Marrying the Manhattan Millionaire

by Braun, Jackie

“I’m trying to sleep here,” she replied, eyes still closed.

  “No you’re not. You’re trying to ignore me.”

  She turned her head and allowed one eyelid to open. “Yes, but I was being polite about it.”

  “Right.” The magazine in his hand was turned to an inside page, which he held out for her inspection. “What do you think of this?”

  She opened both eyes. “The perfume?”

  “No, the ad for it.”

  She straightened in her seat, reaching for the periodical before she could think better of it.

  “The client certainly spared no expense,” she said of the full-page, full-color advertisement that featured a top-name model standing in the middle of a field of flowers and holding out an ornate bottle of perfume as if making a sacrificial offering. “Is this one of yours?”

  “Does this look like my work?” He sounded insulted.

  In truth, it didn’t. The composition was too stiff and staged, and the accompanying text about letting love bloom sounded sophomoric. But Sam merely shrugged. No need to feed Michael’s massive ego.

  “All that money to spend and this is what they came up with. Amazing.” His voice dripped with such disgust that Sam had to chuckle.

  “Are you jealous?”

  “Hell yes, I’m jealous,” he surprised her by admitting. “In addition to spreads in several national publications, this same ad is appearing on billboards and the sides of buses all over the country. And there’s a corresponding television campaign under way.”

  She saw the dollar signs and whistled. “Someone’s dining on steak.”

  “Want to know who?”

  Curiosity piqued, she nodded.

  “Stuart Baker.”

  The name rang a bell. “Wiseman Multimedia, right?”

  “That’s him. That guy can’t spell innovation, much less employ it.” Michael snorted.

  “Yes, but look at it this way. Unlike me, Stuart Baker will never be a threat to you in the Clio or Addy competitions. And the client obviously likes Baker’s work.”

  “Right. Want to know what I think?” Michael asked.

  “I’m waiting with bated breath,” she replied dryly.

  “He’s got something on the person holding the purse strings at the fragrance company. You know, compromising photos or a lurid videotape.”

  “You have a vivid imagination. More likely, the client has more money than marketing sense.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe, but you have to admit, my theory is more interesting than yours.”

  She shrugged and put her head back and closed her eyes, figuring the conversation was over. But a moment later Michael nudged her arm again.

  “If this were your client, what would you do differently?”

  Sam kept her eyes closed. “I’m either trying to sleep right now or politely ignoring you. Take your pick.”

  “Come on, Sam. We’ve got some time to kill before we land in New York. Let’s make the most of it. What would your ad look like?”

  It was an old game, one they’d played often when they were fresh out of college and eager to tear up the advertising scene. They would analyze various campaigns, print or television, and decide what they would do to improve them. Sam had no intention of playing along now. But she made the mistake of opening her eyes and glancing at the glossy page Michael held out to her. A statuesque blonde pouted up at her. She couldn’t help herself. Besides, she rationalized, talking shop with Michael was far safer than discussing dreams…or fantasies.

  “Well, for one thing, I would have gone with a lesser-known model,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Sasha Herman has pitched everything from cow’s milk to men’s undershirts.”

  “So she resonates with the public,” he countered, playing devil’s advocate.

  “That might be, but she also causes waves. Her increasingly radical political views aren’t winning many fans among women in middle America.”

  “Everyone is entitled to an opinion,” Michael retorted. “So Sasha is a little more vocal than most people, so what? Should she be punished for exercising her constitutional right?”

  “I’m all for the First Amendment, but the fact remains that she’s used her celebrity as a platform for some pretty extreme views, and it’s costing her. She’s fallen out of favor with a lot of Americans, including the very women who make up the client’s target market.” She sent him a quelling look. “No one ever said free speech was free.”

  “Okay. Point taken. So you’d change models and go with a less recognizable face,” he said.

