He pushed through the doors again into the back office where Stripling sat, sipping tea, and looking as limber as a willow switch. Tuesday followed him.
“Well?” The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Did you bet the horse to place? I saw in the paper that she won, and the payout was pretty good.”
Making a sympathetic sound, Jack shook his head. “No, Stripling, I didn’t bet the horse to place like you told me.”
The man’s thin shoulders fell.
Jack grinned and whipped out another envelope. “I bet her to win! Seventy-five dollars for a two dollar bet, and I put your entire hundred on her.”
Stripling’s jaw opened and closed as he lunged for the envelope. “Oh, my goodness! Oh, my goodness!”
“Oh, my goodness is right,” Tuesday mumbled, frowning. “If that horse had come in second instead of first, you would have lost his money.”
“But if I had bet the horse to come in second—”
“—like he told you to—”
“—the payout wouldn’t have been as good.” He shrugged. “What can I say? I was feeling lucky.”
“And just how much did you pocket?” she asked.
“Well,” Jack drawled as he pulled out the last fat envelope. “I hate to brag, but I cleared just under five gees.”
Stripling whistled low. “You’re going to have to claim that money on your personal income tax form, you know.”
Jack frowned in his direction, then his attention was diverted by the opening of the front door. When had Tuesday hung a bell on it to announce visitors?
“That must be the furniture,” Tuesday sang, then strode toward the front.
A few seconds passed before her words sank it. “Furniture?” Jack croaked. “What furniture?”
He jogged to the front just as a huge man in a yellow slicker walked in, holding a clipboard and directing two young men who had a desk hoisted on their shoulders.
“You Stillman?” the man asked.
“Yes. What’s this all about?”
The man sucked his teeth, then read from the clipboard. “I got an order here for two desks, two file cabinets and two leather chairs. That’ll be three thousand, two hundred dollars, cash on delivery.”
“What?” Jack’s temples nearly exploded. “I didn’t order all this stuff.” He whirled to Tuesday. “Did you do this?”
She blinked, her face innocent. “I distinctly remember you saying Friday that you were going to win enough money to buy the new equipment the agency needed.”
“But … but I didn’t mean— Hey, watch that leather coat in the hallway, buddy!”
Tuesday snatched the envelope out of his hand and counted bills as she talked. “The Salvation Army will be here in a few minutes to pick up the old furniture, so it’ll be out of the way by the time the computers arrive.”
“Computers?” Jack asked wearily.
“My daughter-in-law works at a computer store across town—I got you a great deal.” She handed him the balance of the money, along with two aspirins and a cup of water.
Jack swallowed the pills dry. “Tuesday,” he said, holding on to the wall for support. “Did it occur to you to ask me first?”
“No,” she said matter-of-factly. “Because it’s my job to get things organized around here.”
He thought he might pass out—Derek certainly would when he found out. “There … is … no … job!”
*
Alex was grateful the showers had subsided enough for her to dash from the store van into the building that housed the Stillman & Sons Advertising Agency. With a rueful shake of her head, she remembered coming here only last week, marveling at the whirlwind of events that had taken place since. Had she really known Jack for only a few days? Odd, but the man had plowed a disruptive furrow through her life that bespoke a much longer relationship than existed. And a much more meaningful one.
Shaking off her wayward thoughts, she retraced her steps down the hall, noting that at least the carpet had been cleaned, and the sour, mildewed smell was gone. When she twisted the doorknob, she noticed that the agency sign had been repaired. And when she stepped inside, the transformation was nothing short of remarkable—furniture, plants, music, cleanliness. A matronly black woman turned from a file cabinet and flashed a friendly smile. “Now you must be Ms. Tremont.”
Alex blinked because she hadn’t called ahead. “Um, yes. Have we met?”
