by Trish Jensen
Sherry was not amused. She slammed into her apartment, three hours later, and headed straight for her pantry and her chocolate fix.
She’d had to put up with a lot of crap tonight, including Samantha Richards and her not-so-veiled insinuations. Apparently good old Sam felt certain that she’d get Kit back in time, just as soon as he realized what he was missing. And Sam had made it clear that Sherry was just the right person for the job of helping Kit make comparisons, so he could come racing back to Sam.
By the time they’d left the party—two long hours after the end of the meal—Sherry had wanted to murder Kit for placing her in such an awkward position, then abandoning her to the likes of Samantha Richards, while he mingled with the boys.
The worst of it was, they hadn’t talked business once. Even on the long ride home, Kit had professed to being too tired to think clearly. She’d wanted to shriek at him. After all, he’d told her this would be her only chance to persuade him to change his mind about Tiffany, then he’d made it impossible for her to try.
At the door to her condo he’d imperiously told her to contact his secretary and make an appointment for a lunch meeting to discuss the campaign. She’d wanted to tell him to take a long walk off a short pier, but she’d bitten her tongue, stuck her nose in the air, and marched into her building, never looking back.
Kit hadn’t even tried to kiss her good night.
Why should he? He hadn’t had any old girlfriends hanging around. Of course, he hadn’t had any old girlfriends in the library, either, but he’d kissed her there, too. Really kissed her. Like she’d never been kissed before. The lout.
After climbing into bed, but before sleep overtook her, she found herself humming a rather loud, off-key rendition of “Your Cheatin’ Heart.”
“Why haven’t you called my secretary?” Kit asked, his voice vibrating with annoyance.
Sherry shoved her computer keyboard back under her desk and shifted the phone receiver to her other ear. Grabbing a bag of M&M’s from her drawer, she said, “I’ve been busy.”
It had only been three days since the disastrous dinner party, after all. It wasn’t as if she’d waited a month. Of course, she had intentionally not called, but he didn’t have to know that. If Kit Fleming thought her life revolved around Bella Luna, he had another think coming. If he thought he could order her around, he was in for a rude awakening. Sherry had a solid reputation and plenty of clients. She had plaques lining her walls, awards on her bookshelves.
He was lucky to have her, although the silence screaming at her over the phone line told her he didn’t feel especially lucky to have her at the moment. She could almost picture him counting to ten.
“Lunch tomorrow,” he finally commanded. “One o’clock. Clyde’s.”
“No can do, Kit old boy. I’ve got a date.” With another client, but he didn’t have to know that either.
“Ms. Spencer,” he said in a soft, dangerous voice, “I think we’ve forgotten who the client is in this relationship.”
“We have? No, I don’t think so. What we’ve forgotten here is that we are not the only client this agency has. But, if you are dead set on meeting tomorrow, how about I patch you through to Charlie Weis, and see if he can’t do lunch?”
“How about if you patch me through to Fred Simpson and I tell him what an insolent little account exec you are?”
“Okey-doke,” Sherry said, putting him on hold, then forwarding his call to Fred’s secretary.
She popped about ten M&M’s into her mouth, then calmly went back to typing up some ideas for a diaper commercial. Really, some men just didn’t get it.
It took Fred exactly ninety seconds to make it down the hall to her office. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Trying to come up with an innovative way of showing how Dippity Diapers can hold up to a gallon of water. Why, I don’t know. I mean, if these were diapers for elephants I might understand, but how many human babies do you know—”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
Sherry sighed and munched a few more M&M’s. “The man is a dictator. I don’t work well with dictators.”
“Are you intentionally trying to lose this account?”
“Of course not.” Sherry saved her file before turning back to Fred. “Kit Fleming wants a yes man to rubberstamp his ideas. I can’t do it. Assign Charlie. He’s real good at saying yes to everything.”
“Fleming doesn’t want Charlie. He wants you.”
Sherry glanced up. “Still? Even after . . . that?” she said, waving at the phone.