  “Actually, I’d go with a complete unknown,” Sam decided as a new ad took shape in her mind. It was black-and-white and far more sensual, fitting with the perfume’s name: Beguile.

  “To play up the mystery?” he asked.

  “That’s right.” Sam nibbled her lower lip and allowed the vision to expand. “It should be a man wearing a white dress shirt, left unbuttoned to show off his incredible abs. After all, perfume is really just sex in a bottle. Women want to buy it from a good-looking man. It’s part of the fantasy. If I wear this scent I’m desirable. I can entice anyone. I can have anyone. Even this drop-dead gorgeous stud whose eyes are saying, ‘Beguile me.’”

  “God, it’s scary how the female mind works,” Michael replied dryly.

  “Oh, please,” she huffed. “The female mind is no different from the male mind. We think about sex, too.”

  Think about it and dream about it in vivid detail, a small voice whispered.

  “Go on,” Michael encouraged with an engaging smile. “I’m all ears.”

  Uh-oh. She had wandered into boggy territory. As quickly as she could, Sam retreated. Conjuring up her most-patient and instructive voice, she replied, “Even though we’re rivals, here’s a key trade secret that I’m willing to share with you.” She leaned toward him and whispered, “Sex sells.”

  “Gee. It seems to me I’ve heard that somewhere.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Like maybe in the first advertising class I took back in college.”

  She lifted her shoulders. “It doesn’t sound like you paid close attention.”

  “I did when the curvy blond junior who sat in front of me was absent. Otherwise I found her a bit too distracting, if you know what I mean.”

  Sam cast her gaze skyward and settled back in her seat.

  “Come on. That was before we met, Sam. There’s no need for you to be jealous.”

  “Jealous? I’m not—”

  “What about the rest of the ad?” he said with a smile.

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “What other changes would you make? I’m assuming you’d do more than switch the gender of the model.”

  Though she wanted to ignore him, Sam straightened in her seat and studied the ad again. It really was hideous. She tapped the bottom of the page. “Well, for sure I’d eighty-six the field of flowers.”

  “What’s wrong with flowers? I thought women liked flowers? I send my mother a bouquet for her birthday every year. Daisies. They’re her favorite. And you always liked roses. Long-stemmed red ones.”

  He’d surprised her with them often, she recalled now. No special occasion necessary. She’d loved getting them, loved reading the sweet notes on the cards. She still had those cards, wrapped in a ribbon and tucked away in a dresser drawer beneath her unmentionables. Somehow, they’d survived the big purge she’d done of all things Michael after their final blowup. She would burn them when she got home, she decided and concentrated on the ad.

  “Women do like flowers, but that’s not the point. The name of the perfume is Beguile. A patch of posies isn’t a fitting image, especially since the perfume isn’t even a floral scent.”

  “You’ve smelled it?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Not on purpose, believe me. One of those paper samples was tucked into last month’s Cosmopolitan. It fell out while I was taking a quiz on…never mind.”

  He chuckled softly and
raised gooseflesh on her arms when he said, “I remember the quizzes in that magazine. They were very eye-opening and, um, educational.”

  And she and Michael had a lot of fun putting into practice what they had learned from them.

  Sam cleared her throat. “In case you’re wondering, the perfume smells very musky and heavy.”

  “The kind that lingers in elevators long after the wearer is gone?” he asked.

  She nearly groaned. He had to go and mention elevators and lingering. The dream was back, popping up in her mind like one of those annoying Internet ads. It chased away all thought of redesigning a perfume ad.

  “Sam? You look a little flushed,” he said, bringing her back to the present and making her aware that she’d been staring at him. “Are you okay?”

  No, she wasn’t. At the moment, she was the exact opposite of okay, and it was his fault. She handed him the magazine and settled back in her seat. “Will you be going after the account?”

  His brow furrowed. “What?”

  She nodded toward the magazine. “Beguile perfume. Feel free to use my ideas. I’m sure they’re better than anything you can come up with on your own.”

