Not Quite as Advertised

Not Quite as Advertised Tanya Michaels Perfectionist (n.)–someone doomed to disappointmentFor a person convinced second best simply won't do, all of a sudden Jocelyn "Joss" McBride can't seem to win. Not in the battles with her snippy Siamese or skirmishes with the fire-breathing dragon who's her mother. Or even more annoying, losing advertising awards and clients to the infuriating Hugh Brannon, her not-quite-perfect ex-lover whom she, um, sort of lost, too.Well, enough already.Like any overachiever, Joss is determined to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat–meaning beating Hugh, of course. Unfortunately, her attempts at evening the score bounce right off the Teflon man and a new suspicion dawns–if life was absolutely perfect, wouldn't it be a bore? Dear Reader, I’ve been living a double life. Oh sure, on the surface, I might seem low-key. The people who’ve seen my office—and weren’t too traumatized to speak afterward—would say I lean more toward chaos theory than perfectionism. But they just don’t know the sleep I’ve lost agonizing over the best way to phrase a single sentence. Or about that one Thanksgiving when, admittedly, I became a tad uptight in my attempts to mash the perfect potatoes. Hey, there is such a thing as smoothing out too many lumps. I’ve learned the hard way that there’s a fine line between trying your best and trying too hard. But Jocelyn McBride, my alter-ego heroine, was raised to be a perfectionist and is convinced that she can solve all her problems by giving one hundred and ten percent—even when Joss’s newest problem is her ex-lover Hugh Brannon. When Joss and Hugh are made co-workers through an unexpected business merger, her well-choreographed life spins out of control like a drunken dance troupe. But through it all, she and Hugh learn that the secret to life and love, as with mashed potatoes, is balance. If you enjoy Joss’s story, please check out my Web site at www.tanyamichaels.com (http://www.tanyamichaels.com) for excerpts of upcoming books, reader giveaways and other fun information. Happy Reading! Tanya “Joss, I don’t want anything to drink. I want—” “There’s no good way to end that sentence, Hugh,” she said softly. “Except possibly ‘the Cowboys to get to the Super Bowl this year.’ But then, I’d probably be offended that you’re thinking about football right now.” “Trust me, I’m not.” Trust him? Easier said than done. “I’ve missed you,” he told her. “We work together,” Joss reminded him. “That didn’t stop us before.” As arguments went, it wasn’t his most convincing. “Yes, and didn’t that turn out swimmingly?” Hugh wisely dropped the issue, choosing to return his dishes to the kitchen, then hovered in the hallway. “I guess I should go?” As opposed to stay and have delicious sex? “I’d see you out, but…” “You need to stay off that ankle.” True. But what she’d really been thinking was that her knees might still be too weak from his kisses for her to stand. Not Quite as Advertised Tanya Michaels www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) ABOUT THE AUTHOR RITA® Award-nominated author Tanya Michaels has been reading books all her life, and romances have always been her favorite. She is thrilled to be writing for Harlequin—and even more thrilled that the stories she makes up now qualify as “work” and exempt her from doing the dishes after dinner. The 2001 Maggie Award winner lives in Georgia with her two wonderful children and a loving husband whose displays of support include reminding her to quit writing and eat something. Thankfully, between her husband’s thoughtfulness and that stash of chocolate she keeps at her desk, Tanya can continue writing her books in no danger of wasting away. For more information on Tanya, her upcoming releases and periodic giveaways, please visit her Web site at www.tanyamichaels.com (http://www.tanyamichaels.com). Books by Tanya Michaels HARLEQUIN FLIPSIDE 6—WHO NEEDS DECAF? HARLEQUIN DUETS 96—THE MAID OF DISHONOR HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION 968—HERS FOR THE WEEKEND 986—SHEER DECADENCE With heartfelt thanks to that loopy group of women who’ve given me unfailing friendship and support, advice on everything from babies to food to grammar, and more laughs than classic SNL and Python combined. Bless you guys for always being there. Contents Chapter 1 (#ucd708eb8-f801-502e-a12a-dd3caf1fb036) Chapter 2 (#ubce8fd55-714d-5c2f-9603-d9405d57d19d) Chapter 3 (#u912ea482-8919-516d-a9e5-bc0879fd4389) Chapter 4 (#u9c95356e-8a30-5f8b-84e1-ae391499a5f7) Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo) 1 JOCELYN MCBRIDE was in hell. Who knew it would look so much like an airport? In lieu of the more obvious horns and tail, the smug little man at the gate check-in counter was sporting an orange-and-purple vest with the East West Air logo, but, judging by the barely suppressed glee in his expression, he would enjoy the eternal torment of others. “Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am, but the plane has left the gate. Perhaps you were unaware of our company’s policy encouraging passengers to check in at least an hour in advance?” “My flight out of Detroit was delayed,” Joss explained breathlessly, still winded from sprinting through O’Hare. After a dismal breakfast meeting that morning, when she’d been told her agency was not getting the account, then being grounded for an hour because of mechanical difficulties, she’d finally arrived here in Chicago. She’d jogged up to the departure gate just in time to see her plane’s backside as it turned on the tarmac. That had been the topper—being mooned by a 717. Eyebrows raised, the man with the receding hairline and conspicuously absent name badge consulted his computer screen. “This was a connection? I’m not showing any EWA—” “It was with a different airline.” Joss enjoyed her job with Visions Media, a much smaller advertising agency than the last company she’d worked for, but the much smaller expense budget left something to be desired. Convenient travel plans, for instance. “Oh, I see.” He smirked. “You chose to go with one of our competitors. How unfortunate they proved unreliable.” Client-oriented herself, Joss had marveled in the past over the occasional rude waitress, condescending bank teller or postal worker who seemed on the verge of going, well, postal. Today, she should have expected it. The EWA agent was just par for the course here at purgatory’s country club. “I realize the plane’s taxied away from the gate, but it hasn’t actually left the ground, right?” Hoping to win him over while there was still time, Joss attempted a bright smile. The result felt muddled, like the face-lift her mom’s friend Lacey had had. “Is there any chance we could call it back?” “Oh, sure. We make it a point to inconvenience hundreds of passengers to accommodate the one who couldn’t be here at final boarding call.” His sarcasm sent her newly risen hopes plummeting like the stock market on Black Thursday. Fighting the urge to abandon her own people skills and grab Mr. Helpful by his ugly polyester ascot, she reminded herself that any hint of violence would send airport security swarming. Then again, a flying body tackle by a well-muscled guy would be the most action she’d seen since her breakup last month with David. And let’s face it, David wasn’t anything to write home about. No man had been, not since— The gate agent heaved an impatient sigh. “There’s another flight in a couple of hours. Do you want me to book you on it, or not? According to the schedule, I should’ve been on my break three and a half minutes ago.” And she should be en route to Dallas! The ADster awards gala was tonight, and her More Than Common Scents campaign for a local aromatherapist had been nominated. “Yes.” She spoke through involuntarily clenched teeth. “Please get me on the very next plane.” Joss had been in the ADster running last year, too, but had placed a frustrating second behind then coworker Hugh Brannon, who’d been nominated for a separate campaign. At the time, she’d been working for the ultraprestigious Mitman Marketing Solutions…and had only recently ended her affair with charming, competitive, sexy-as-sin Hugh. He was an incredible lover, but somehow his stealing a salon account out from under her had quelled her warmer feelings for the man. Losing a promotion to him prior to the awards had been harsh; taking home a silver certificate in light of his gold trophy had been rock bottom. But, as any good geologist knew, you could get a lot lower than rock—there were whole layers of iron and crust and molten core. Joss probably shouldn’t have been so surprised when, a week later, her mother had called to ask if Joss was watching the news. Mitman Marketing had been charged with fraud. So much for prestige. Now Joss was with Visions Media Group and back on top of her game, more than ready to face Hugh tonight. One of his print campaigns with the full-service agency Kimmerman and Kimmerman was up against her aromatherapy ads. Her employer was overjoyed just to have a nomination, but Joss wanted to win. She hadn’t been raised to appreciate second place. Behind the counter, Mr. Helpful stabbed a few computer keys with his index finger. Then he