“Even after that. He spent some time shouting about what a rude, unconventional, pain in the butt you are, and that if we want to keep this account, you’d better haul your fanny to lunch tomorrow, and you’d better not be late.”
“I have another lunch date.”
“Sherry . . .”
“With the Dippity Diaper people.”
“Oh.” Fred shuffled his feet. “Well, what do you suggest we do?”
“Send Charlie.”
“He told me in no uncertain terms that’s it’s you or nobody.”
Sherry growled. Apparently Kit Fleming was intent on tormenting her. Or conquering her. She had no intention of being conquered. “I’ll take care of it.”
“How?”
“Just trust me, Fred.”
Fred looked uncertain, but then he grimaced, shrugged, and left.
Flipping angrily through her Rolodex, Sherry found the number and punched it in with a vengeance. It was time Kit Fleming learned he couldn’t control her. When she finally got through to his secretary, she demanded to speak to the overbearing clod, but apparently Kit had left instructions that she run everything through his assistant.
“Fine,” she told the poor woman. “Give Mr. Fleming this message for me. Tell him I said to eat dirt and die. Not very original, but the best I can do on the spur of the moment. I will not be at lunch tomorrow, as I have another appointment. If he wants this firm to work with him, he’ll have to set up another time to meet.”
There was a startled pause. “You want me to give him this message . . . now?”
“Please.”
While Sherry waited, she finished off the bag of candy. This had suddenly become a war of wills, and she fully planned to win it, or lose the account trying. Not very professional, she decided, but then, Kit hadn’t shown much professionalism himself when he’d used her to save his butt.
She was on hold a good five minutes, humming along to a Muzak version of “New York, New York.” Just as she decided to hang up, the music cut off and Kit Fleming’s voice resonated along the line. He was not in a good mood.
“I ought to fire you.”
“You can’t fire me, I don’t work for you,” she reminded him in a pleasant, even tone. “If you want to pull the account from this firm, that’s your choice, Mr. Fleming. But let me just tell you this,” she added, in a real friendly tone. “I will not be browbeaten, and I will not be yanked around at your whim. Maybe for you the world begins and ends with Bella Luna, but it doesn’t for me. When you learn to understand that, and if you still want me working on your account, then maybe we can come to terms. Until then, buzz off, bucko.”
With that she hung up.
On the other end of the line, Kit pulled the phone from his ear and stared at it. Never, never had anyone stood up to him like this. He absolutely hated that he couldn’t control this woman. That she had no fear of him. That she could take his business or leave it. That she could take him or leave him. That he wanted to take her with an intensity that both scared and excited him.
Slowly he returned the phone receiver to its cradle. He couldn’t let her get away with this. Unfortunately, he didn’t have much choice. Well, he could always yank the account. But that option held no appeal whatsoever, because he’d lose, too. Before he’d met her, Kit had only been vaguely aware of her reputation. Since dinner the other night, he’d made inquiries. Sherry Spencer was an advertisin
g marvel. She’d won every major award her industry had to offer, and some they didn’t.
She was basically a young genius. And she’d just told him to buzz off.
Thoroughly ticked, Kit dialed Simpson & Bailey, and swallowed the bitter bile of battered pride. When he heard Sherry’s voice, he gruffly got right to the point. “How about dinner tomorrow night?”
It took her a few seconds to answer him, and the longer the time stretched, the more embarrassed he became. “Not another dinner party at Rachel’s?”
“No.”
“Now, no offense, Kit, but we don’t get much work done at dinner.”
“We will tomorrow night. I promise.”
Again she hesitated. “Fine. Where and when?”
He wasn’t prepared for those questions, because he hadn’t expected to ask her to dinner again. “I’ll have my secretary let you know,” he answered, grabbing back at least a shred of control.
“Fine,” she said. “Have your secretary leave the details with our receptionist.”
And once again, she hung up.
Kit snarled. Then, to his utter amazement, he laughed. And it felt good.
Five
He’d brought Tiffany to dinner.