  He shook his head slowly, his gaze disapproving. “That was low, Sam. Even for you.”

  She hated that he was right. He might try to steal another advertising executive’s client, but he would never poach an idea. But at least Michael was glaring at her now rather than setting off her pulse with his sexy smile.

  They passed the rest of the flight in stony silence, and when the aircraft touched down in New York they each gathered up their belongings and deplaned without exchanging so much as a word.

  “So, did you win?” her mother asked.

  Joy called as Sam was unpacking her suitcase that evening.

  “No. I’m an also-ran once again. And you know how Dad feels about also-rans. No one remembers them,” she said doing a fair impersonation of her father’s resonating alto.

  Joy snorted. “No one remembers them except for him. There’s no pleasing that man.” Which was why her mother had called it quits on her marriage the summer Sam turned thirteen.

  Sam’s sister Sonya, who was older than Sam by a couple of years, had chosen to live with Randolph. Sam had stayed with Joy. Even before then Randolph had been obvious in his preference for his eldest daughter, who was so like him in both coloring and temperament. Sam, as Randolph had told her often enough, was the spitting image of her mother. Even before her parents’ bitter split, she’d known he hadn’t meant it as a compliment.

  “I hope your father was at least supportive at the awards ceremony.”

  “Actually, Dad left before then.”

  She heard her mother curse. “Figures. I’m sorry, sweetie. I know the Addy was important to you.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” She sat on the bed next to the open suitcase and sighed. “Michael won it.”

  “Again? I mean—”

  “It’s okay. That was my reaction, too, when his name was announced. I ran into him afterward. The man is every bit as arrogant and self-righteous as he was seven years ago,” she muttered.

  “And as good-looking?”

  “That, too,” Sam admitted sourly.

  “You said you saw him. Did you talk?”

  “We have nothing to talk about,” Sam said, before adding, “But, yes, we did have a conversation. I bought him a drink, even, to celebrate his win.”

  “Big of you,” Joy murmured.

  “I thought so. Of course, I also plan to put it on my expense report.”

  “Good for you.” Her mother chuckled, but when she spoke again, her tone had turned serious. “But was it all business, Sam?”

  “There’s nothing between us but business, unless you count bad blood.” And way too much sexual attraction, she added silently.

  “You know, I always liked Michael.”

  “Liked him? You were practically the president of his fan club, Mom. It was embarrassing.”

  Joy was unfazed. “He was the only young man you ever dated who wasn’t scared witless of your father.”

  Okay, she had Sam there. “Well, he was far from perfect.” The toilet seat offenses and off-key singing weren’t the only things that came to mind. “Yet you thought I was making a mistake when I sent him back his ring rather than calling him again or flying out to California to work things out.”

  “I still think you made a mistake.”

  “How can you say that?” Sam all but shouted into the telephone. “You know why I did that. He wanted me to leave Sonya.”

  “Be fair, Sam. What he really wanted was to be sure you left your father. Michael didn’t know that your sister had taken a serious turn for the worse.”

  “Yes, but only because he wouldn’t listen when I tried to tell him. He jumped to the conclusion that I was staying in Manhattan and taking the job at Bradford to please Dad and gain his favor. Is it my fault that he got it wrong?”

  “Did he?” Joy asked.

  They talked about other things then, the dress Sam had worn to the awards dinner and the style she’d gone with for her hair. Hours after they hung up, though, Joy’s words had memories churning.

  I need you, Samantha.

  Both Michael and Randolph had said so. In her father’s case, though, it was the first time he’d used that exact combination of words. As Sam stalked about the quiet apartment that should have been Sonya’s, she remembered the occasion quite clearly.

  One month prior to her wedding to Michael and three months to the day after Sonya’s car accident, he’d called Sam at the apartment she shared with Michael to ask her to meet him for lunch at Tavern on the Green. The invitation itself was unusual and should have given her an inkling that something unprecedented was about to take place. Still, the conversation that occurred in the time between their salads and their entrees had her wishing she’d followed her father’s lead and ordered a vodka martini.

