It Happened One Week (10 page)

They stood there, side by side, looking at the ocean, all too aware of the closeness of the other.

“Damn it,” she said with a sudden burst of frustration. “You, of all people, should understand. You obviously didn’t succeed at Whitfield because you married your supervisor. You had to have worked hard.”

“Sixteen to eighteen hours a day,” he agreed. “Which is one of the reasons I quit.”

“Yet I’ll bet there are still days when you put in that many hours.”

“Sure.” Dane thought about the hours he’d spent fixing up the tower room. Just for her. He’d told himself at the time that the work had been done out of ego, because he wanted her to see what a success he’d made of the place. But now Dane suspected that his motives had been far more personal.

“But I said long hours were
one
of the reasons I quit Whitfield,” he reminded her. “There were others.”

“Such as?” Amanda was genuinely interested in whatever roads Dane had taken that had led him all over the world before returning to Satan’s Cove.

“I wasn’t overly fond of corporate structure.” That was the truth. “And corporate structure wasn’t overly fond of me.”

That was a major understatement. Fortunately, he’d been successful enough that the guys in the pin-striped suits in the executive towers had overlooked his independent streak. Most of the time.

Granted, he’d thoroughly enjoyed the work in the beginning. Especially the travel. For a young man who’d grown up in an isolated coastal town of less than two hundred people, his early years at the hotel chain had been an exhilarating, eye-opening experience.

But newness faded over time and the day he’d realized he was close to suffocating in the luxurious eighteenth-floor corner window suite of the glass tower that dominated New Orleans’s central business district, he’d turned in his resignation.

Eve Whitfield Deveraux—who’d inherited control of the hotel chain from her father—had asked him to reconsider. Having married a maverick herself, the hotel CEO appreciated having someone she could always count on to tell her the truth. There were already too many sycophants around her, she’d told him on more than one occasion. What she needed was a few more rebels like Dane Cutter.

As much as he’d genuinely liked her, Dane couldn’t stay. So he’d cashed in his stock options and his IRA, closed his money-market and checking accounts, and returned home.

Dane realized that while his mind had been drifting, Amanda had been quietly waiting for him to continue.

“Besides,” he said, “working long hours these days is a helluva lot different. Because Smugglers’ Inn is mine. It’s not some trendy real-estate investment I plan to sell to some foreign development company in a few years for a quick profit.

“I’ve put more than money into the place, though to be truthful, it’s just about cleaned out my bank account, which is the only reason I decided to take that money from your agency.

“But I don’t really mind the broken heaters and clogged pipes and leaky roofs, because I’m building something here, Amanda. I’m building a home. For myself and my family.

“Because as much of a rush as it admittedly was at first, flying all over the world, staying in presidential suites, having everyone snap to attention the moment my car pulled up in front of a Whitfield Palace hotel, the novelty eventually wore off.

“That was when I realized that what I truly wanted, more than money, or power, or prestige, was someone to come home to at the end of the day.

“Someone to walk along the beach with in the twilight of our years. Someone who’ll love me as much as I’ll love her—and our children, if we’re lucky enough to have them.”

He’d definitely been on a roll. It was, Dane considered as he felt himself finally running down, probably the longest speech he’d ever given. And, he thought, perhaps his most important.

Amanda didn’t speak for a long time. Dane’s fervent declaration, while sounding well-thought-out, had definitely taken her by surprise. Since arriving at Smugglers’ Inn, she’d been trying to make the various aspects of Dane mesh in her mind.

The young man she’d first fallen in love with had been the most driven individual she’d ever met. And that included her father, who was certainly no slouch when it came to workaholic, success-at-all-cost strategies.

Remembering all Dane’s lofty dreams and plans and ambitions, when she’d mistakenly believed he’d never left Satan’s Cove, she hadn’t been able to understand how he could have failed so miserably in achieving his goals.

Then she’d discovered he actually owned the landmark inn. And, as lovely as it admittedly was, she couldn’t help wondering how many people could so easily turn their back on power and prestige.

“That picture you’re painting sounds lovely.”

“You almost sound as if you mean that.”

He wondered if she realized it was almost the exact same picture she’d painted for him so many years ago. It was, Dane considered, ironic that after all these years apart they were back here in Satan’s Cove, still attracted to one another, but still at cross purposes. It was almost as if they’d entered a parallel universe, where everything—including their individual dreams and aspirations—was reversed.

“Of course I mean it. I also admire you for knowing yourself well enough to know what’s right for you.”

“I think I hear a
but
in there.”

“No.” She shook her head. “Perhaps a little envy.”