stole a pointed glance at his watch—clearly her cue to genuflect with gratitude for his postponing his break to do her the favor of a seat assignment. Next time, she was flying the friendly skies. He handed over the new boarding pass in its orange-and-purple paper jacket. “I suggest you come to the gate early so that we don’t have to do this again.” Deciding a mumbled thanks was the wisest, if not the most satisfying response, she walked away. As she headed for the lounge on the other side of the corridor, she dug her cell phone out of her purse and hit the preprogrammed button for the office. “Visions Media Group.” The male voice that answered didn’t belong to receptionist Cherie Adams. “This is Joss…Nick?” “Yeah.” Like numerous advertising groups these days, Visions was small, made up of fewer than a dozen people. But they weren’t so tiny that the graphic design/IT guy usually played secretary. “Where’s Cherie?” “She had a dental emergency,” he said. “Where are you? Over Indiana?” “No.” She sat on a padded vinyl stool in the passenger bar and darted a malevolent glance over her shoulder toward the now abandoned gate counter. “I missed my connection out of O’Hare.” “Missed your connection? Joss, the awards are tonight!” You don’t say. Nick was a good guy, though, so she spared him her cranky sarcasm. “I’m on a flight at five,” she said. “My car’s at DFW, and if traffic’s not too bad, I should be able to just make it. I’m going to call Emily now. If she can drop off my dress and shoes, can you meet me in the lobby tonight?” “Sure…How’d it go with Neely-Richards?” “The presentation seemed to go well, but then Neely told me over breakfast that they ‘went in another direction.’” The industry lingo for “thanks, but not a chance” stuck uncomfortably in her throat. “They voted last night to name a firm in New York their exclusive agency of record.” “To handle promotion of stores they’re opening out West? Too bad they didn’t come to this brilliant decision before we ate the expense of the trip.” “It happens.” She attempted to sound philosophical. Winners did not cultivate bad attitudes. “Don’t worry about it. I have two meetings next week I feel really good about.” “Right. Sorry things aren’t going better now, though.” So was she. Her boss, Wyatt Allen, had been a bit preoccupied lately, almost tense, and if he was worried about business, this contract would have really helped. “See you in a few hours, then,” Nick said. “It would really stink if you didn’t get to accept your aromatherapy trophy in person.” She groaned. “There’s a reason we hired you to do visual and not copy.” Her friend’s sense of humor was a lot like the common cold—there was no known cure, and you just had to suffer through it. She liked his optimism, though. Her second call was to her best friend, business-communications professor Emily Gruber. “Hey, Em. It’s me. You have a minute before class?” “You mean the sixty seconds I’m using to magically finish all the grading I put off?” Emily’s sigh was rueful. “I know, I know—I’m worse than the students. But these mock cover letters and r?sum?s make me fear for the future of the country.” Joss laughed. “It’s barely October. You have the rest of the semester to whip your students into shape.” Well, not so much “whip,” as gently nudge. Emily’s classes always had high numbers because she was known for being something of a soft touch. “I won’t keep you, but can I ask a quick favor?” “At least you ask,” her friend said cheerfully. “Simon just lets me know what I can do for him.” Joss bit back her first instinctive reply. Much as she loved Emily, Joss had never really warmed to Em’s boyfriend—Dr. Simon Lowe, Ph.D. and SOB. The pompous man took Emily for granted. But, since Joss herself was calling to impose, perhaps now wasn’t the optimal time to lecture her friend on telling people no. “I’m stuck in Chicago,” Joss said, “and have the ADsters tonight. Would it be possible for you to run by my house later, pick up my dress and some essentials and leave them at the office?” “Sure, no problem. Dulcie will appreciate the extra visit.” Since Joss didn’t know any of her new neighbors very well, Emily had agreed to stop by and feed the chocolate-point Siamese while Joss was gone. “Will you have time to get to the office, or is someone bringing your clothes to the awards?” “Nick’s taking care of that. You are an absolute lifesaver, Em. The only other person with a key is my mother.” And, at the moment, Joss would rather lie on the runway and let a plane roll over her than call Vivian McBride. No doubt her mom would have had the forethought to travel with her ensemble for the evening, just to be safe. Plus, if Joss phoned, Vivian would automatically ask about the results of the business trip. Nothing solidified the thrill of failing quite like sharing the failure with her mother. “Just let me know what to grab,” Emily said. “We want to make sure you look fabulous for your big win.” As Joss listed everything she needed, she experienced a twinge of anxiety. First, Nick’s remark about Joss taking home the trophy, now Emily’s assurance of a “big win.” Optimism or not, the word jinx came to mind. She was proud of her work—you didn’t succeed in advertising by feigning modesty—but underestimating the opposition would be a mistake. Hugh Brannon could charm his way into a nunnery, and he often produced campaigns as slick as he was…even if some of his accounts with Kimmerman and Kimmerman did rely heavily on the marketing equivalent of name-dropping, substituting celebrities for creativity. “Joss? You still there?” “Yeah. I was just trying to think if there was anything else I need. Thanks again, I really appreciate this.” “You’re welcome. And good luck tonight!” She needed it, Joss thought as she punched in her home number to check her machine. Two messages, both for Bob—the apparent former owner of her new phone number. She tried not to think about the fact that he got more calls than she did, but her mind just wandered back to her nervousness about tonight. Hugh Brannon had already beat her once, and even if he didn’t pull it off a second time, there were four other deserving nominees in the regional print-campaign category. Her stomach knotted. Where’s your winning attitude, Jocelyn? Maybe it had taken the flight to Dallas without her. SINCE HER PLANE from Chicago left on schedule and she hadn’t checked any luggage for the airline to lose, Joss arrived at the downtown awards site with eight and a half minutes to spare. And here I thought I’d be pressed for time to get ready. Despite knowing she didn’t have to be inside the ballroom at the exact time printed on her invitation, years of hearing “Perfection begins with punctuality, Jocelyn” rang in her head. Ask not for whom the annoying voice tolls… As promised, Nick Sheperd stood in the hotel lobby, shifting his weight and looking uncomfortable. “Thanks so much,” she greeted him breathlessly. “I couldn’t very well wear this to the awards.” “This” was a utilitarian navy pantsuit perfect for business travel, over a crisp white blouse that had been rendered considerably less so when a fellow passenger dumped his soft drink on her midturbulence. “I’m just glad you’re finally here,” Nick said, a relieved expression on his lean, unshaven face. “I was beginning to feel stupid standing with a dress and a bunch of flowers.” “Flowers?” She’d noticed her garment bag draped over a nearby powder-blue love seat. Taking a second look, she saw the vase of red roses on the tiled floor, and sighed. “David, I presume?” It was identical to the arrangement she’d received from her ex-boyfriend on Valentine’s Day, her birthday and their six-month anniversary. They hadn’t made it to seven. Nick nodded, the overhead light reflecting off the mousse he’d used to carefully spike his hair tonight. “He sent them to the office, and I brought them with me so they wouldn’t wilt over the weekend.” She studied the flowers. When you care enough to send the very clich?. Maybe she should be touched that David remembered her big night, but it was hard to work up any real emotion now when he hadn’t shown any throughout their relationship. While she’d given the relationship her customary one hundred and ten percent, David fell back on pat gestures. He was the type of person who preferred the ease of gift certificates to actually picking out something personal and would buy ten copies of the same generic birthday card to send to friends and family. She, on the other hand, had already started looking for the perfect Christmas present for Emily, even though it was only October. Joss was in the habit of finishing her holiday shopping before Thanksgiving. In all fairness to David, he’d never made an effort to hide his minimalist approach to relationships. One of the things she’d found attractive about him in the beginning was how different he’d been from charming ubersalesman Hugh, who gave women the same full-court press he gave prospective clients. Joss should have ended things with David sooner, but breakups were failures, and she’d been loath to admit another romantic defeat. She scooped up her garment bag, needing to correct her soda-stained clothes and limp travel hair before anyone else saw her. “I’m going