himself of blame? That must be it. But to think she owed her success to him …
No! she decided, jumping from the bed and entering the bathroom for a quick shower. He might have been responsible for getting her the job in the first place, but she'd made a success of it on her own. He'd had nothing to do with that. He hadn't been there to advise her on business decisions.
Still, how was she going to face him, knowing that she owed him so much? Were it not for him and the clout he wielded, she could be struggling to live on James's inadequate insurance and the meager salary she would have earned at a small, insignificant radio station. Instead she was sales manager of a reputable television station in one of the country's major television markets. Few women could boast that. Few men could.
She would face him with pride and cool disdain, she decided as she stepped into the dress she'd selected for the evening. She was going first class, just as she knew Josh would. The dress was starkly simple. Her petite figure would have been smothered by ruffles, big sleeves, or full skirts. She'd chosen all of her clothes with those limitations in mind.
Now, eyeing herself in the mirror, she knew that this dress was one of her best. The silk was a shade too soft to be pure white. The collar dipped down to a deep V that was connected to the wide self-belt at her waist by a trail of tiny rhinestone buttons. The hem of the trim skirt brushed her legs just below the knee. Her shapely calves were shown off by high-heeled, strappy sandals.
A curling iron had restored the waves falling freely on either side of her face. She placed small diamond studs in her ears and was ready. Since the dress was sleeveless, she selected a lacy shawl, and a satin evening bag. No sooner had she misted herself with a flowery perfume than her doorbell rang.
A uniformed chauffeur was standing on the threshold. “Mrs. Lamb
ert?”
“Yes.”
She stepped out, closed and locked the door behind her, and let the stately man escort her to the sleek black limousine. As soon as he'd been assured of her comfort in the posh backseat, he concentrated on his driving, leaving Megan to her own thoughts. Her dread of the coming hours so consumed her thoughts that she was surprised when the limousine cruised to a stop under the awning of one of Atlanta's finest restaurants.
When the chauffeur opened her door, the first person she saw was Jo Hampson, who waved gaily and rushed over to her. “Hi. I was glad to hear you were coming tonight. I was afraid either Mr. Bishop or Mr. Bennett would ask me something I couldn't answer.”
“You could have handled it,” Megan assured her.
“Thanks for the compliment, but just the same, I'm glad to have you here, boss.”
They laughed easily together as the doorman ushered them inside. Dressed in pink taffeta, her blond hair a tumble of curls and her face wreathed in a guileless smile, Jo Hampson looked like a frothy strawberry confection. Next to her, Megan felt elegant and sophisticated.
Josh Bennett had a penchant for elegance, as was obvious when he came forward to greet them. He spoke a friendly greeting to Jo, but his eyes burned into Megan's as he curled his fingers around her elbow.
“I'm glad you could join us on such short notice, Megan.”
She ground her teeth in an effort not to remind him she'd had no choice in the matter. Instead she replied with cool politeness, “Thank you for the invitation.”
He seemed amused by her slightly sarcastic words. His finely molded lips tilted at one corner. “Mr. Bishop is already here. This way.” He led them to a circular, tufted vinyl booth in a corner of the dimly lit bar.
A slender, middle-aged man with mussed gray hair and thick eyeglasses stood up. “Hello, Mr. Bishop,” Jo said.
“Miss Hampson, I've asked you to call me Terry,” he said, taking her hand and shaking it.