“I don’t know why. Seems to me you’re in the catbird seat, contessa. All you have to do is get Parsons out of your way and you’re definitely back on the fast track.”

“So why does it feel as if the lights at the end of the tunnel belong to an oncoming train?” She was not accustomed to revealing weakness. Not to anyone. But tonight, alone at the edge of the world with Dane, it somehow seemed right.

“Because you’re tired.” Dane couldn’t resist touching her. “Because change is always disruptive,” he murmured as he began kneading her tense, rocklike shoulders. “And with the takeovers and mergers, you’ve been going through a lot of changes lately.

“Not to mention the fact that Parsons is the kind of jerk who’d stress out Mother Teresa. And along with trying to juggle this stupid corporate challenge week, you’re being forced to confront feelings you thought you’d put behind you long ago.”

His talented fingers massaged deeply, smoothing out the knots. “If I were a better man, I’d leave you alone and take a bit of the pressure off. But I don’t think I’m going to be able to do that, Amanda.”

She knew that. Just as she knew that deep down inside, she didn’t really want Dane to give up on her.

“I just need a little more time.” She was looking up at him, her eyes eloquently pleading her case. When she allowed her gaze to drift down to his mouth—which she could still taste—Amanda was hit with an arousal more primal and powerful than anything she’d ever known.

She imagined those firmly cut lips everywhere on her body, taking her to some dark and dangerous place she’d only ever dreamed about. “To think things through.”

It wasn’t the answer he wanted. Unfortunately, it
was
the answer he’d been expecting.

Dane’s response was to cup the back of her head in his hand and hold her to a long, deep kiss that revealed both his hunger and his frustration. And, although she was too caught up in the fire of the moment to recognize it, his love.

“Think fast,” he said after the heated kiss finally ended.

Still too aroused to speak, Amanda could only nod.

A
manda was more than a little relieved when the next day began a great deal more smoothly than the previous day’s kayak races. When team members woke to a cool, drizzling rain streaming down the windows that necessitated putting off the bike race until afternoon, she was prepared to switch gears.

Taking the indoor equipment from her store of supplies, she divided the teams into subgroups and put everyone to work building a helicopter from pieces of scrap paper, cardboard, rubber bands and Popsicle sticks. Although speed was of the essence, it was also important that the constructed vehicle manage some form of brief flight.

“I still don’t get the point of this,” Laura complained as yet another attempt fatally spiraled nosefirst into the rug.

“You’re blending science and art,” Amanda explained patiently yet again. “Advertising is a subtle, ever-changing art that defies formularization.”

“That’s what it used to be,” Luke Cahill muttered as he cut a tail rotor from a piece of scarlet construction paper. “Until the invasion of the M.B.A.’s.” A rumpled, casual man in his mid-thirties, he possessed the unique ability to pen a catchy tune and link it with an appealing advertising idea.

Amanda had always considered Luke to be the most easygoing person working at the agency. She realized the
recent stress had gotten to him as well, when he glared over at Don Patterson, the financially oriented marketing manager, who stopped remeasuring the length of the cardboard helicopter body to glare back.

“However much you artsy types would like to spend the day playing in your creative sandboxes, advertising is a business,” Don countered. “I, for one, am glad to see this agency finally being run as a profit-making enterprise.”

“You won’t
have
any profits if the product suffers,” Luke snapped back. “Advertising is more than numbers. It’s our native form of American anthology.”

“He’s right,” Marvin Kenyon said. “Advertising—and life—would be a helluva lot easier if it could be treated like science—A plus B equals C—but it can’t.

“Life is about change, damn it. And advertising reflects that. The best advertising, the kind we
used
to do for C.C.C., can even act as an agent for change.”

Greg, who was sitting off to the side, watching the group, applauded, somehow managing to make the sound of two hands coming together seem mocking.

“Nice little speech, Kenyon.” He pulled out a cigar—his second of the morning—and lit it. “But if you’re not part of the solution you’re part of the problem. If you can’t get with the program, perhaps you don’t belong in advertising.”

“Not belong?” This from Julian. “You
do
realize that you’re talking to a man who has twenty-nine years’ experience creating witty, appealing, and totally original advertising that makes the sale through its ability to charm prospective buyers?”

As she heard the art director stand up for the head copywriter, Amanda felt a surge of excitement. As foolish as these games had seemed at first, something was happening.

Until the pressures brought about by first the mergers, then the takeover, C.C.C. had been viewed throughout the advertising world as a flourishing shop.

Unfortunately, because of the political machinations that were part and parcel of becoming a bigger agency, Marvin and Julian had started sniping at each other, causing morale to tailspin as sharply and destructively as Laura’s failed helicopter model.