Sherry almost turned on her heel and marched out when she entered the swanky Moroccan restaurant in McLean, and spied Kit and the famous Tiffany with their heads close together, talking. Something stabbed through her, but she was intelligent enough to know she didn’t want to identify it. She stiffened her spine, took a deep breath, and pointed out Kit’s table to the hovering maître d’.
When Kit finally spotted her, he shot her a warning look before standing and putting a welcoming smile on his face that was as fake as Tiffany’s breasts. He made the introductions, and Tiffany offered a limpwristed hand and a less than lukewarm smile. The woman was beautiful. Perfectly beautiful. She had honey-blond hair and huge green eyes that looked out from a face God had personally constructed.
Sherry returned the smile and accepted Kit’s offer of a chair, all the while deciding which method of murder she’d find most satisfying. A lingering death definitely loomed in Kit Fleming’s future.
“So, you’re the advertising genius,” Tiffany said, and her tone implied she considered the occupation one step below cleaning out sump pumps.
“That’s me,” Sherry answered the model, wondering what Kit was up to. Had he invited Tiffany because he considered it a foregone conclusion that she’d be signed as Bella Luna’s next spokesmodel? Or had he brought her so that Sherry would have no chance to argue against spending a huge hunk of their advertising budget on an overpriced celebrity?
An exotic-looking waitress dressed in a harem outfit stopped to get her drink order. Kit’s drink looked like a martini, and Tiffany had ordered white wine. Sherry sided with Kit on this one. She ordered a martini.
Beside the perfect Tiffany, she felt downright dowdy. She’d dressed too carefully again tonight, wearing her favorite Donna Karan blue silk. Tiffany wore a jumpsuit in emerald green that complemented her long hair and matched her eyes to perfection.
Kit wore his usual Armani power attire with an ease and grace that at the moment tore at her nerves. At the moment, good-looking men in general tore at her nerves. As did spokesmodels who gazed at good-looking men like they’d like to devour them. Oh, yes, Tiffany wanted Kit. And Sherry had the feeling that Tiffany usually got what Tiffany wanted.
There was no way Kit could misinterpret Tiffany’s desire. She leaned toward him and smiled at him in that you-and-I-are-destined-for-the-bedroom way that only extremely confident women had. The strange thing was, Kit seemed to be ignoring the smoldering looks Tiffany shot him. His expression was polite, even a little distant. And when he turned his gaze on Sherry, she was shocked to see a passionate gleam in his beautiful eyes. Oh, Lord. He was not going to use her again as a buffer. No way. Kit Fleming could darn well take care of himself.
“Tiffany and I were just discussing concept,” Kit said. “She likes the idea of combining a sexy campaign with some humorous undertones.”
“Does she now?” Sherry said, trying very hard not to sound catty. Her drink arrived and she took a fortifying sip. She supposed she should feel at least somewhat happy that Kit had heard her the other day when she’d pitched the concept of using humor, but now that Tiffany agreed, the idea had lost some appeal.
“Good,” she added, her eyes watering slightly from the healthy sip of martini she’d just downed. “What do you think about looking less than your best?”
Tiffany looked appalled. “What do you mean?”
“Here’s how I see it,” Sherry said, pulling a notepad out of her briefcase. “The model we choose will begin the first commercial looking less than stellar. No makeup, hair in a ponytail, etc. After using various Bella Luna health and beauty aids, we’ll show how each product improves her appearance.”
Tiffany stared at the rough sketches Sherry’d drawn. “Well—”
Sherry flipped a page. “I see a progression of commercials, as the model prepares to go out on a date. Interspersed in the commercials, we’ll show the male model also preparing to pick her up. Buying flowers, wine, candy, tickets to a hit play, that sort of thing.”
She flipped another page. “We build anticipation, until the audience can’t wait to see these two people get together. When he finally shows up, the finale to the series of commercials, he’s dazzled by this woman. She looks fantastic, she smells fantastic, her skin feels fantastic. And so on.”
She glanced at Kit, who was also staring at her sketchpad. Finally he lifted his eyes to hers. “I love it.”