“I just knew it from Mr. Stillman’s description of you,” the woman said. “I’m Tuesday, the agency’s office manager.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she said, extending her hand. The agency must be rebounding if they had hired an office manager. And purchased new furniture. And cleaned. “I should have called—Mr. Stillman isn’t expecting me. Considering the weather, I thought I might give him a ride to the television station.”
“Well, now that’s mighty nice of you,” the woman said, beaming. She gestured toward a love seat, covered with a lush moss-green velvet. “Won’t you have a seat? I’ll let Mr. Stillman know you’re here. Would you like some hot tea?”
Alex took the proffered seat and nodded dumbly. “Yes, please.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Both, please.”
The woman disappeared through a set of swinging half-doors that she didn’t remember. She heard the rumble of at least one male voice, maybe two. A couple of minutes later, the office manager emerged, bearing a cup and saucer. “Here’s your tea. Mr. Stillman is on a conference call with a client, but I let him know you were here, so I’m sure he’ll be right out.”
“Thank you.” On a conference call with a client? She just assumed he was spending all his time on the Tremont’s account, but he had mentioned doing business with Phillips’ Honey, and after all, his brother was still out of town. Alex picked up the cup and smiled. “What extraordinary china.”
Tuesday smiled. “Mr. Stillman insists on nice little touches around here.”
The black doors swung out and an older man appeared. “Tuesday,” he said, “do you have time for lunch?”
The woman shook her head mournfully. “The phones have been ringing off the hook around here, I’d better not.”
So they were busy, Alex thought, sipping her very tasty tea.
“Want me to pick up something for you?”
Tuesday passed on his offer, and when the man left, Alex asked, “That wasn’t the other Mr. Stillman, was it?”
“No, that’s Mr. Stripling. He only comes in when it gets really crazy around here.”
Alex pursed her mouth. Darn—the agency was busy. And so different, she found it hard to believe things could have changed so much in a week’s time. Was it possible that Jack had set her up that first day to lay a foundation for his presentation? “Tuesday, how long have you worked for the agency?”
The woman looked heavenward. “Can’t rightly say how long I’ve been working here—seems like forever.”
“And has the office always looked like this?”
“Ever since I’ve been here.” Then she smiled. “Oh, you’re talking about that day Mr. Stillman was trying to get your goat.” She laughed, slapping her thigh. “That man and his elaborate schemes.”
Alex’s mouth fell open.
Tuesday’s face shone with affection. “Yes, he’s a rebel, that one, but it worked, didn’t it?”
She couldn’t believe it—layers just kept peeling off the man.
“My ears are burning,” Jack said, strolling in and turning his full-fledged grin toward Alex.
Alex swallowed hard. Funny—just the sight of him set every part of her aflame. “Um, hi. I came by to … um…” Darn it, why had she come by?
“To make sure you weren’t late to the studio,” Tuesday supplied, then disappeared through the swinging doors.
“Right,” she parroted, feeling all of twelve years old. Standing, she experienced a bad premonition about the commercial shoot, but a second later she chided herself—she would be watching him from a dis
tance—how dangerous could the man be across a room, surrounded by cameras and lights?
“Give me a minute,” he said with a devilish wink, jerking his thumb toward his office. “I just need to grab my thong.”
*
“Alex,” Jack said, “this is Sammy Richardson, producer here at the station and an old friend of mine.”
Sammy Richardson was not only not a man, she was the most female woman Alex had ever seen. Alex suspected that if she’d been a male cartoon character, this would be the point where her eyeballs would bulge out of her head and drop on the floor. Sammy’s long, long hair was a thousand shades of natural blond, and her skin was one shade of a natural golden glow. Stunning was the only word to describe her long, curvaceous body, magnificent in jeans and a man’s shirt. Old friend? Yeah, right. “Hello,” she managed to say. “I’m Alex Tremont.”
“Nice to meet you.” Sammy’s handshake was firm, her gaze direct and friendly. “Perhaps we can talk about what you’re looking for today while Jack goes to hair and makeup.”