to dash into the ladies’ room and change. See you inside?” “Or…I could wait here if you want. Then I can run your stuff out to your car while you go in and mingle with more important people.” His hazel eyes twinkled. “I know it’ll cause you actual physical pain if you’re late.” Ignoring the teasing dig, she smiled. “That would be great, Nick. I’d love a chance to talk to Wyatt before the dinner presentation starts.” She was hoping she could pick up some clues in casual conversation about what was bothering her employer. Perhaps she was overreacting to his recently quiet mood and a few frowns, but a little paranoia was understandable after her last employer had been indicted for fraud. Carrying her dress and purse, Joss hurried toward the bathroom. She hung the garment bag on the inside of a stall door, then quickly stripped. As she wiggled into a pair of panty hose, the nylons snagged on her thumbnail, and the resulting run spread like a jagged fungus of tiny multiplying rectangles. Giving in to a rare impulse, she let loose a satisfying string of obscenities that summed up her day thus far. “Ahem,” someone said from an adjoining stall. Whoops. “Sorry!” Joss called. “Didn’t realize anyone else was in here.” With the way her day was going, the person she’d offended was tonight’s awards presenter. Joss had a brief, painful picture of going up on stage in shredded hose to accept an award from a woman glaring at her. Joss glanced hopefully at the bottom of the bag. Nestled beneath the hem of her strapless muted red dress, with her shoes and travel jewelry case, was the wished-for extra pair. Bless you, Em. The slit in her calf-length skirt was meant to reveal a little leg, and Joss would have worried all night that the run was visible. One shimmy, zip and shrugged-into bolero jacket later, she was fully dressed. She hung her discarded suit in the garment bag and opened the door, glancing sheepishly at the pinch-faced woman washing her hands. What Joss would’ve liked was time to completely redo her makeup and put curlers in her shoulder-length layered blond hair. What she settled for was a loose chignon and fresh lipstick. She exchanged her small gold hoop earrings for a pair of elongated ruby teardrops, then returned to the lobby, where she found Nick pacing and jostling his car keys. He stopped long enough to grin in approval. “You did that in five minutes? If you ever decide to have a meaningless affair with a much younger guy, let me know.” Four years was not much younger. “I can’t think about you that way, Nicky. You’re like the annoying little brother I never had.” He laughed and held out his hand for her stuff. “Keys? Wyatt and Penelope just went inside.” Wyatt Allen, a grizzled veteran of the advertising world, ran Visions Media Group. His wife, Penelope, had made participating in various charities her full-time occupation, but she chipped in from time to time at Visions, helping with paperwork and receptionist duties. Joss handed Nick her key ring, and he pivoted to go, pausing at the last second with an expression of endearing uncertainty shadowing his face. “How do I look?” She smiled inwardly. Ad execs stuck to a professional dress code, but people who were strictly on the creative end were allowed, even encouraged, to project a less orthodox image. Everyone at Visions knew Nick aspired to a wardrobe that would help keep Ralph Lauren in business, but in an underdressed attempt to look the part, he now wore an iridescent unstructured blazer with a striped shirt and dark funky jeans. “Like the opening act at a rock concert,” she told him. “Thanks.” Nick turned toward the revolving doors. “I think.” Joss went to the ballroom, pausing just inside the doorway to let her eyes adjust to the dimmed chandeliers and flickering candles on the white linen tablecloths. Bland jazz played through speakers in the back of the room, but it was mostly drowned out by the hum of conversation. Maybe being late was no longer fashionable—the impressive crush of people made it difficult to find the round table reserved for Visions Media Group. “Quite a crowd tonight,” a man said near her ear. She almost jumped. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself against Hugh Brannon’s husky bedroom voice and the bubbles of nervous anticipation fizzing through her system. Obviously the crowd wasn’t big enough. 2 “HUGH.” JOSS TURNED, confident in her composed expression. She’d won plenty of poker games, this one was just played without cards. “It’s a pleasure to see you.” Viscerally speaking, her words were true. What woman wouldn’t be pleased to see a tall tuxedoed man who looked like Hugh? With his thick black hair, short in the back but longer and sexily disheveled around his face, his laser-blue eyes and finely chiseled flawless features, he was hot without even trying. But then he’d smile. Hugh Brannon’s teasing grin and accompanying dimples could convince female Eskimos to line up to buy ice. “A pleasure?” he echoed. “My, how we in marketing do bend the truth.” “Speak for yourself.” Joss smiled sweetly. “My ads use honesty and ingenuity.” “And mine use…?” “Overpaid celebrities, mostly.” “Well, I do work for a large agency with the budget for network commercials and well-known stars.” His tone was annoyingly indulgent. “I guess you’re in a different position.” The streamlined Visions Media Group might not produce glamorous spots for national television, but some of advertising’s most memorable campaigns, such as the milk mustache, had been print. And for all that Hugh liked to needle her, he oversaw his share of regional work. To hear him tell it, you’d think he was single-handedly responsible for the ads played during the Super Bowl. She scoffed. “You’re not up against me because of national commercials.” He swept his gaze over her. “I miss being up against you.” His words caught her off guard, and a pang of desire tightened her midsection. Should she glare, which he fully deserved, or look away in case she blushed tellingly? Not an oh-I’m-embarrassed-by-your-sexual-references girlish blush. An oooh-that-sounds-good-to-me-too flush of color. She might have a great bluffing expression, but there wasn’t much she could do about her fair skin. “So…” Hugh glanced around. “Donald’s not with you tonight?” She didn’t bother correcting him since he knew perfectly well her ex-boyfriend’s name was David. There had been an uncomfortable encounter at a convention in Houston over the summer, and Hugh had childishly insisted on calling David “Dale” all night. “We’re not seeing each other anymore,” she said. He shook his head. “Broke his heart, too, huh?” Please. As if she were the one who’d hurt him? “At least he had one.” Instead of arguing, he brought out the big guns—the seductive smile that lit his eyes and managed to be both boyish and enticingly adult. “You look fantastic, Joss.” So did he. “I certainly think so.” He chuckled at her cool response, and the low, rich laugh turned her insides to traitorous goo. “What about you, no date tonight?” Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have shown the slightest interest in his love life, but she was willing to make an exception since he’d broached the topic. “Of course not.” He feigned shock. “What woman could compare to you?” Infuriating man. Which, come to think of it, was redundant. “I forgot how full of it you are,” she said. “Really?” His smile vanished, and he brushed a finger across her cheek. “I haven’t been able to forget a thing about you.” It was a pitch, she reminded herself, a sale. Hugh was an ad man who went with what he thought the target audience wanted to hear. She should end this exchange, but she didn’t want to be the one to walk away. If only Nick would come in, she could excuse herself gracefully. Since it didn’t look as if anyone was bringing her a file in a cake, she’d have to spring her own escape. “We shouldn’t stand in the doorway like this.” “True. Buy you a drink?” “Very generous…considering it’s an open bar.” “It sounded more gallant than, wanna go get a free watered-down cocktail with me?” “Since when do you care about being gallant?” The old pain was numbed but still there, like emotional scar tissue. “I had you pegged more as opportunistic.” His jaw clenched, but then he shrugged. “Have it your way. I just thought maybe you could use a drink before you take second to my first. Again.” Not if there was any justice in the world. Her nomination this year was a first for Visions Media Group, and though Wyatt was ecstatic about the added credibility it lent his small company, she wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less than victory. Somewhere deep down, she questioned how healthy her desire to win was, but her mom had taught her that “also-ran” meant nothing. Besides, knocking Hugh down a peg would be a favor to the universe, benefiting all mankind. Womankind, at the very least. And it’s not like I’ve taken ambition to an unwholesome level. She wasn’t some unscrupulous nut who’d smear her opponent’s reputation, or bribe judges or throw virgin sacrifices into volcanoes to appease deities. Good thing, since the Dallas-Fort Worth area was as lacking in volcanoes as her social circle was in virgins. Inching away, she