But now, thanks to Greg’s threat, Julian had just felt the need to stand up for his former creative partner. And although she wondered if they’d ever regain the sense of “family” that had been the hallmark of Connally Creative Concepts, Amanda hoped such behavior was a sign that the creative members of the agency would resume encouraging each other, spurring their colleagues to even greater achievements, as they’d done in the past.

“We can’t ignore the fact that we’re in a service business,” she said. “Unfortunately, no matter how creative our advertising is, if we don’t possess the organization to effectively service our clients, we’ll fail.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to say,” Don insisted.

“On the other hand,” Amanda said, seeking a middle ground, “we could have the best media buying and billing system in the world but if creativity suffers because everyone’s getting mired down in details, we won’t have any clients to bill. And no profits. Which, of course, eventually would mean no salaries.”

She reached out and picked up the helicopter the blue team had just finished and held it above her head. When she had their undivided attention, she let it go. The copter took off on a sure, albeit short flight, ending atop a bookcase.

“That was teamwork, ladies and gentlemen,” she said with a quick, pleased grin. “Science and creativity, meshing into one efficient, artistic entity.”

Dane had slipped into the back of the room during the beginning of the argument. He’d convinced himself that Amanda wasn’t really happy in her work; that deep down inside, where it really counted, she was still the young girl who wanted to have babies and make a comfortable home for her family.

Now, having observed the way she’d deftly turned the discussion around, he was forced to admit that perhaps Amanda really did belong exactly where she was.

It was not a very satisfying thought.

Her spirits buoyed by the successful helicopter project, Amanda found herself thoroughly enjoying the excellent lunch of grilled sockeye salmon on fettucini, black bean salad, and fresh-baked sourdough bread, the kind that always reminded her of San Francisco’s famed Fisherman’s Wharf. Dessert was a blackberry cobbler topped with ice cream. The berries, Mary told the appreciative guests, had been picked from the bushes growing behind the inn; the ice cream, which was almost unbearably rich with the unmistakable taste of real vanilla beans, was homemade.

“It’s a good thing I’m only spending a week here,” Amanda said when she stopped by the kitchen to thank Dane’s mother again for helping make the week a success.

“Oh?” With lunch successfully behind her, Mary had moved on to preparing dinner and was slicing mushrooms with a blindingly fast, deft stroke that Amanda envied, even as she knew she’d undoubtedly cut her fingers off if she ever dared attempt to duplicate it. “And why is that, dear?”

“Because I’d probably gain a hundred pounds in the first month.” She still couldn’t believe she’d eaten that cobbler.

“Oh, you’d work it all off,” Mary assured her easily. “There’s enough to do around here that burning calories definitely isn’t a problem.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Amanda had awakened this morning to the sound of hammering. Although the sun was
just barely up, when she’d looked out her window she’d seen Dane repairing the split-rail fence that framed the front lawn and gardens. “Dane certainly seems to be enjoying it, though.”

“He’s happy as a clam.”

“It’s nice he’s found his niche.”

“It’s always nice to know what you want out of life,” Mary agreed easily. “Even nicer if you can figure out a way to get it.”

“You must have been proud of him, though. When he was working for the Whitfield Palace hotel chain.”

Amanda had the feeling that if she’d made the life-style reversal Dane had chosen, her father would have accused her of dropping out. Amanda’s father remained vigilant for any sign that his daughter might be inclined to waver from the straight-and-narrow path he’d chosen for her—the one that led directly to an executive suite in some Fortune 500 company.

Never having been granted a son, Gordon Stockenberg had put all his paternal dreams and ambitions onto Amanda’s shoulders. And except for that one summer, when she’d fallen in love with a boy her father had found totally unsuitable, she’d never let him down.

“I’d be proud of Dane whatever he chose to do.” Mary piled the mushrooms onto a platter and moved on to dicing shallots. “But I have to admit that I’m pleased he’s come home. Not only do I enjoy working with my son, it was obvious that once he became a vice president at Whitfield, he began feeling horribly constrained, and—”

“Vice president?”

“Why, yes.” Mary looked up, seeming surprised that Amanda hadn’t known.

“Dane was actually a vice president at Whitfield Palace hotels?” After last night’s conversation, she’d realized he’d been important. But a vice president?

“He was in charge of international operations,” Mary divulged. “The youngest vice president in the history of the hotel chain. He was only in the job for a year, and Mrs. Deveraux—she’s the CEO of Whitfield—wanted him to stay on, especially now that she and her husband have begun a family and she’s cut back on her own travel, but Dane has always known his own mind.”