A frown crossed Jack’s face, but he left with an assistant, grumbling. Alex followed Sammy to a makeshift desk a few feet away from a myriad of sets surrounded by cameras and lights. “Okay, let’s talk about the shoot,” she said without preliminaries. “My people will be here in a half hour, ready to start.”
Alex opened her notebook. “Tremont’s is considering hiring Jack Stillman as a spokesman.”
“Good decision,” the woman interjected smoothly.
Bristling at the woman’s knowing tone, she said, “We’re considering hiring Mr. Stillman. The outcome will depend on the success of this shoot.”
“What mood are we going for here?”
She squirmed, pushing the tentative slogan across the table: Tremont’s. Because clothes do make the man. “Um, you know … persuasive, compelling…”
“Sexy?” The woman’s mouth curved into a catlike smile.
“Um, yes.”
“Jack can certainly handle that assignment,” Sammy murmured, seemingly a hundred miles away.
“Yes, he can.” Alex agreed pleasantly, ridiculously tempted to let the woman know that she wasn’t the only one in the room who knew the particulars of Jack’s carnal skills. When she realized how trampy that sounded, she clamped her mouth shut, mentally kicking herself. Trying to steer the conversation back to business, she withdrew a folder of the reduced images Jack had presented at the first meeting, along with a storyboard. “The two female models I requested from the agency we use should be here soon.”
Sammy’s eyebrows rose. “Just two? Jack has settled down.”
Alex frowned. “Building on Jack’s original ideas, I’d like to focus on four settings—the gym, the backyard barbecue, the office, and the, um, bedroom.”
The woman nodded, making notes fast and furious. “Let me call props with this list, and we’ll be good to go as soon as Jack is ready and the models get here.”
Alex studied the woman while she spoke on the phone, a little awed by her sparkling beauty. Sammy and Jack would make a spectacular-looking couple, she acknowledged, wondering how recently they’d been involved and why their relationship hadn’t worked. And her stomach felt strange at the thought of them together.
Sammy hung up the phone and smiled broadly. “The props will be here in ten minutes. Let’s take a look at the sets.”
“So,” Alex ventured as they picked their way around the equipment, “you and Jack go way back.”
“Oh, yeah,” the woman said. “Way back. We even lived together for a while, but I wanted to get married.”
“Oh.” Alex paused for casual effect. “And he didn’t?”
Sammy laughed, a melodious sound. “Jack? The man is a rolling stone—he’ll never commit to anything or anyone. I was astounded when he told me he was working at the agency again.” She laughed. “Wonder how long that will last?”
“Long enough to handle our account, hopefully,” Alex said, irritated.
“Oh, Derek will take care of you,” she said with a dismissive wave. “He’s the dependable one. Just be thankful you nailed down Jack long enough for these photos.” She shook her head and made a regretful sound. “He used to get offers all the time to model, do sports commentary, endorsements. Could have made a boatload of money.”
“He didn’t want the money?” Alex asked, dropping all pretense of disinterest.
“He didn’t want the responsibility,” Sammy corrected. “I told you—the man is commitment-shy. He’ll work just long enough to fund his freedom.”
“You sound a little bitter,” Alex said quietly.
The woman shook her head. “I’m not. Jack didn’t deceive me. He told me up front that he didn’t ever plan to marry, but I thought I could change his mind.” She turned, one eyebrow lifted. “When I look back, though, the one thing I appreciate most about Jack is that he’s honest.” Then she laughed. “Well, maybe there are one or two other things.”
Alex squirmed.
“Hey,” the woman said, suddenly serious, her gaze direct. “I’m only telling you this to keep you from making the same mistake I made.”
Attempting nonchalance, Alex said, “You’re wrong if you think—”
“I know what I see,” Sammy said, her voice gentle but firm.
Jack entered from the side, wearing a white bathrobe, flanked by two giggling young women who were still powdering his nose and patting his hair.