went with a more direct brush-off this time. “You’ll have to excuse me, Hugh. I see my boss over there, and he wanted a preview of my acceptance speech.” “By all means.” He didn’t reiterate his prediction of winning, but his smirk conveyed the message all the same. She ground her back teeth together as she walked away. Tuxedo, eight hundred and fifteen dollars. Cost of admission to ADster Awards Dinner, ninety dollars. Hugh Brannon’s ego, limitless. “AND THE GOLD ADSTER goes to…” Tessa St. Martin, a curvy woman in a short sequined dress, opened the envelope. Hugh waited along with everyone else for the winner’s name. “Kimmerman and Kimmerman’s Life in Motion campaign for ATC Tires! Hugh Brannon, account supervisor.” He shoots, he scores. The crowd didn’t exactly go wild, but all around the table, Hugh’s co-workers began congratulating him. Individual awards were given out for specific creative contribution, but recognition for an overall campaign went to the person who’d coordinated the client’s branding with the agency’s work. In this case, Hugh. His friend Mike Denton slapped him on the arm, and Kimmerman Sr. himself reached across the table to shake Hugh’s hand. Standing, Hugh nodded his thanks, but his mind drifted for a second to a fellow nominee across the room. He knew without seeing her that Jocelyn would be smiling graciously—as if she were actually happy for him—and clapping along with everyone else. He also knew she was crushed by her perceived “failure.” She’s got to learn not to take these things so seriously, he thought as he walked to the onstage podium. A competitive man himself, he didn’t mean to be hypocritical about Joss’s drive. He loved to win, and he was glad for the accolades. It wasn’t easy to make all-terrain tires memorable and entertaining, and he’d worked hard to integrate his team’s ideas with the client’s needs. But Joss worked hard at everything. If she kept up her pace and intensity, she’d have an ulcer. Or worse. His smile faltered at the dark thought, but he reclaimed it as he took his trophy and kissed Tessa’s cheek. Reciting his speech, he checked his impulse to look for Joss. Seeing her earlier tonight had been as galvanizing as the bell ringing at the opening of a boxing match, except fighting wasn’t what he wanted to do with her. Not the only thing, anyway. There’d been a time when their verbal sparring had been a prelude to mind-blowing sex. Despite telling himself he wouldn’t seek Joss out, he continued to subconsciously scan the crowd as he acknowledged the creative team he’d supervised. Ah—there she was, as gorgeous as ever and forcing herself to smile. Looking at her genial expression, no one would ever guess her fondest wish was to see Hugh shish-kebabbed on an open flame. Last year, she’d shocked him by walking over from Mitman’s second reserved table to congratulate him. It had been the only time she’d voluntarily spoken to him between his landing the Stefan’s Salons account and their parting of ways during the investigation of Mitman. He and Joss had worked in client recruitment, in no way associated with the departments accused of selling falsely manufactured data and using exaggerated focus-group numbers to cut costs and research time. But in spite of her blamelessness, after the industry scandal broke, Joss had become even more determined to prove herself than before—which he hadn’t realized was possible. Knowing there were other awards still to be presented, Hugh wrapped up his remarks. “There are doubtless others I could thank, but you all don’t want to listen to me drone on when there are more important people in the room.” He winked at Tessa, who stood stage left. Tessa was attractive, but she was no Joss McBride. He returned to his seat, managing not to look in Joss’s direction again, but her features were already etched on his memory. She was wearing her hair back tonight, but he preferred it down, softly framing an oval face with a stubborn chin. Her slim nose and high forehead added classic elegance, but her smoky jade eyes and full mouth promised untamed sensuality. If her face had left an indelible print on his mind, it was nothing compared to the impression her body had left on his. Joss could be as cool and tart as iced lemonade when she wanted to be, but he knew from the three glorious weeks he’d spent in her bed that the woman burned like living flame. Unfortunately for him, her passion also led to grudges, and when he’d won the account she’d been eyeing—and the resulting promotion—she’d refused to forgive him. Her uncompromising stance was a prime example of her taking something personally. He’d been doing his job! Sure, she’d been interested in the account, but her pitches hadn’t accomplished anything, and rivalry had always been part of their relationship. He certainly wouldn’t have kicked her out of bed if the situation had been reversed. He wouldn’t have kicked her out of bed for selling state secrets to foreign governments. More recently, Kristine Dillinger, a woman from his neighborhood, occasionally shared Hugh’s bed. Athletic and easygoing, Kristine was always up for a great weekend, whether it was going to a bed-and-breakfast in the country with early-morning hiking, or pizza and a leisurely night at his place. As long as they were both single, they got together when they felt like it and owed each other no phone calls or explanations in between. Their friendship was as comfortable as it was casual. No where-did-he-see-himself-in-five-years, what-kind-of-provider-would-he-be analysis. He hated dates that felt like job interviews. Maybe she didn’t set off the internal bells and whistles that Joss had, but time spent with Kristine was a helluva lot more relaxing. He would have invited her tonight, but she would have been bored. He was bored by now, and he was one of the evening’s honorees. A few months ago, he might’ve taken tonight more seriously, but he’d learned to loosen up. Unlike some people. When the awards presentation ended, he found himself trapped in conversation with a gregarious copywriter from WOW Concepts. Hugh nodded at the copywriter’s predictions about the Dallas economy, but his focus was really on Joss as she moved through the throng of well-wishers. She’d taken off the scarlet-and-gold jacket she’d worn earlier, and the smooth curves of her exposed shoulders left him wanting to see more. His body hummed with awareness as she drew closer. And what’s another word for that awareness? Tension. Joss was often intense, or tense, period. He didn’t need that in his life. But needing and wanting were different. He knew from firsthand experience that, in the right circumstances, her intense focus was pretty damn hot. Having abandoned all pretense of being involved in the conversation, Hugh glanced back at the copywriter. “I’m sorry, I just noticed an old friend trying to get my attention. Would you excuse me?” He freed himself, but hadn’t taken two steps in Joss’s direction before she reached him. “Hugh.” Her expression, both regal and grimly determined, called to mind heroic martyrs of bygone eras. Joss of Arc. “I just wanted to say congratulations.” “Thanks.” He spared her the condescending crap about how, win or lose, it was an honor to be nominated and how her campaign had been deserving, too. “Well.” She shifted her weight. “Guess I’ll see you again next year.” The Dallas advertising community wasn’t so big that they never ran into each other, but she certainly didn’t seek him out. She was only speaking to him now because she felt obligated, the way football rivals shook hands after the game. Over her shoulder, Hugh noticed her boss, Wyatt Allen, shaking hands with Robert Kimmerman Sr. Graciously accepting second place must be in Vision’s mission statement. Having fulfilled her obligation, Joss turned to go, but Hugh found he didn’t want to give her up yet. She’d always sparked something inside him, for better or worse, and he’d forgotten just how alive he felt around her. “Wait…I never did buy you that drink.” Even as the words left his mouth, he wondered what he was doing. The woman detested him. So you have nothing to lose. Besides, she might surprise him. Nostalgic interludes between ex-lovers happened all the time, and if she recalled their three weeks together with the same— She narrowed her eyes in a scowl that brought his happy train of thought to a screeching halt. “You have got to be kidding me, Brannon.” “What? A drink’s harmless.” “Harmless, my butt.