It Takes a Rebel (11 page)

The hostess stopped at a secluded table for two near the enormous stone fireplace that held a fire, more for appearances than

for heat. He beat Alex to her chair by a heartbeat and pulled it out for her.

"Thank you," she said, sounding wary as she allowed him to scoot the seat beneath her.

After handing them a wine list, the hostess disappeared, replaced seconds later by a waiter. "Good evening, Ms. Tremont,"

he said, a genuine smile on his young face as he unfolded her napkin and draped it over her lap. But when he turned to Jack, he

faltered a bit, obviously expecting someone else. So she and Reddinger were regulars, huh?

"Rick, this is Mr. Stillman," Alex supplied. "He's a…" she glanced over at Jack, making eye contact for two whole seconds

"…business associate … of Mr. Reddinger's … and mine."

The waiter eyed him suspiciously, but nodded cordially enough.

"We'll have a bottle of chardonnay," she continued, setting aside the wine list

"I'll take another beer," Jack said.

Alex eyed him as if he were a barbarian. "Bring a carafe of chardonnay for me," she amended with a small smile.

Once the waiter left, silence enveloped them. Jack attempted to catch her gaze, but it was as if an invisible iron gate had

sprung up around her—she sat folded into herself, serene and stunning, as sleek as a cat, a different creature than the woman

who had answered the door barefoot, on the verge of going horseback riding. The dichotomy intrigued him. "You look

beautiful," he said before he could stop the words.

He got her attention, but she didn't appear particularly pleased. "Mr. Stillman—"

"Jack."

"—let's get down to business, shall we?"

Although he wanted nothing less than to talk about business, he said, "Sure. Where do you propose we begin?" She toyed

with her empty wineglass, her engagement ring twinkling under the lights. Reddinger was a very lucky man.

"First things first," she said, leveling her ice-blue gaze at him. "You were lying this morning when you said that my visit to

your office fit into some convoluted plan of yours. You had no way of knowing I would be stopping by."

"You can't prove that allegation," he said mildly, leaning his elbows on the table, etiquette be damned. God, she was

gorgeous.

She lifted one delicate eyebrow. "I don't trust you."

He lowered his voice. "Are you normally this paranoid?"

One side of her mouth drew back. "Call me prudent."

The woman had lost her sense of humor somewhere between her apartment and the restaurant parking lot. "How about if we

call a truce?" he asked, steepling his hands. "Just through dinner. Then we can go back to pecking each other to death if we

want to."

She inhaled deeply, then released the breath in a long sigh. "Okay. I suppose the first thing we need to do is figure out how

much can be feasibly delivered in the next two weeks."

"I'll follow your lead."
Anywhere you want to take me.
He blinked—where had that thought come from?

She pursed her mouth, and he could see the wheels turning in her pretty head. "I say we meet with the television producer and

a photographer as soon as possible to shoot a duster of spots around the—" she cleared her throat "—slogan."

Jack ignored her slight. "Meanwhile, I can polish the text for the print ads, come up with radio scripts, and shop around for

billboard space."

"Then my team and I will coordinate internal promotions to complement the media efforts," she said with resignation in her

voice. "We'll do the best we can with what we have to work with."

Jack gave her a wry smile. "You really should put a lid on your excitement."

The corners of her mouth curled up a fraction. "You might have blinded my father with your pseudo-celebrity, Mr. Stillman,

but I'm a bit more skeptical. By signing your agency, my staff's work is multiplied. Believe it or not, baby-sitting you for the

next two weeks isn't at the top of my wish list."

She leaned forward, offering a glimpse of her cleavage in the silky, button-up blouse.
Speaking of wish lists
. His promise to

Derek was forgotten as lust flooded his limbs. He knew he was on shaky ground, but he opened his mouth anyway. "If it's any

consolation, you are hands-down the best damn looking babysitter I've ever had."

Chapter 8

« ^ »

S
haken down to her sensible loafers, at first she thought she had misheard him. But one look at the raw invitation in Jack's eyes,

and she knew she hadn't. How did one respond to such an overt remark? Sure, the feminine part of her was flattered, but the

practical part of her was convinced he was playing her. He needed her cooperation, didn't he? The man probably knew only

one way to influence women—between the sheets.

She opened her mouth to put him in his place, but the waiter arrived with her wine and his beer, then asked for their dinner

order. Alex murmured she would have her usual, and Jack ordered a rare porterhouse steak, barbarian that he was. She capped

her agitation and concentrated on steering the conversation back to business, finally pinning him down on a delivery date for

the print ads. Within a few minutes, she felt as if she were regaining control.

"Will your brother be contributing to our account?" she asked, taking a larger swallow of wine than was probably wise on

her empty stomach.

"Not creatively," Jack said. "Derek is more of a numbers man. And he's out of town for another couple of weeks on his

honeymoon." Her expression must have given her away because he smiled and said, "You look surprised."

"I guess I assumed he was like you," she admitted, although she really didn't know what that was.

"You mean footloose and fancy free?"

So he wasn't attached. Alex lifted her glass to her mouth and nodded, more interested in his answer than she cared to reveal.

"He was, up until a couple of months ago. Derek flew to Atlanta to stand in for me as best man at my college buddy's

wedding, and ended up falling in love with the bride."

She choked on her wine, coughing and sputtering like an idiot. Jack stood and jerked on her arm as if she were three years

old, and as if it would help at all. At last, she waved him away, still tingling where his big warm fingers had touched her. "You

mean," she asked hoarsely, "that he stole his friend's fiancée?"

"Well, it's not as sordid as it sounds," he said. "They were trapped together in a hotel room under some kind of strange

quarantine, and fell in love. Janine decided to call off the wedding, then a few weeks later, she and Derek reunited and were

married."