“See,” the woman continued. “He’s irresistible. Every woman he meets falls in love with him. But believe me, don’t do it. It took me years to get over him.” Sammy clapped her hands to get the attention of the crew that appeared pushing pallets of furniture and other props, then started belting out directions.
Alex tried to shrug off the woman’s well-meaning warning—she had nothing to worry about. But she found herself mesmerized as the shoot commenced and Jack moved through numerous takes like a pro.
He was gorgeously somber in the business suit scenes, striding with purpose across an office setting.
He was charmingly casual in the backyard barbecue scene, tending a grill.
He was breathtakingly sweaty in the gym scene, lifting weights.
And he was knee-weakeningly sexy in the bedroom scene, reclining in boxers, the hand of one of the models on his shoulder.
The photographer took rolls and rolls of film of him in every one of the outfits she’d chosen—including the black thong, which had all the women on the set twitching. Sammy suggested that they get a couple shots with his tattoo showing, which only heightened the mood.
The man was magic, Alex conceded, and the camera loved him. He moved with economy, somehow packing a sense of approachable masculinity into every gesture. Occasionally, he made eye contact with her, and to her consternation, her body leapt in response. After three hours of a slow-burn, Alex had to cross her legs.
Sammy threw her a sympathetic look, then yelled, “Cut—that’s a wrap.”
*
Chapter 16
« ^ »
“Looks to me like your business is just starting to gain some momentum,” Stripling said, handing Jack a stack of papers. “So I’m recommending that the penalties and interest be dropped. Coupled with the payment plan I set up, the agency should be caught up on its back taxes within six months.”
Jack shook his hand. “Thanks, Stripling. My brother Derek will be so relieved.”
The man’s smile was genuine. “Good luck, Jack.” He tipped his hat to Tuesday, who gave him a fond wink.
When the door closed, Jack wheeled and pushed through the swinging doors. He poured himself another cup of coffee, then dropped into his new leather swivel chair in front of his new wood and metal desk. To his extreme aggravation, Tuesday was on his heels.
“All right, out with it.”
Jack frowned. “What?”
“You just got the IRS off your back, you have six new client appointments set up for next week, your brother will be back in a few days to
help, and I’ve never seen such a long face.”
Jack drank deeply from his cup. Since Monday, he’d been battling a funk born of proximity to Alexandria Tremont. After the shoot was over, she’d announced she would be in touch once they had the results of the focus group audience, maybe sometime this week. After several days of regular contact with her, he supposed he was suffering from withdrawal. He found himself toying with the phone, or riding his bike near her building on the off chance a legitimate excuse for talking to her would occur to him. One didn’t.
He simply couldn’t get the woman out of his mind.
“It’s that Tremont lady, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Whew, the fire alarm’s going to go off for sure, ‘cause liar, liar, your pants are on fire.”
He rolled his eyes upward to meet her disapproving gaze. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay,” she sang, throwing up her arms and turning toward the front office. “No one can accuse Tuesday Humphrey of sticking her nose in where it don’t belong.”
Jack snorted as she moved through the swinging doors, then swiveled his chair around to face the easels of posters he’d drawn for the Tremont’s account. He’d lain awake most of the night exploring his state of mind, and trying to get to the root of the problem. He wished he’d never agreed to be the spokesman for the department store, account or no account. Because on top of the increasingly suffocating feeling of being tied to someone else’s schedule, there was the little problem of working with Alex.
No, he corrected, the problem wasn’t working with Alex—the problem was working with Alex and not being able to take her home afterward. He lusted after the woman with an unprecedented intensity, and he knew they could have fun together for a while. But Alex was engaged to a successful man, and he had nothing to offer her save a pile of paintings.
At the races she’d said she liked the serious, professional side of him. Except the serious, professional side of him that she’d seen had all been a sham, propped up by his lies and Tuesday’s corroboration. He had no desire to be serious and professional. Just thinking about being tied to this desk, or to any desk, made him jittery.
IT TAKES A REBEL Page 17