  Randolph wanted her to stay in Manhattan and join him at the Bradford Agency. It was the first time he’d voiced any sort of objection to her moving to California. Indeed, it was the first time he’d voiced his desire to have her work with him, though she’d majored in advertising with just that intention. After earning her degree, Sonya had become an account executive at Bradford. As for Sam, even two years after graduating from New York University, her father had claimed that no account executive positions were available. He suggested she continue as an office assistant until something opened up. Michael had been the one to mop up Sam’s tears and suggest not only a clean break from her father but a cross-country move.

  “He doesn’t appreciate you, Sam. He doesn’t deserve you.” Michael’s words had been a balm to her wounded spirit.

  So when Randolph had made his offer, Sam wanted to refuse it as too little too late. Her lips had even begun to form the words when he’d trumped every last one of her objections with his wild card.

  I need you, Samantha.

  There had been more to his argument than those four words, of course, as potent and ultimately persuasive as Sam found them to be. Actually, he’d laid out his case with surprising emotion for a man who rarely displayed much. He feared it would be months before Sonya was capable of returning to Bradford in any capacity. At that point she wasn’t capable of independent living much less being groomed to take over the agency as he’d long intended.

  Absent the heir, he’d turned to the spare.

  That had been Michael’s unflattering assessment when she discussed it with him later in the day. Randolph had asked Sam to take Sonya’s place. Temporarily. She’d agreed. She’d already asked Michael to postpone their wedding. She wanted Sonya to be her maid of honor. Despite their father’s obvious favoritism, the two had always been close.

  The argument that ensued hadn’t been pleasant. Recalling it now made Sam ache all over again:

  Michael had been incredulous at first.

  “I’ve given my word to my new employer that I’ll start in six weeks. So
have you.”

  They’d both landed positions at the same agency, one of the biggest and most respected in Los Angeles.

  “I know. You can go ahead without me. I’ll just have to hope that when I make the move, the opening will still be there.”

  He had run his hands through his hair. In Michael’s expression she’d seen frustration, anger and, worst of all, hurt. “He’s using you, just like he’s used you as a glorified gopher for the past couple of years. Can’t you see that?”

  “He needs me,” she told him.

  “I need you, too. Don’t stay, Sam.”

  She closed her eyes, holding back tears. Torn. That’s how she felt. She still wanted, needed to believe that her father would someday love her as unconditionally as he did Sonya. “I can’t leave right now. I’m sorry.”

  “You can,” Michael insisted. For him, this issue had always been black-and-white. “Randolph doesn’t deserve your loyalty, Sam. He won’t return it.”

  She ignored the comment, ignored the little voice that told her Michael was right. “It’s only for a little while, at most six months. The doctors say Sonya is making terrific progress.”

  He snorted in disgust. “And once she’s as good as new, then what? He’ll have no need for you and you’ll be broken up into pieces again.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  Michael’s voice rose. “It’s exactly like that, and you know it.”

  “Sonya needs me, too.”

  “I like Sonya and I know it’s not her fault that she’s your father’s favorite, but when are you going to step out of her shadow and start living your own life?” he asked. When Sam said nothing, he reminded her unnecessarily, “You’re being naive if you think the job in California is going to wait six months while you work at another firm in New York.”

  “I know.” The bigger question was, “Will you wait, Michael?”

  He swallowed, looking pained. “That’s unfair.”

  “Just answer me, please.”

  “Your father has made you jump through hoops your entire life for the scraps of his affection. I thought you were finally finished with that.”

  “This is different.” It was. It had to be.

  But Michael shook his head. “No, it isn’t, Sam. It’s just a bigger hoop with better scraps. I love you and I want to marry you more than anything in the world. But if you stay here now, I have a bad feeling that isn’t going to happen.”