by Sandra Brown
“You look beautiful in Christmas green, Megan,” he had said. Instead of speaking over the music, he spoke under it, intimately.
“Thank you,” she murmured, wishing he had changed colognes since the night before her wedding. The fragrance filling her head as he held her within the circle of his deceptively loose arms was far too potent a reminder of how it felt to be pressed firmly against that virile physique.
He had returned her to James the moment the dance ended. As he wished her a Merry Christmas, he kissed her on the cheek. It was a platonic kiss that even the stodgiest spinster couldn't object to. Everyone had laughed, because they were standing under a sprig of mistletoe. But the touch of his warm lips against her skin had robbed Megan of laughter. For some insane reason she had wanted to weep.
And she had. Late that night, lying beside a snoring James, who had celebrated a little too much, she had cried. When they had arrived home, she had seduced him into making love to her. Her uncharacteristic aggression had been desperate and brazen, to the delight of her tipsy husband. Afterward, silently, she had wept bitter tears of remorse. Their lovemaking had never given her the breathless rush of joy, the loss of equilibrium, that Josh's kisses had.
James's embraces left her with a mildly pleasant glow. Josh's sent splinters of feeling missiling through her mind and body, setting off tiny flames that combined into an inferno that wouldn't burn itself out.
Josh had confessed that he'd wanted her in spite of the fact that she was his friend's wife. If she were honest with herself, she'd have to admit that she'd dallied with thoughts of him too. She had loved James, had grieved over his premature death, and missed him still. But always Josh Bennett had stood between them.
There had never been, nor would there ever be, a place for him in her life.
Grimly Megan carried the vase of roses to the credenza under the window. She couldn't ignore them altogether, but she could put them in a less conspicuous place, where she wouldn't have to look at them constantly and thus think about their sender.
The morning passed quickly. Two of her salespeople came in to briefly discuss the peculiarities of specific accounts. Then an advertiser called, irate because, during the evening newscast, his commercial had run for a good ten seconds without audio.
Megan called the production chief, who sheepishly confirmed it. “I'll have to arrange for a make-good, Harry. This is the third one in a month. Don't you realize that every time I have to make good a spot, it costs us a few thousand dollars? Especially if the commercial airs during a newscast.”
“Hell, yes, I realize it,” he grumbled. “I told you I'm training a new director.”
“That's your problem, but I don't think the eleven o'clock news is a good training ground.” His muttered curse didn't intimidate her in the least “Get your act together, Harry.”
“It's not fair, you know. You look like an angel, but you've got a heart of stone.”
“No one said life was fair.” she clicked off the line, only to notice that another call was coming through. Pressing down the blinking lighted button, she said, “What now, Arlene?”
“This isn't Arlene.”
For the few hours her mind had been wrapped up in her work, she'd almost forgotten him. Almost. Hearing his voice now, she glanced involuntarily toward the roses. With the sunlight shining on them, the delicate petals were translucent. She couldn't neglect to acknowledge that she'd received them.
“Hello, Josh.”
“Hi. How's your day going?”
“Typically. I've been putting out brush fires.” His deep chuckle stroked her ear and sent a shiver tiptoeing down her spine. “Thank you for the roses.”
“You're welcome.”
“I'll return the vase to you as soon—”
“It's yours,” he said sharply.
“But—”
“We're reviewing the Seascape commercials this afternoon,” he interrupted brusquely. “Terry will be here. He asked that you come over. Ms. Hampson is tied up with another client. He wants your advice on when to air them, etc.”
Megan gnawed her bottom lip. “You can advise him on that as well as I can, Josh.”
“Yes, but he wants you.”
“Then what's he paying you for?” she asked nastily. If it was necessary for her to view the commercials, she would do it gladly, but she had a notion that her being there to voice an opinion was Josh's idea, not Terry's. If Jo Hampson weren't available this afternoon, the preview could be set for another time.
“Do you have an appointment after four o'clock?”
“Yes,” she said, without consulting her calendar.
“Four-thirty?” Josh asked tightly. His tone all but said he knew she was lying.
What was the use? She'd have to go. She didn't want another session with Atherton in which she would feel like she'd been tattled on. “Where?” she asked with a weary sigh.
“Here. Ask the receptionist to direct you to the viewing room. As I recall, you've never been here before.”
“I wouldn't be coming today if I could help it.”
“Four-thirty, Mrs. Lambert,” he said briskly, and hung up, his frustration all too apparent.
It couldn't have exceeded hers.
At least she looked coolly professional and not like a flutter-hearted teenager, which was how she felt as she rode up the elevator to the Bennett Agency's suite of offices on the top three floors of the high-rise office building.
Her dress was a crisp linen navy blue with smart brass military buttons down the front and on the patch pockets over each breast. She wore it with navy-and-white spectator pumps. At the time she'd bought the dress, she lamented that she couldn't wear the red blazer that went with it—it clashed with her hair—so she'd settled for one in canary yellow. It might have been second choice, but the combination with her own unique coloring was stunning.