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re getting that look. Don’t even try to deny it.” It had been worth a shot. “I seem to recall your liking ‘that look,’” he said with an unrepentant grin. “I was young and stupid.” “You were twenty-six. You’re barely twenty-eight now. And, Jocelyn, you’ve never been stupid.” For a fleeting victorious moment, he had her speechless. But nothing good lasted forever. “Everyone makes mistakes,” she quipped. “You were just an easy way to meet my quota.” “You wound me.” “I try.” Didn’t he know it. Whether it was taking Southwestern cooking classes, futile attempts to train her cat or fleecing everyone else at the table in high-stakes poker, she exerted the same level of effort. Why couldn’t she have unproductive noncompetitive fun once in awhile? And what degree of control-freak insanity did it take for someone to try to train a cat? Hugh sighed. It wasn’t that he had no work ethic, it was just that his brother Craig’s heart attack had been a startling wake-up call. “Take care of yourself, J.” “I…You, too.” She regarded him curiously, then shook her head. Within moments, she’d merged into the crowd, a flash of red among less colorful individuals. As he drove home later, Hugh told himself it was best Joss hadn’t taken him up on his offer of a nightcap. Given their history, they would have ended up trying to outdrink one another, and alcohol poisoning was not his idea of a good time. Hugh may have gained new perspective since the collapse of his older brother, the attorney, this summer, but he still had a competitive nature thirty years in the making. Growing up, he and his two brothers had competed over everything from athletics to academics to attention from their parents. There had been some friction—particularly between Hugh, to whom many things came easily, and Craig, who resented “losing” to someone three years his junior—but most of the brothers’ fighting had been of the short-lived let’s-just-deck-each-other-then-go-for-beer variety. Overall, the pressure they put on one another had spurred them to higher achievements. Since college, no one had challenged Hugh quite like that. Until he’d met Joss. Both ambitious junior execs on the fast-track to success, they’d been natural rivals for each other. Everyone said opposites attracted, but he and Joss mirrored each other, and he’d never wanted a woman more. In some ways, he’d been in peak form when working with her, but his time with Joss had also made him more like his workaholic brother Craig. Hugh had once thought he and Joss brought out the best in each other. It was equally possible they brought out the worst. DESPITE A BRIGHT NOONDAY SUN, the breeze that carried mist from the fountain in Williams Square was enough to chill Joss’s skin. Emily, however, didn’t seem to mind. She nudged Joss off the sidewalk, toward the nine bronze mustangs caught in a frozen gallop across the plaza. The fountain sculpture was one of Emily’s favorite places, and they walked by anytime they had lunch in Las Colinas. Today, they’d shared stromboli at an Italian caf? overlooking Mandalay Canal. Joss had filled her friend in on the details of last night, and Emily had told her about the good book she’d read after Simon blew off their date for a “networking opportunity” with one of the college deans. “Aren’t you cold?” Joss demanded. She had on a long-sleeved henley, while her brunette friend wore short sleeves. “No, why?” Why, indeed. Joss freely admitted that, of the two of them, Emily was warmer—inside and out. Which was why she deserved someone who fully appreciated her. “Hey, Em…do you ever think about what it would be like to be with someone besides Simon?” Emily’s eyes widened. “You mean like cheating on him?” “No, I meant if things didn’t work out. Hypothetically.” “Why wouldn’t they? Do you think I’m doing something wrong?” “Of course not! Like I said, it was strictly a hypothetical question. I didn’t mean to alarm you.” Seeking divine assistance, Joss rolled her eyes heavenward. “Simon’s lucky to have you. Don’t let him make you feel inferior.” “He’s not ‘making’ me feel anything. You know how I am, Joss.” With a sigh, Emily sat on a shadowed ledge near the fountain. “We aren’t all born with your self-confidence.” Born with confidence…or just born to a very determined mother? A memory surfaced of an elementary-school choir recital—Joss had loved to sing, despite tentative pitch, and she’d been looking forward to the concert. But when all the parents had filed into the auditorium, her knees had started knocking in time to the pianist’s metronome. Her voice squeaky with nerves, she’d still managed to warble through her stage fright. She’d been filled with a huge sense of accomplishment and renewed confidence…until her mother announced on the drive home that she wasn’t about to let her daughter make such a public fool of herself again. If Jocelyn wanted to sing, Vivian would help her do it well. A week later, Joss had begun private voice lessons, with her mother’s full support. The kind of support that ensured job security for therapists. Giving up the sun that hadn’t been keeping her warm anyway, Joss sat next to her friend in the shade. “Trust me, Em, there are plenty of things I’m bad at. And you’re selling yourself short. Not everyone can teach. Or write.” “Sure.” Emily pitched a penny into the softly gurgling water, and Joss wondered what today’s wish had been. “Put me on the other side of a piece of paper, or in front of a whole class, I’m fine. It’s one-on-one interactions that make me nervous.” This came as no surprise to Joss. The two women had met when Mitman did some publicity work for the university, and though they’d hit it off pretty quickly, Emily was shy. The middle child between two boisterous brothers, Em was known for being quiet and accommodating—qualities that had led to her being hurt more than once, but also made her a soothing person to be around. Joss, at the other end of the spectrum, knew she wasn’t exactly lowkey, and appreciated the balance her friend helped provide. When Joss had first met David, she’d hoped he might be the romantic equivalent of a male Emily. He’d been more the romantic equivalent of a brick. What business did she really have trying to push Em to the realization that Simon was all wrong for her? Joss hadn’t had any more lasting success in her love life than her friend, whose pre-Simon relationships had included a compulsive liar and a man who waffled weekly between Em and his ex-wife, but was at least honest about it. Thankfully, Emily changed the subject away from men entirely. “I was impressed with the improvements on the house, by the way. I went over to feed Dulcie, expecting a certified disaster, but it wasn’t as bad as you made it sound. I think maybe you’re just expecting too much too soon.” “Who, me?” The new house—rather, the seventy-year-old house she’d recently purchased—was either her pride and joy, or the albatross mortgaged around her neck for the next three decades. Depending on what day you asked. She’d been en route to a subdivision of shinier modern homes with programmable digital thermostats and updated appliances when she’d driven by the neglected two-story for sale. It hadn’t been what she was looking for, but it had stood out among the houses she’d seen, with their cookie-cutter floor plans and treeless postage-stamp-size yards. Ultimately, the urge to perfect had been irresistible—she could buy the house at a bargain and reshape its raw appeal into her dream home. Of course, recent business demands had thus far impeded her brilliant renovation schemes. And the “bargain” was costing her a fortune. Emily’s continued reassurance was cheering. “The refinished dining-room floor looks terrific—I don’t understand why anyone carpeted over that hardwood in the first place!” “Thanks. I plan to put hardwood in the foyer, too.” It was on her ever-growing to-do list. “And I was really impressed with the progress on the wraparound porch. I made it all the way to the door without once worrying I was going to crash through rotting steps.” Progress was being made, but the porch would have been done by now if the man Joss had hired didn’t have all manner of excuses for delaying. Weather, supplies, an emergency across town, his astrologist telling him Jupiter was in the wrong house for him to handle nails that day…Patience, she reminded herself. Rome wasn’t build in a day. Maybe Caesar couldn’t find a decent contractor, either. “All right, I suppose I am a little impatient. I just can’t wait to see what everything will look like once it all comes together.” Whatever century that was. “I’ve got to get a new water heater, though. And I still haven’t decided on colors for the downstairs bathroom or my bedroom.” Emily laughed. “I would’ve decorated the bedroom first and let everything else sit for months.” “I don’t think ‘sitting’ is an option for the water heater. It’s a disaster waiting to happen, and I haven’t finished my room because I just haven’t seen anything truly perfect yet. And then there’s that hideous kitchen…” Joss was in the middle of painstakingly stripping the current wallpaper. Current only in the sense that it happened to be on the wall, not that it bore any resemblance to something presently fashionable. She’d been pleased with how easy it was to peel off the busy vertigo-inducing pattern, but then discovered the reason she’d been able to remove the paper so quickly was because it hadn’t actually been attached to the wall. Instead, there was a second print—less busy, just as ugly—beneath. She’d now uncovered three strata left by previous generations. My kitchen, the suburban archeological dig. Joss was investigating interesting sociological issues, such as how the hell had avocado and gold become so popular in the first place? Mercifully, the third layer of paper, a lovely shade of bordello red, appeared to be the last. Joss didn’t expect any more prints to pop up like never-ending clowns out of one of those