Once again Amanda thought of her boastful words about her window office and her lovely, expensive Italian-leather chair. Unfortunately, as much as she wanted to be irritated at Dane for having let her make a fool of herself, she reluctantly admitted that it hadn’t really been his doing. She’d been so eager to prove how important she was….

A vice president. Of International Operations, no less.
She groaned.

“Are you all right, dear?”

Amanda blinked. “Fine,” she said, not quite truthfully. She took out her roll of antacids. Then, on second thought, she shook two aspirin from the bottle she kept in her purse.

Mary was looking at Amanda with concern as she handed Amanda a glass of water for the aspirin. “You look pale.”

“I’m just a little tired.” And confused. Not only did she not really know Dane, Amanda was beginning to wonder if she even knew herself.

“You’re working very hard.” The stainless-steel blade resumed flashing in the stuttering coastal sunlight coming in through the kitchen windows. “Dane told me how important this week is to you.”

“It is.” Amanda reminded herself exactly how important. Her entire career—her life—depended on the challenge week’s being a success.

“He also told me you’re very good at motivating people.”

“Dane said that?” Praise from Dane Cutter shouldn’t mean so much to her. It shouldn’t. But, it did.

“I believe his exact words were, barring plague or pestilence, you’ll have your promotion by the end of the week.”

“I hope he’s right.”

Mary’s smile was warm and generous. “Oh, Dane is always right about these things, Amanda. He’s got a sixth sense for business and if he says you’re going to win your creative director’s slot, you can count on it happening.”

It was what she wanted, damn it. What she’d worked for. So why, Amanda wondered as she left the kitchen to meet the members of the team, who were gathering in the parking lot for their afternoon bicycle race, did the idea leave her feeling strangely depressed?

The mountain bikes, like the team-challenge T-shirts and accompanying slickers, were red and blue.

“At least they look sturdy,” Julian decided, studying the knobby fat tires.

“And heavy,” Kelli said skeptically. “What’s wrong with a nice, lightweight ten-speed?”

“Kelli has a point, Amanda,” Peter interjected with what Amanda supposed was another attempt to make points with the sexy public-relations manager. “Why can’t we just use racing bikes?”

“In the first place, you’re not going to be sticking to the asphalt.” Amanda handed everyone a laminated map of the course. “You’ll need a sturdy bike for all the detours over gravel and dirt roads and creekbeds.”

When that description earned a collective groan, Amanda took some encouragement from the fact that everyone seemed to share the same reservations. That, in its own way, was progress.

“Think of it as touring new ground,” she suggested optimistically.

“That’s definitely pushing a metaphor,” Marvin complained over the laughter of the others.

Amanda’s grin was quick and confident. “That’s why I leave the copywriting to you.”

She went on to explain the rules, which involved the riders leaving the parking lot at timed intervals, following the trail marked on the maps, then returning to the inn, hopefully in time for dinner. She would ride along as an observer and, if necessary, a referee. Once everyone was back, the collective times would determine which team had won.

“Any questions?” she asked when she was finished.

“I have one.” Laura was adjusting the chin strap on her helmet with the air of someone who’d done this before. “Since it’s obvious you can’t be at every checkpoint, how are you going to ensure some people don’t skip a segment?”

“Are you accusing people of not being honest?” Don complained.

“You’re in advertising marketing, Don,” Luke reminded. “I’d say a lack of forthrightness goes with the territory.”

When everyone laughed, Amanda experienced another surge of optimism. Only two days ago, such a comment would have started a fight. Things were definitely looking up!

“Not that I don’t trust everyone implicitly,” Amanda said, “but now that you bring it up, there will be referees at all the checkpoints to stamp the appropriate section of your map.” She had arranged with Dane to hire some of his offduty employees.

“Is Mindy going to be one of those referees?” Peter asked hopefully.

“Mindy Taylor will be working the second segment,” Amanda revealed.

“There go our chances,” Don grumbled as he pulled on a pair of leather bicycle gloves. “Because with Miss America
working the second checkpoint, Peter will never get to number three.”

There was more laughter, and some good-natured teasing, along with the expected complaints from Peter, which only earned him hoots from his fellow teammates and the opposing team.

“Well,” Amanda said, glancing down at her stopwatch, “if everyone’s ready, we’ll send off the first team.”

“Oh, look!” Kelli exclaimed, pointing toward the inn. “Here comes Dane.” Amanda found the public-relations manager’s smile far too welcoming. “Hey, coach,” Kelli called out, “any last advice?”

Since the course was easily followed and everyone knew how to ride a bike, Amanda had decided it wouldn’t be necessary for Dane to be along. He was, however, scheduled to lead the upcoming backpacking trip and rockclimbing expedition.