She'd been told how luxurious the offices of the Bennett Agency were, but she wasn't quite prepared for the sight that greeted her when the stainless-steel doors of the elevator whooshed open.
The carpet was dark hunter green and stretched across the expanse to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Couches and easy chairs covered with peach, ivory, or powder-blue damask were scattered strategically throughout the enormous reception area.
“Hello, Ms. Lambert,” the receptionist said cordially the moment Megan stepped onto the carpet, which sank a full inch beneath her shoe. “Mr. Bennett and Mr. Bishop are waiting for you. This way, please.”
Megan followed her across the room, which was permeated by soft, lilting music coming from invisible speakers. The receptionist, who had the grace, figure, and impeccable grooming of a high-fashion model, opened tall double doors and stood aside to allow Megan to pass through them. “Thank you,” she said before the woman closed the doors quietly behind her.
She hadn't been led to a projection room, but to Josh's office. His desk was gigantic, leather topped, and littered with papers. Storyboards, sketches, scripts, diagrams, magazines, and glossy photographs were strewn across its surface. So his executive image wasn't all for show. He did actually work.
“Megan.” She turned, startled by his voice. Why did it always sound like a caress? “Forgive us for being so casual, but it's close to quittin’ time.”
He was coming toward her from a long, deep leather sofa upholstered in chamois-colored kid. He had taken off his suit jacket, as had Terry Bishop, who also stood up to greet her. Josh took her elbow casually and escorted her toward the intimate arrangement of comfortable furniture that might have been found in someone's den.
“Hi, Megan.”
“Hello, Terry,” she said, extending her hand for him to shake. “It's good to see you again.”
“Likewise. When Josh suggested that he invite you to come view the commercials, I thought it was a terrific idea. As I told you last night, I trust your judgment on when to air them—all that stuff I know nothing about.”
She cast an accusing glance at Josh, whose gold
en eyes were dancing with unconcealed mischief. What did he care if he'd been caught in a he? He'd gotten exactly what he wanted, as always. “We were having a glass of Perrier. Would you like one?” Josh offered.
“No, thank you.”
“Juice, coffee, a mixed drink?”
“No,” she said with more asperity than necessary. “Thank you,” she added for Terry Bishop's benefit.
“Then, let's go into the projection room,” Josh said, not in the least perturbed by her hostility.
They made their way through a labyrinth of hallways. Unlike the serenity of the reception area, the corridors of the office complex were like a honeycomb, riddled with chambers of activity and rushing workers.
The projection room contained eight tiered rows of theatre seats. The back wall had a tiny square through which the filmed commercials would be projected onto the large white screen at the front of the room.
“These films will be dubbed onto video-tape cartridges for the television stations’ use,” Josh said by way of explanation. Seeing her stony expression, he added, “But of course you know that.”
“Of course.”
Instead of being embarrassed, Josh only grinned and chucked her under the chin. Terry, whose back was turned to take his seat, didn't see the playfully affectionate gesture or the way Megan dodged it.
After a brief conference with the projectionist, Josh sat down in the row behind the one where Megan and Terry sat side by side. She was relieved that Josh hadn't chosen to sit next to her, but her relief was short-lived. As soon as the first commercial began to run, he moved to the edge of his seat and leaned forward to whisper comments.
His forearms were crossed on the backs of their seats. Ostensibly his points were made for the benefit of them both, but his lips were often arousingly close to Megan's ear, her cheek, her neck. His nearness sent tremors throughout her body.
“Well, what do you think?” Terry asked her anxiously when the first sixty-second commercial had run.
He peered at her through thick eyeglasses that magnified his eyes, but she wasn't nearly as aware of them as she was of Josh's amber eyes, capped by a scarred eyebrow, which watched her too closely.
Was Josh looking at her mouth? Nervously, she wet her lips with a darting tongue, then hoped to heaven he didn't think she'd done it to entice him. Terry was waiting for her reply. What had he asked her? “The commercial was beautifully done. The production house you hired did a super job. If all the commercials are this good, within a week of their airing Seascape will be booked up for the year.”
Obviously relieved, Terry returned his myopic eyes to the screen, where a couple was walking hand in hand along a deserted beach. They were silhouetted darkly against a vibrant sunrise. Once she looked back at the screen, Megan did a double take. A moment later, she heard Josh's amused drawl.
“No, they're not naked, though they look it, the way they were photographed. We planned it that way, but almost overshot our mark. This commercial borders on being too erotic.”
“I hope no one shows up at Seascape expecting a nude beach. We offer a lot of amenities, but that isn't one of them,” Terry said, laughing.
Megan couldn't voice a reply. Her eyes were riveted on the man and woman, who were now seen in a close-up silhouetted kiss. Their lips melted together, their bodies gravitating toward each other, until two previously distinct forms became one unbroken shadow. Her heart pounding, Megan realized that the features she projected onto the models were those of herself and—
“I'm sure that, if a couple was so inclined, a private stretch of beach where no rules applied could be found.” Josh spoke the words secretly into her ear and she closed her eyes to ward off a wave of dizziness.