little circus cars. The bad news, however, was that older wallpapers were considerably more difficult to remove than what was being manufactured these days, especially if the paper turned out to be “nonporous,” as her call-girl crimson was. Now that Joss was back in town after her unsuccessful meeting with Neely-Richards, she needed to buy a puncturing roller and rent a wallpaper steamer. Probably not today, though. She already had a list of errands that might well take her into middle age, including Dulcie’s annual vaccinations this afternoon. The fact that the veterinarian was a great-looking guy helped compensate for the Siamese’s weeklong grudges after clinic visits. Joss glanced at her watch with a sigh. “Lunch was great,” she said, “but I’m afraid I need to run. I’ve got to take Dulcie to see the cute vet at three, and I should get around to looking at tile samples for that downstairs bathroom. You don’t, by any chance, want to come with me and help narrow down a color scheme, do you?” “Actually, I have to get going, too.” Emily stood. “I’ve got some work to do before Simon picks me up. We’re having an early dinner and catching a movie at that art house he likes.” “He likes?” “I like it, too.” Emily’s mumbled response didn’t change the fact that she went to most of the movies on her “must-see” list with Joss, then reportedly spent her dates with Simon squinting at foreign-film subtitles. “And he’s right about me—my horizons could use some broadening.” All right, that did it! There was nothing wrong with Emily. Or her horizons. If Simon couldn’t appreciate her, Joss just might have to help her find someone who would. Hmm, come to think of it, Dan Morris, the cute vet, was single. Joss would have dated him herself, but Dan was a dog person. She was allergic. “Joss?” “Uh-huh?” “Should I be worried?” Emily asked as they turned toward the sidewalk that would lead them back to their respective cars. “For a second there, you had that same look of psychotic determination as when you peeled off the second layer of wallpaper and we found the third. Everything okay?” Joss smiled, thinking what adorable kids Em and Dr. Dan could have. “Absolutely perfect.” 3 AFTER DISCOVERING Dr. Dan had recently started seeing someone and then spending a fruitless hour studying color samples, Joss arrived home Saturday evening with a taupe-tan-rosy-beige migraine and a hissing Siamese who harbored plans to lacerate her while she slept. Despite the imminent kitty threat, she retired to bed early after a salad and a TV movie. It had been an exhausting week, and she needed rest before she tackled any of the formidable redecorating. She snuggled under the duvet and crashed hard, waking Sunday to a feeling of invigorated well-being…that lasted three and a half seconds. Then she winced in uncomfortable realization. Damn, she thought as she reached in her nightstand drawer for the plastic aspirin bottle, it was that time of the month. Brunch with her mother. Amazing how quickly headache threatened at the thought of seeing Vivian. Joss was tempted to cancel, saying she was under the weather, but mothers didn’t fall for that sort of thing—a lesson she’d learned when she’d claimed appendicitis in a fifth-grade attempt to gain more study time for a math test. Of course, she might’ve been more convincing if she’d been clutching her right side. She stomped toward the shower, wondering what kind of mood the schizophrenic water heater would be in today, and ignored Dulcie’s feline smirk from the foot of the bed. The vengeful Siamese, a Christmas present from Vivian three years ago, obviously sensed that Joss’s day would be an experience comparable to yesterday’s shots. Though Joss and her mother lived in the same urban area, they only saw each other on the first Sunday of each month, meeting for strained brunches. Maybe it was an odd tradition, considering their busy schedules and the lack of effusive affection between them, but they were each all the family the other had. Today was likely to be even less pleasant than usual, Joss thought as she washed her hair. Vivian had made her mark in the city as a high-end real estate agent, and she hadn’t been amused when her only daughter bought a house without once picking up the phone to consult her. You’d think she would applaud my self-sufficiency. After all, it was Vivian who had always endorsed striving for excellence and relying only on yourself. Viv’s motto was an adjusted version of the army’s—Be All You Can Be…because you can’t depend on anyone else. A cynical creed, perhaps, but one that had helped her raise a child by herself, while not only holding a job, but becoming something of a local expert in her field. Vivian never accepted anything short of excellence. Still, Joss thought as she went to her closet and debated what to wear, just once, it might be nice if she and her mother went somewhere casual, where they could relax and catch up and…wait, she must be thinking of someone else’s mom. Normally, their monthly brunches were held at a French bistro near Vivian’s condominium, but there had recently been a change in chefs. Joss’s mother refused to set foot in the place until “culinary integrity” was restored. Instead, Vivian had picked out the Well-Fed Waif, a place downtown that consistently garnered rave reviews. Joss could attest to the excellent service and food, but these days, she rarely visited the restaurant where she’d once been a regular. Located around the corner from where the Mitman offices had been, the Waif had been a favorite of hers and Hugh’s. It would be heavenly to enjoy the restaurant’s eggs Florentine again, she thought as she pulled on a lightweight turtleneck. Of course, since it had been a place she and Hugh had visited often and since she’d seen him so recently, he was bound to cross her mind. But that just made today the perfect opportunity for an emotional exorcism. What better way to drive out lingering memories of intimate working dinners and shared glances over morning mimosas than a few hours with her mother? “IF I’VE DONE SOMETHING to offend you,” Joss muttered, “just turn me into a dung beetle and get it over with.” Vivian paused in her small talk with the Versace-clad hostess standing behind a stained-wood podium. “Who are you talking to, Jocelyn?” The universe. “Nobody.” “Mumbling isn’t very well-bred,” her mother reprimanded. Neither was the four-letter word that had sprung to Joss’s mind when she’d entered the Well-Fed Waif and spotted Hugh Brannon. He sat at a corner table near the decorative fireplace, across from a gentleman who looked about Vivian’s age. Obviously the cosmos was having a little joke at Joss’s expense. Hugh. He’s everywhere you don’t want him to be. At least he wasn’t with a woman. Joss was over him, but that didn’t mean she was in a hurry to find him wooing a date at their old table. Vivian took in the conservative art, the strains of violin overhead and the fresh-cut flowers hanging in glass wall vases, then allowed a small smile of approval. “This place is acceptable.” Geez, Mom, contain your exuberance—what will people say? Truer to form, Vivian frowned suddenly. “I’m not pleased with the wait, though. If I’m to lunch with clients here, I need to know we’ll be seated a bit quicker. You don’t waste the time of Important People.” The hostess looked down, busying herself with straightening the reservation book and a basket of mints, clearly abashed, even though Joss and her mother had arrived mere minutes ago. Vivian had that effect—making people feel their best was inadequate. She would’ve had da Vinci stammering that of course the Mona Lisa needed a wider smile, and he didn’t know what he’d been thinking! In real estate, Vivian was such a whiz at finding fault with property that by the time her client made an offer—well below asking price—the grateful seller was ready to agree to anything just to offload the dump. Joss watched as her mother glanced around the restaurant again, not evaluating the setting itself this time, but looking to see if she knew anyone and whether there were any noteworthy individuals present. “Noteworthy” to Vivian wasn’t just someone with enough money to potentially buy or sell in her specialized area of town—although that helped—but anyone with status in the community. Financial security and respectability were what a twenty-year-old and pregnant Vivian had been denied when she’d shared the news of her pregnancy with her fianc?. He’d backed out of the wedding, which was only weeks away, and the appalled McBrides had threatened to disown their daughter if she didn’t put the baby up for adoption, convinced single parenthood would ruin the life they’d envisioned for her. Vivian had vowed to raise the perfect daughter all by herself, refusing her parents’ help when they softened a couple of years later. Instead, she’d busted her butt to make money, and as far back as Joss could remember, her mother had taken every opportunity to rub elbows with those who had local prestige—business owners, philanthropists, the deputy mayor. Even now, Joss caught occasional glimpses of what a younger Vivian must have been like, facing abandonment with the determination to prove she was Someone. “Jocelyn! Do you know who