Alex acknowledged the wine was going to her head because she actually cooed. "That's so romantic."

Jack shrugged, apparently less convinced. "I suppose."

"Is he like you in other ways?" She remembered the two of them in the yearbook, and wondered if they were as close as the

picture portrayed.

He laughed and she registered alarming pleasure at the rumbling noise. "The similarity ends at the last name. Derek is

serious, uptight, takes the weight of the world on his shoulders. But he's a great guy, and he seems really happy with Janine.

She's good for him, I think. He's lightened up quite a bit."

She propped up her chin with her hand and watched him refill her wine glass from the carafe. "Where did they go?"

"Hawaii."

"That's nice," she murmured. She'd always wanted to go to Hawaii, but the timing had never seemed right to be away from

the office. And now with the vice presidency on the line…

"A client we recently contracted with, Donald Phillips, has a condo on Maui. He was so pleased with the work Derek did on

his account that he gave him the keys for an entire month."

"Honey."

Jack's head jerked up and his eyes widened. "What?"

"Honey," she repeated, reaching for her glass. "Donald Phillips's company makes honey. I went to school with his daughter."

He relaxed, then lifted his beer.

By the time the waiter delivered their food, Alex was feeling so relaxed herself, she was reluctant to indulge in her crab cake

salad, and merely picked at it. Jack, on the other hand, dove into his steak and baked potato with such gusto, she had the feeling

if he'd been by himself, he would have tucked his napkin into his shirt collar and dispensed with utensils. With no regard to the

direction of her thoughts, she silently compared the man sitting across from her to Heath.

Jack Stillman was a man's man, big and angular and earthy, with a presence that would put most people at ease—most

people who
liked
him, she clarified quickly. Heath, conversely, was precise and scholarly, with a presence that put most

people on their best behavior. Jack had a wildness about him, from the way he talked to the way he carried himself across a

room. She wondered if he realized that nearly every woman in the restaurant was captivated by him, sliding sideways glances

his way behind reading glasses and dessert menus.

She was starting to think she was the only woman in Lexington who was immune to his good looks and casual charm. Lucky

for her, she'd gotten a glimpse of the scoundrel behind the smile before succumbing to his questionable charm. She had Heath,

and she had no desire to get mixed up with the likes of Jack Stillman, a confirmed ladies' man, with whom she would also be

working. She was warming to the idea of him starring in Tremont's commercials—women found him irresistible, it seemed.

But she still didn't trust him. The man was trouble, a rebel if she'd ever seen one, determined to have his way.

She supposed he was the same with women. Swallowing more of the dry wine, she conceded that in another place, another

time, she herself might have responded to his allure, his unrefined good looks, his smooth tongue. The mere fact that she was

aware of him physically, however, didn't alarm her, because knowledge was power. Subsequently, she made a pact with

herself as the meal progressed to keep this man at a distance with whatever emotional tools she had handy—a sharp tongue, a

cold shoulder—to preempt such an impossible situation. Who had said the best defense was a good offense? Probably some

neurotic single woman afraid of losing herself to a man. Maybe Lana, after the Bill Friar incident.

"Are you sure you feel like driving?" Jack asked an hour later when they emerged from the restaurant.

"I didn't drink much more than you did," she said, giving in to her need to lean on his arm to combat her sudden

lightheadedness.

"But I ate a full meal," he said. "And I outweigh you by at least a hundred pounds."

She blinked, trying to clear her head. "I'll be fine." She certainly wouldn't drive in this condition, but neither did she want

Jack to take her home. She'd wait in her car until he left, then walk back into the restaurant and call a cab.

"Looks like the decision was made for you," Jack said when they approached her car, pointing to a steel device locked onto

her rear wheel.

"Oh, no, they booted my car?"

"The city's new alternative to towing," he said, nodding with no apparent concern. "It's saving us thousands in tax dollars."

"Oh, shut up," she snapped, then gestured wildly. "When I pulled in, the guy leaving this spot said it was paid for for the rest

of the evening." She groaned, then kicked the device, which sent pain shooting up her leg. "Ow, ow,
ow!"

"Don't hurt yourself," he said, laughing, which only fueled her ire. While she limped in a circle, Jack pulled out a piece of

paper to write down the number on the neon sticker plastered onto her window. "Looks like it's too late to call now, but you'll

get it straightened out in the morning, and your car should be safe here overnight. Meanwhile, I'll take you home."

She stopped and straightened. "I … don't like motorcycles."

"Have you ever been on one?"

"No." Motorcycles were too … risky.
Jack
was too risky.

"It's just like riding with the top down on your convertible," Jack cajoled, steering her toward the bike.

Now didn't seem like the time to admit she'd only put the top down a handful of times, twice to get ficus trees home from the

nursery. She lifted her index finger when an idea came to her. "I don't have a helmet."

"I have a spare," he said, unlocking a storage box behind the seat.

"But … there isn't enough room for me."

To her dismay, Jack turned her around to peruse her backside, then said, "I think we'll be able to squeeze you on board."

She continued to claim she'd rather call a taxi even as he lowered a helmet to her head. Her bun was a painful obstacle.

"Ow!"

He looked amused. "Looks like you might actually have to let your hair down."

In response to his sarcasm, she withdrew two pins and released her hair, tossing it in defiance. Jack stopped suddenly and

stared down at her, his expression more serious than she'd seen all evening. He was too close for her to think straight; the man

emitted some sort of strange energy field—some kind of chemical, maybe? The perfume counter had reported mixed sales on

the new scent that contained animal pheromones. Perhaps they should have tapped Jack Stillman instead of wrestling muskrats

for the stuff.

A noisy knot of diners walked by them, breaking the spell, thank goodness. Alex was then beset with a spasm of shivers in