It Takes a Rebel (2 page)

He spread his hands. "At least give me your card so I can prove to my brother that you were here." He'd call her and

eventually wear her down—he always did.

The black-haired beauty hesitated, then withdrew a gold business card holder, extracted a card, and flicked it down on the

corner of the reception desk. She opened the door and exited to the hall. Jack caught the door and stuck out his head to watch

her walk away. Head up, her stride was long, and she never looked back as she disappeared around the corner.

Jack whistled low and under his breath. "Tight little behind, too." Spirits high, he turned back to the door and laughed aloud.

The Stillman & Sons Advertising Agency sign on the outside of the door dangled crookedly by a thin chain. He'd been meaning

to fix that, too, but the disrepair had undoubtedly been a bonus. He couldn't wait to call Derek, and he couldn't wait to call the

mystery woman. He loved a gal who played hard to get.

Jack lifted his arm and patted himself heartily on the back. Derek was always complaining that he didn't pull his weight

around the office, but from what he could see, running the place was a pure cinch. The auditor was practically in his pocket; in

fact—he cracked his knuckles with one sweeping motion—maybe he'd be able to negotiate some sort of tax-free status between

the sheets. He grinned—when he was hot, he was red-hot. Closing his eyes, he could practically feel the imprint of Tremont's

handshake tomorrow as they agreed on a deal even more lucrative than his brother could have imagined. Humming in

anticipation, Jack walked back into the messy reception area and picked up the card the smoky siren had left.

Then he nearly swallowed his smooth tongue.

Alexandria Tremont, Director of Marketing & Sales, Tremont Enterprises.

* * *

When Alex reached the parking lot, she was still marveling over the sheer audacity of Jack Stillman. She swung into her sedan,

banged the door closed, and scoffed as she turned over the key in the ignition. The man was a joke, and a lame one at that. She

wheeled out of the parking lot that was as shoddy as the so-called professional office buildings around it, making a wild guess

as to the owner of the dusty black motorcycle sitting at a cocky angle.

She hesitated for half a heartbeat, tempted to lower the rag top of her white convertible on this sunny fall day, then decided

she didn't want to have to bother with redoing her hair when she returned to the office. Funny, but she hadn't driven with the top

down nearly as much as she thought she might when she'd bought the car on impulse last spring. Lately she'd been regretting her

splurge; what had once sounded fun now seemed rather silly.

Alex dodged a pothole, then eased into side street traffic and headed for the bypass, her foot depressing the gas a little harder

as the image of Jack Stillman's smug face rose in her mind. The nerve of the man, making a pass at her! Her cheeks warmed at

the memory of his raking gaze, as if he were entitled or something, the cad.

The bronzed bum hadn't even bothered to put his best foot forward—or even don shoes for that matter—to impress a

potentially huge customer. If there was one thing she resented, it was a man with an attitude who had absolutely nothing to back

it up, and Jack Stillman appeared to be the poster boy for arrogance. He'd obviously mistaken her for the kind of woman who

would be swayed by his stray-dog good looks. The scoundrel undoubtedly planned to shmooze her and her father with good-

old-boy charm—a southern staple she'd come to despise during her rise through the ranks of the family business.

Her father had insisted, and rightfully so, that she start on the sales floor as a teenager and learn the business from the bottom

up. Over the past fifteen years, she'd worked doubly hard to overcome the stigma of being the boss's daughter. Even her own

father had resisted moving her into management, even though she knew the business inside out by the time most kids were

finishing college. She'd reached the level of director two years ago, and was now in the running for the position of vice

president of sales and marketing recently vacated by a retiree. The competition was stiff, but her record had been exemplary,

and the new vice president would be announced any day. Her father would be so proud if the board of directors chose her.

Then, perhaps, Al would be forced to recognize her contribution to the company, to stop interfering with her duties and

decisions. This situation with the Stillman & Sons agency was a perfect example. The vice presidential duties had been split

among the four sales directors for the time being, and though the responsibility of choosing a new advertising agency had been

assigned to her, her father seemed determined to give their considerable business to the doubtful Stillman & Sons agency

because of a from-the-hip promise he'd made to a Good Samaritan. The man had since passed away, but Al wouldn't hear of

'going back on his word.'

And now they were left to deal with a derelict son who read
Playboy
at the office and fancied himself a ladies' man. Alex

sighed. She really didn't need the hassle.

She lifted the lid to a compartment on her armrest, removed her cellular phone, and punched in the number for her father's

private line.

Her father answered after a half ring. "This is Al," he barked.

"It's Alex," she said. "Is this a bad time?"

"Never for you, Alex," he murmured, his voice softening. Despite his flaws, she really loved him. "What's up, my dear?"

"I just left the Stillman & Sons advertising agency."

"I thought the agency was sending someone here tomorrow morning."

The questioning tone in her father's voice made her squirm. "I, um, had some time and decided to pay them a courtesy visit."

"And?"

There it was again—that tone. "And they're not in our league, Dad." She winced at her slip because she preferred not to

address him personally when they discussed business.

"What makes you say that?"

"The place is a mess, and Jack Stillman wasn't much better—raggedy, unclean, the man even asked me out." As if she would

even
consider
going out with the buffoon.

"Can't fault his taste."

She rolled her eyes at his chuckle. "Stillman & Sons is a low-class operation."

"Did you see their portfolio?"

Alex balked. "It hardly seemed worth the trouble."

"Well, I have it on good faith that the agency is small, but good. I want to see what they have to offer. You're forgetting Alex,

we used to be the underdog."

Alex bit back her argument, knowing she couldn't change his mind when he was in such a mood. In fact, she was starting to

worry that the reason she'd been chosen for this assignment was so her father could pull the strings without appearing to.