that is over there?” Nine times out of ten, the answer to this question was no, but Joss dutifully followed her mother’s gaze, anyway. You have got to be kidding me! For a horrible second, she thought her mom meant Hugh, which would be bad because Vivian wouldn’t like finding out her daughter had been involved with a man for almost a month and hadn’t mentioned him; much less introduced him. Then Joss realized Vivian meant Hugh’s companion, which, come to think of it, was just as bad if it meant Vivian wanted to say hello. “That’s Stanley Patone,” Vivian said, emphasizing Patone as if the single word should draw the same social recognition as DeNiro, Madonna or Brad and Jen. Then came the dreaded words, “We simply must go over and say hello!” Life as a dung beetle was looking better all the time. Reminding herself that she’d survived plenty of encounters with Hugh Brannon and that this would be brief, Joss held her head high and followed her purposeful mother. Hugh saw them first, doing an astonished double take. Dallas was big enough that they seldom bumped into each other without expecting it beforehand, and he had to be wondering about the petite woman who was so obviously Jocelyn’s mother barreling, in her own graceful way, toward him. Joss had always found it oddly poetic that she looked exactly like a younger version of Vivian, with no visible genetic trace of the father she’d never met or the grandparents who had balked at her existence. “Joss!” Recovering quickly, Hugh rose from his chair. Joss could have sworn jeans were against the Waif’s dress code, but he looked so good in them, who would complain? “What a pleasant surprise.” “You two know each other?” Vivian shot a questioning glance over her shoulder, clearly displeased that Joss hadn’t armed her with all pertinent data. “I had the privilege of working with her sister at Mitman,” Hugh answered, flashing one of his patented charming grins at Joss’s mom. “She didn’t tell me she had a sister.” As the smiling and portly Stanley Patone—whoever he was—got to his feet, Vivian shook her head. “Young man, do I look like someone who’s easily won over with glib flattery?” Easily won over? Vivian McBride? Ha. Suddenly Joss regretted never having brought Hugh to a Sunday brunch. It would be fun to see him squirm. Unfortunately, being Hugh, he didn’t. Instead, he grinned. “No, ma’am, but it was worth a shot. If you’re anything like your daughter, I need all the help I can get.” Vivian actually chuckled before turning to Stanley, taking his hand in hers. “It’s so nice to see you again. Perhaps you don’t remember, but we met briefly—” “At the Fosters’ garden party in June,” the man finished for her. With his self-conscious expression and a bulky-knit sweater that exaggerated, rather than flattered, his girth, Stanley Patone was less polished and more endearing than Viv’s usual Important People. “How could I forget? The mosquitoes were Jurassic-size, but you were enchanting.” “Aren’t you a dear! Allow me to introduce my daughter, Jocelyn McBride.” As Joss shook Stanley’s hand, Vivian added, “This is Stanley Patone. Of Patone Power Tools.” Any chance they made wallpaper steamers? Joss nodded obligingly. “Of course. Nice to meet you.” Stanley sighed. “You’ve never heard of us, have you? No, it’s okay. Too few people have, but Hugh here tells me he can change all that.” Next to her, she noticed Hugh fidget. Clearly, Stanley was teetering on the brink of an ad man’s worst nightmare—the prospective client letting another agency know he was looking. Regaining his composure, Hugh smiled smoothly. “It’s practically criminal to be sitting in here on such a gorgeous Sunday morning talking business, I know, but I’m afraid that’s what we’re doing. We’re grateful you lovely ladies stopped by and broke up the monotony, though.” Translation: You should be going now, but really, you wouldn’t want to stay anyway because our conversation is dreadfully boring. The man didn’t know who he was dealing with. With a wide isn’t-this-a-small-world smile, Vivian placed her hand on Stanley’s arm. “You know, Jocelyn’s in advertising, as well. She’s building that up-and-coming Visions Media Group.” Joss winced inwardly at her mother’s version of the truth, which ignored the fact Wyatt Allen had been steadily growing his respected company long before Joss arrived, needing a job after the Mitman fiasco. She did her part, certainly, but she couldn’t take single-handed credit for the success Wyatt had been seeding for years. Stanley gestured toward the two empty chairs. “We’ve neglected our manners. You will join us, won’t you?” “Absolutely!” Vivian stepped around the power-tool purveyor to squeeze into the far chair against the wall. “It would be our pleasure.” Joss fully expected Hugh to fume over this turn of events, but when she glanced his direction, he looked almost amused. “Allow me.” He pulled her chair out, which would have worked better if she hadn’t been trapped between Hugh and the chair. “You smell great. Dior?” She nodded. “I always loved that perfume on you,” he murmured as he helped seat her. “You remember the night—” “So what’s good here?” Joss asked heartily. She remembered many nights. And wanted to discuss none of them. Vivian stared across the table as though her daughter had grown another head—one with last year’s haircut. “Jocelyn, I thought you said you’d been here. Often.” “Y-yes. But not in a long time. Maybe the menu’s changed?” Avoiding Hugh’s gaze and what was sure to be a smirk, Joss edged her chair closer to Stanley’s side of the table. A discreet beeping came from inside Vivian’s handbag—none of this belting out Beethoven’s Fifth for her, thank you very much—and she smiled in apology. “I know it’s horrid of me to keep the cell on during a meal, but one of my properties is in a bidding war, and the buyers have until six o’clock this evening to outdo each other. Jocelyn, just order for me, won’t you?” Great. Because she so needed the added pressure of potentially screwing that up. But by the time water glasses had been shuffled and the waitress had come by to add the newcomers to the ticket, Joss had regained her composure. As long as she focused on Stanley, she’d be fine. She listened intently while he filled her in on his company. “We were the ‘house brand’ for Tucker Home and Hardware for ten years, and turned an extremely lucrative profit,” Stanley explained. Extremely lucrative certainly clarified her mother’s interest in the man. “But Tucker’s management didn’t fare as well, so when the chain folded, Patone became its own line. We’re free to sell everywhere now, but that won’t do us any good if no one knows who we are. We don’t have nearly the name recognition of, say, Black & Decker.” Joss nodded. “So you’re looking for marketing solutions?” “And solutions he will have,” Hugh promised. “I’ve been brainstorming with some of the best minds in our creative team all week.” He might not look actively furious about her intrusion, but he was definitely sending out a back-away-from-the-client vibe. “With any luck, this time next year, I’ll be taking home an ADster for the work that brought Patone to the forefront of consumer consciousness.” Joss’s jaw clenched at the dig. She hadn’t crashed Hugh’s brunch with the intention of preying on his client—not that she had enough information on Stanley to bid for his business yet, anyway—but she didn’t have to help Hugh win the account for himself, either. “Mr. Patone—” “Stanley, please.” “I just had an interesting thought. What about a female ad executive? If you go with Kimmerman, I’m sure Hugh can recommend someone wonderful.” Hugh folded his arms across his chest. “Interesting is one word for it.” She kept her attention on Stanley. “Most power-tool consumers are men, and you, the manufacturers, are all competing for the same buyers. But imagine if your campaign was aimed at women. Bring in that market, and you’re a leg up on the competition already.” Under his breath, Hugh mumbled something about ads in pink fonts, but not loudly enough to alienate his potential client. “We can certainly explore that idea if you’re interested, Stanley, but I have to say, ignoring your target market is risky at best. Practically speaking, how many women do we think spend their disposable income on power tools?” He turned to Joss, his eyebrows raised in an expression of mild curiosity. “You, for instance, just as a demographic example. Would you know the difference between a skill saw and a reciprocating saw?” One of the fundamental rules of gunning for an account was demonstrating familiarity with the product, and everyone at the table knew Joss had never heard of Patone before today. Hugh’s attempt to discredit her was simple, but delicately handled. An allout assault on her credentials would seem like bullying, and besides, she sensed he saw her more as an annoyance than a real threat to be feared. “No, I guess I’m not the reigning expert on saws. Or drills, or wrenches.” Eyes innocently wide, she smiled at Hugh. “I admit it. When people think tool, you’re what comes to mind.” He blinked, and she turned away quickly, appealing to Stanley. “But I did spend hours yesterday in home-improvement stores and can give you a female’s