Why that gave her so much pleasure, Sherry couldn’t say. She was used to her ideas being adored by clients. And she always felt gratified. But right now, a sensation of delight rushed through her, and she had the feeling it had nothing to do with pride in her work, and everything to do with winning Kit’s approval.
“Good,” she said again. She returned her attention to Tiffany. “So, this series, if we go with it, will require the model to look less than her best at the beginning. We’re not going to intentionally make her look awful, we’re just going to show the audience the ‘before Bella Luna’ product.”
Tiffany hated the idea. It showed like a neon sign in the pout she bestowed on Kit. “I’m not sure about this.”
Kit smiled at her indulgently. “You couldn’t look bad if you tried. All you’d be doing is going from beautiful to spectacular.”
Tiffany preened. Sherry bristled. Tiffany bent into Kit. “For you, I’ll do anything.” Sherry leaned forward and somehow knocked Tiffany’s water into her lap. “Oh, dear, I’m sorry,” she said.
Tiffany jumped to her feet, with a horrified squeal. She grabbed her napkin and dabbed at the water stains. “You clumsy—”
“The rest room’s back there,” Sherry interrupted, hiking her thumb.
Two bright red spots bloomed on Tiffany’s perfect cheeks, and with a mumbled, “Excuse me,” and a final glare, she hurried away.
Kit, whose mouth was slightly open, watched her go, then turned back to Sherry. “You did that on purpose.”
“Darn right I did.” She leaned toward him, ran a fingernail up his arm and batted her lashes at him. “For you, I’ll do anything,” she cooed. Then she sat back and glared at him. “What do you mean, bringing her to this meeting? Who cares how Tiffany feels about the campaign? And when did you make her an offer? Do you realize with the money we’d save on a lesser known model, we could buy more print space, even probably produce one additional commercial?”
“Tiffany’s a name.”
“Tiffany’s a face and a body. One that appeals to men. Women will not identify with her, and will only resent you for using her to hype your products.”
“So you say.”
“So I know.”
Sitting forward, Kit patted her hand in what she interpreted as a patronizing gesture. “Listen, I love your concept. Really. It’s a fantastic idea. But
I’m afraid I’m going to have to be adamant about this. I want a name.”
“Or is it that you just want Tiffany?”
“Tiffany?” he said, his face blank. “Yes, right. I want Tiffany.”
“That’s convenient because Tiffany wants you, too.” Could she get any more cheeky? And what did she care if the man and his model got it on?
Understanding finally dawned on his face. For a sophisticated man, he appeared rather dense at times. How could he not have picked up on Tiffany’s signals? “You’re wrong,” he said. “Aren’t you?”
Sherry laughed at him. “God, men are dumb.”
His eyes clouded with irritation, and she had a hunch she’d just crossed the line. But then he mumbled, “Oh, Lord, I don’t need this.”
A little too pleased that he seemed truly unhappy, she sipped her drink and waited gleefully for Tiffany to return, thrilled to be able to witness his discomfort.
He looked around the restaurant, and when he saw Tiffany making her way back to the table, he slid his chair closer to Sherry.
“Hey!” she complained. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He looked at her, his eyes pleading. “Just once more, okay?”
“No way,” she said, wondering why her pulse jumped. “I’m not bailing you out again. Learn to fight your own battles, Casanova.”
“Please, Sherry,” he cajoled. “I don’t want to deal with this, right now.”
“Tough. If you want a shield, buy one.”
“You look fantastic tonight,” he said, before leaning over and kissing her.
The jerk! The condescending jerk! The condescending, wonderful smelling jerk! She would have liked to bite his lip, but she found herself enjoying his mouth on hers. The man had a lot of personality flaws, but he sure knew how to kiss.
The clearing of a throat brought them apart. If looks could kill, Sherry’d be keeling over right about then.
Kit laughed, a little self-deprecatingly. “Sorry about that. Sometimes I tend to forget myself with Sherry. She hates that I can’t separate business and pleasure, but can you blame me?”