"Okay," she conceded. "The appointment stands. I'll see you at ten in the morning."

"Have a nice day, sweetheart. By the way, Gloria wants you to come over for dinner soon."

She wrinkled her nose at the mention of her father's wife—the woman was dim
and
dull—then mouthed some vague

response before saying goodbye. Alex disconnected the call, feeling torn, as usual, after talking to her father. Was it so wrong

to want his love
and
his respect?

But as she replaced the phone, she suddenly realized she didn't have a thing to worry about where the meeting was

concerned. Jack Stillman would swagger in tomorrow looking like a wasted tourist and even her honor-bound father would

recognize the absurdity of working with the down-and-out agency.

Alex smiled and lifted her chin. With Jack Stillman's unwitting 'help' tomorrow morning she'd be able to kill two birds with

one stone: Her father would be forced to consider the reputable St. Louis advertising firm she was advocating, which also

meant he would be forced to admit that she was right. And since the episode would unfold in the presence of various VIP's, her

chance for the vice presidency would undoubtedly improve.

With a new outlook, she laughed aloud, mentally thanking the disreputable-looking advertising man for being in the wrong

place at the right time. Her dear mother had once said that every event in this seemingly disjointed world actually happened for

a reason. Apparently her mother's theory even extended to her unpleasant encounter with the repulsive Jack Stillman.

Chapter 2

« ^ »

"
D
erek's going to kill me." Jack held his head in his hands, fighting some kind of weird swirling sensation in his stomach. And

his heart was racing as if he'd just run for a ninety-nine-yard touchdown. "He's absolutely going to kill me."

"In that case, I hope you have cash."

He glanced up to the open doorway. A plump fiftyish black woman stood dressed in white pants and shirt, wearing a

lopsided red paper hat that read "Tony's." "You the stromboli sandwich with extra cheese?" she asked, her hand on one hip.

Jack nodded miserably, thinking even food wouldn't help his mood today.

"That'll be six dollars and forty cents." She dropped the sack on the desk unceremoniously and wiggled her fingers in his

direction. Her fingernails were at least two inches long. And bright yellow.

With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself to his feet and removed his wallet. He counted eight one dollar bills into her hand, then

added another when she lifted a winged eyebrow.

"You the handyman around here?" She nodded toward his tool belt as she stuffed the money into a fanny pack around her

waist

"Sort of," he mumbled. "This is my company … and my brother's."

"The murderer?"

Jack frowned. "Hmm?"

Her head jutted forward. "The man who's going to kill you—is he your brother?"

"Oh. Yeah."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

Her eyes rolled upward, and she spoke as if to a child. "Why is he going to kill you?"

Irritated by the woman's nosiness, he scowled. "It's a long story."

"Lucky for you," she said, revealing remarkably white teeth and surprising dimples. "You're my last delivery." She had a

pleasant way about her, he conceded, kind of … motherly. The woman was only trying to be nice, and what could it hurt to

unload on a stranger? He shrugged, indifferent to her interest. "I'm supposed to be running this place while my brother is gone,

but I f—" He swallowed at the disapproving look the woman shot him. "I mean, I messed up royally."

"How's that?"

He quirked his mouth from side to side. "A woman IRS agent was supposed to stop by, so when this gal showed up a while

ago, I assumed she was here for the review."

"And?"

"And instead she was here about a huge account I'm supposed to pitch tomorrow—Tremont's department stores."

"And?"

"
And
, let's just say I downplayed the success of the business a tad—not the impression I was aiming for."

"So, who was she?" She leaned against the desk and studied her nails, obviously unaware of the significance of doing

business with the southern retail chain.

"Alexandria Tremont. She must be related to the man who owns the place—"

"Daughter."

Jack stopped. "You know her?"

The woman ran a finger along the desk, then blew a quarter-inch of accumulated dust into the air. "I know of her. My son

works in menswear at their store on Webster Avenue. Says that Tremont miss is a real go-getter."

"More like a real ball buster," he muttered to himself.

"Uh-huh, and not too bad to look at, if I recall."

"A little too skinny, if you ask me."

"And single, I think my boy said."

"No wonder—she's as cold as a freaking statue."

Her eyes didn't miss a thing, bouncing from an unturned calendar to a lopsided lamp shade to the silent computer. "Uh-huh.

She's rich, too, I'll bet, and re-f-i-i-i-ned, with a royal shine."

He smirked, remembering that on top of everything else, Princess Tremont had caught him ogling a naughty magazine. "Well,

she wasn't that impressive."

She glanced at his bare feet and lifted a long yellow nail. "As opposed to you?"

Jack frowned. "I don't make a habit of trying to impress people."

The woman crossed her arms over her matronly bosom. "You married?"

"No."

"Now there's a surprise."

"But my brother is," he added, as if Derek's goodness could atone for his own sins. "In fact, he's away on his honeymoon."

She sniffed. "When's he due back, your brother?"

"In another two weeks." Jack rubbed his temples as he picked up his earlier train of thought. "And Derek will kill me when

he hears I've bungled this opportunity with Tremont."

The woman leaned over and walked her fingers through the mail pile, then harrumphed. "First, he'd have to find you in all

this mess. Where's your office manager?"

"We don't have one."

"I'll take it," she said matter-of-factly, plucking her paper hat from her head and dropping it into the trash can.

Jack blinked. "Take what?"

"The job," she said, her voice indignant. "You get back to whatever it was you were fixing—I hope it was the sign on the

door—and I'll get things organized in here."

"But there isn't a position—" The phone rang, cutting him off.

The woman yanked it up. "Stillman and Sons, how can I help you?"