perspective, if you’re interested. I can also tell you that the popularity of home-makeover shows can be used to attract women.” She outlined a few of her thoughts, expounding on how and why women could be a valuable asset, especially when they were Christmas and birthday shopping for the men in their lives. Vivian returned to the table, zipping her cell phone back into her purse. “What did I miss?” Ever charming, Hugh rose to pull her chair out, but his smile was strained. “Joss has been sharing her…wonderful ideas.” Smiling inwardly, Joss cast a small sidelong glance in Hugh’s direction. Do you fear me now? Good. After the food arrived, all talk of anything requiring power cords and drill bits was put on hold, and Vivian genteelly monopolized conversation with real estate anecdotes. But when the check came, she reverted immediately to their earlier topic. “You should take Joss’s card with you.” Joss almost flinched. As much as she wanted to succeed, especially if she beat Hugh in the process, there was something a little embarrassing about being twenty-eight and having your mother try to direct your business endeavors. But Stanley was nodding. “I had already planned to ask. Young lady, you had some terrific ideas, and I’ll be in touch with you this week.” Avoiding Hugh’s gaze, she reached for her purse. Despite the few times this morning she’d wanted to cringe over Vivian’s “help,” Joss would be thrilled to have Stanley as a client. After everything that had happened in the past week—being told over a breakfast her agency had paid for that Neely-Richards was going with someone else, dealing with the EWA agent, not winning an ADster—Joss craved that adrenalized buzz of feeling like a winner. “I’d love to hear from you,” she told Stanley. “It was a pleasure meeting you.” She’d intended to tackle her kitchen wall today, but now she was torn. It ate at her to be surrounded by unfinished projects, but maybe her time was better spent researching and working up ideas for Patone instead. When Stanley called, she would be ready. What a coup it would be for Visions to sign him out from under Kimmerman! Although Wyatt had assured her he wasn’t disappointed with the second-place standing Friday night, her boss had been uncharacteristically subdued. Joss loathed the sensation of having let someone down, and this was her chance to make it up to him. She couldn’t wait to get to work Monday morning. In hindsight, she’d been in a slump lately, but her luck was about to change. She just knew it. 4 “WYATT, I HAVE GOOD NEWS!” Actually, what Joss had was more like a tentative lead, but why split hairs? Besides, she’d embraced the power of positive thinking. Her boss lowered the coffee he’d been pouring into his Real Ad Men Get the Job Done in Under Thirty Seconds mug and gave her a wan smile. “Actually, I have some news of my own. Maybe I should go first.” Her breath caught. His mood lately hadn’t been in her imagination. “What is it?” “Let’s talk in my office.” Did he suggest that because they’d be more comfortable there, because no one arriving at work would walk in on the conversation, or because he was stalling? She followed him past deserted cubicles. Joss was always among the first to arrive, but today, mocked at home by windows that needed new treatments and a kitchen decorated in Early Whorehouse, she’d left her place even earlier than usual. By the time she and Wyatt entered the glass-fronted presidential suite, she felt almost queasy with nerves. “I was planning to tell the entire staff today, but maybe telling you first would be good practice,” he said ominously, making her wonder if he suffered some ailment she didn’t know about. “There’s something wrong?” “Not technically. In fact, it’s even good news.” Yeah, he looked like a man bursting at the seams with joy, what with the way he sighed heavily and fiddled with the container of pens on his desk instead of meeting her gaze. She lowered herself to the buttery-soft leather chair across from him and experienced a moment of d?j?-dread. The knots in her stomach were tied in the same formations she’d felt when she watched a newscaster tell the city about Mitman’s fraud. Oh, God, surely she wasn’t about to lose another job? “I’m proud of Visions,” he told her. “Proud of each of my employees, especially you. But I don’t have your youth and energy, and I’ve been receiving buyout offers that are becoming more and more difficult to turn down. So Penelope and I decided to take one of them…. I’m retiring. I’ve worked hard over the last thirty years, and I’ve put in hours my wife was a saint to tolerate. But now we’re going to spend time together before we get too old to make the most of it.” The words sank in slowly, in the same manner that water drained drop by excruciating drop in her clawfoot tub. “You sold Visions?” “Legally, it’s set up more as a merger—with me stepping down from the merged company. You, the staff, make Visions what it is, and you all have brand-new jobs waiting for you. With raises.” She liked the job she had. “And who will be paying these raises?” “Kimmerman and Kimmerman.” Oh, no. Working for Hugh Brannon’s employer? No, no, nooo. Wyatt must have sensed her—bone-deep hatred of the idea—reluctance. “Joss, you’re a talented young lady with a great career ahead of you. With your drive and ambition, you should be at a company like Kimmerman. They’ve got the resources to take you places.” “Mitman was a top company with prestige and national recognition, too.” That had been one of the things that had drawn her to the position—even Vivian had been impressed. Until the slightly less impressive criminal suit. Wyatt shook his head. “I know Rob Kimmerman and his son, and they’re running an honest ship over there. Of course, I can’t make you accept a job with them, but they’ll need someone like you to ease the clients through the transitional period. And it’ll be something of a transition for your colleagues, too.” Joss bit her lip. She didn’t think Wyatt was trying to emotionally manipulate her, but she came preprogrammed with a sense of obligation to others’ expectations. She didn’t want to fail him. Besides, smart women didn’t voluntarily chunk their incomes when the ink on their mortgage papers wasn’t quite dry. A raise would certainly make it easier to refit her kitchen with a stove not off by sixty degrees and wallpaper that didn’t say “hourly charge includes condoms.” Then there was the new water heater she needed, the sink that needed to be replaced in the laundry room so that she wasn’t in danger of a small domestic flood every time she ran a load of darks, her bedroom floor upstairs that dipped ominously if you stepped beneath the ceiling fan… “When are you telling everyone else?” she asked, trying to get her bearings. “Staff meeting first thing this morning. I hope you don’t think me too selfish, Joss, but Penelope and I can’t pass up this opportunity. And I really think it’s what’s best for all of you, too.” She forced a smile for the man who had taken her under his wing when she joined the firm. “I’ve always trusted your judgment.” His shoulders sagged with relief. “Then you’ll help me get everyone else excited about the idea?” What? “Oh. Of course.” That should be quite the pep talk. Still, if she’d somehow been able to convince herself she truly wanted to live in a house that would make Bob Vila turn and run screaming into the street, then surely she could convince a handful of people they wanted to work with Hu—er, Kimmerman and Kimmerman. HUGH STEPPED INSIDE Kimmerman Sr.’s office, a spacious suite that overlooked a putting green and boasted its own executive washroom. On the other side of the mahogany desk, Robert Kimmerman held up a finger to signal his almost being finished with an e-mail, and Hugh sat down to wait. When he’d arrived that morning, his phone had already been blinking with voice mail from the company’s president. Hugh doubted the older man wanted to see him “immediately” to congratulate him again on the ADster win. Was this a status check on Patone Power Tools? Until yesterday, Hugh would have bet money on his sitting here now with a contract signed by Stanley Patone…and Hugh almost never lost a bet. But he hadn’t factored in Joss McBride as an obstacle. Her appearance at the restaurant yesterday morning had completely blindsided him. He told himself the surprise he’d felt was why he’d been so off-kilter throughout the brunch—not because he was preoccupied with thoughts of courting her instead of the prospective client. Watching her walk toward him in the familiar setting, catching the spicy fragrance of her tantalizing perfume, battling her for an account…it had been just like old times, except without the hot sex. Which was like braving the traffic to reach the stadium, getting all revved up during the pregame activities and then leaving before the kickoff. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her once he finally climbed into bed that night and tried to sleep. He didn’t actually mind the dreams she’d inspired, but he wondered if she’d thought about him, too. Missed him? Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/tanya-michaels/not-quite-as-advertised/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.