She had to get out of here. The darkness was too absolute. The curtained walls of the room made her feel claustrophobic. The presence of the man behind her wreaked havoc on her emotional stability.
But there was no escaping. Terry Bishop was already directing another anxiety-ridden question to her about the commercials. How many were there? Five? A dozen? Megan could only hope that they would soon be finished.
They had seen only about half of the commercials when the receptionist stepped discreetly into the darkened room. “Mr. Bishop? I hate to disturb you, but you have an important call. I've put it through on the telephone in the office across the hallway.”
Terry sighed, and stood up. “Thank you,” he said to the retreating woman. Megan stood up as well, grateful that she'd been rescued, but it wasn't to be. “No, no, please, Mrs. Lambert. Watch the rest of them. I'll be back as soon as I can.”
He inched out of the row of seats and opened the door only wide enough to slip out. The wedge of light decreased with the closing door, until the room was once again plunged into darkness. Megan sat frozen in her chair, afraid to move, afraid to breathe.
In the velvet darkness that surrounded them, she felt Josh move. His arms came around to enclose her. His hands linked across her breasts. “If you had as rough a night as I did, you have no right to look as gorgeous as you do.”
When his breath ghosted over her ear that way, she was powerless to move away from it. “I…I slept very well.”
He caught her lobe in his teeth and worried it tenderly. “You really should do something about this habit you have of lying, Megan. Lord, you taste good.” He was taking small bites from the fragile skin behind her ear.
“Josh…” What should have sounded like an admonishment came out like an entreaty. What power did he have over her, that he could reduce her to a quivering heap of raw nerves? With him she lost touch with the woman she was to everyone else. Her professionalism flew…
Professionalism. Professionalism.
Her mind focused on that word and repeated it like a catechism until it registered. How dare he insult her as a professional by using her as a sexual toy? Reaching up, she threw off his hands from around her neck and vaulted out of the seat. The animated picture showed up watery and diffused on her torso, and a huge shadow of her was cast on the screen.
“You really are a loathsome bastard. Joshua Bennett. How many professional women do you lure into your den under the auspices of business and try to seduce? Well, count me off. I'm above playing footsie with a client.”
She picked up her purse from the next seat and made to move out of the aisle, but Josh threw one long leg over the back of her seat and, with an agility that impressed her, jumped over it. He blocked her exit in the narrow aisle.
“This has nothing to do with professionalism, and you damn well know it. I'm not fooled by that excuse, and I don't think you are either. What's between us—”
“There's nothing between us except antipathy and a debt I didn't even know I owed.”
“What the hell are you talking about? What debt?”
“You got me my job!” she shouted.
She could tell by his startled expression that he hadn't expected that. “Who told you?” he asked warily.
“Doug Atherton, just yesterday. When I expressed my reluctance to become involved with the Seascape account, he strongly urged that I reconsider. I was then informed of your power play to land me my job.”
The expletive that hissed through his angry lips normally would have shocked her, but rage made her immune to such trivialities.
“I never wanted you to know about that.”
Her chin jutted out belligerently. “Well, now I do. And I don't know who's been disgraced the most, you for so shamelessly throwing your weight around, or me for unwittingly letting you get away with it. Did you think getting me a job would absolve you from guilt for my husband's death?”
His fingers bit into the tender flesh of her upper arms as he gripped them hard. “I've already told you, James did nothing here that he didn't want to do. As for getting you a job, yes, I wanted to help you out. I would have wanted to help out the widow of any of my employees.”
“I didn't want your help! I didn't need it.” She shook her head furiously.
“You're the last person on earth I would choose to be indebted to.”
“You're not indebted to me, damn it,” he said through clenched teeth. “I only got you there. You did the rest yourself. I knew you had the talent to carry out the job and to succeed at it. If you were old or ugly, fat or frumpy, I'd have smiled proudly over your accomplishments and at myself for making the right decision and that would have been the end of it.”
He moved closer and drew her against his solid body. “That's not the case, though, is it?”
She pleaded with her heart not to knock so solidly against her ribs, for surely he could feel it. Fight back, Megan. “It's collection time, is that it?” she demanded. “Why did you wait three years? I'd have thought you wouldn't let a debt ride that long. Am I to thank you for your generosity, or were you just letting the interest, which I'm sure is usurious, accrue? Tell me now, Mr. Bennett, what's the price of my job?”
In the room's dim light his eyes glinted hard and brassy. “I've told you one has nothing to do with the other,” he said menacingly. “If you were car-hopping at the local root beer stand, I'd still want you. I don't know what happened to us that night before your wedding, but something did.”
“No.”
“Yes. Nothing like that has happened to me before or since, and I couldn't have felt as strongly as I did unless you had felt it too. Deny it all you want to, Megan, but you know you're lying—to me and to yourself.”
“I felt nothing,” she denied hotly, mortified to realize that scalding tears were flooding her eyes.
A stricken expression crossed his face. “Don't cry,” he pleaded, crushing her against his chest and stroking her back soothingly. “The last thing I want is to make you cry. I've acted high-handedly. I admit it. But only because I didn't know any other way to get your attention. Please, Megan, don't cry.”