by Jan Freed
“You’re a smart guy. Figure it out.”
Turning, she plucked her shoes from the ground. “Oh, and Mr. McDonald?”
Despite her innocent tone, Alec tensed.
“Do it by three o’clock tomorrow, won’t you?” With a definite smirk, she ambled toward the gate, pausing halfway to shout over her shoulder, “Bye, Jason. Your dad has to drive me back to the office now, so be a good boy and come on down, okay?”
The silence stretched. Alec released a long vindicated breath.
“Okay, Laura,” Jason said.
To her credit, she resisted looking at Alec before continuing toward the truck. He stared at the gate long after she’d passed through it. For the first time since issuing Ms. Hayes her impossibly difficult assignment, he wondered what tomorrow would bring.
* * *
AT TWO-THIRTY the next afternoon, Sam Parker stared eagerly at the door leading into the executive offices of Harris, Bates and Whitman Advertising. McDonald wasn’t expecting him. Of course, Sam had planned it that way. Unexpected visits revealed the truth behind the makeup. If you caught a woman without her “face” on and she was still beautiful, you knew it was the real thing. And he was beginning to suspect that under the concealing talent of Alec McDonald, the face of Harris, Bates and Whitman was as ugly as a baboon’s ass.
Seconds later, the solid oak door opened to reveal Alec’s tall frame, his hand outstretched. “Sam,” he acknowledged with a wry smile. “What a pleasant surprise. If I’d known you were coming, we would have rolled out the red carpet.”
Exactly, my boy. “Nonsense. I had an appointment in the area, so I thought I’d stop in and see how that little problem I discussed with Paul is coming along.”
“Couldn’t be better.” Not by so much as a blink did the marketing vice president indicate it was highly unusual for Sam to drop by. “I’m afraid Paul is in Austin right now. But why don’t we go to my office and I’ll give you a status report?”
“Fine, fine.”
Sam followed Alec down a hallway of charcoal gray carpet patterned with tiny pink squares. The walls were covered in mauve silk, seventy-five dollars a square foot if it was a dime. He knew, because he’d just vetoed something similar for his property in Denver. No wonder conference calls and meetings like this cost him a hundred bucks an hour.
Sam’s teeth clamped tighter around his cigar. If the agency couldn’t cough up a viable campaign today, after two previous failures, he’d have to turn in his ninety-day termination notice and hire a new agency.
Alec led the way into his office, motioned Sam to sit down and settled himself behind his desk. “Okay, Sam, why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?” He leveled one of his infamous cut-the-crap looks.
“I told you, Alec. I came to see what’s being done regarding the campaign you’re sticking my hotel’s name on. ‘See’ being the operative word here.”
“I’d rather wait until our scheduled meeting to show you the details.” Alec leaned back and clasped his hands over an enviably flat stomach. “We’re still polishing the rough edges at this point.”
Sam’s sharp bark of laughter spit the mutilated cigar free of his teeth to land on the edge of his lower lip. “I’m not exactly known for my polish, son. If anybody can see past the rough edges, I can.” He plucked the cigar from his mouth and ground it decisively into the ashtray Alec had pushed forward. “Let’s not play footsy, boy. If you can’t show me anything now, I might think some outside free-lancer was supplying this agency’s creative work—which, by the way, you assured me your staff could handle.”
“I assured you that this agency would get the job done,” Alec corrected. “How we do that is our problem, not yours. But since you insist on checking into our hotel early, don’t complain to management if your room’s not ready.” He reached over to an intercom and jabbed a button. “Sharon? Please call Tom Marsh and tell him to take his work to the small conference room, instead of my office.”
Alec glanced at his watch and rose. “Shall we?”
Sam followed his account supervisor down the hall, wondering at the man’s phenomenal self-control. Any other suit would be sweating bullets now at the possibility of losing his business.
Three months ago, when word had leaked out that the twenty-six-million-dollar Regency Hotels account was up for review, his life had become a circus. Suddenly agencies from all over the country wanted to take him to lunch, give him a tour of their “shops,” show him their “reels.” He’d seen enough dog-and-pony shows to make P.T. Barnum contemplate selling insurance.
Fed up, Sam had finally made an offer to the recognized advertising mastermind behind Economax Lodge’s thirty-percent increase in market shares. When Alec had declined on the grounds it would be a conflict of interest with his existing client, Sam had simply gone over his head to strike a deal with Paul Whitman.
Alec paused in front of a doorway and gestured for Sam to enter. A teak table surrounded by black leather club chairs dominated the room. Two easels supported large art boards, shielded now from curious eyes by a cover flap.
A silver-haired man rose from the end of the table. In addition to wearing one of those ridiculous jackets with leather elbow pads, the dandy sported a bow tie. Sam didn’t trust men who wore bow ties. To top it off, the guy’s eyes—ice blue, opaque and edged with a circle of dark gray—were downright creepy.
“I don’t believe you’ve had the pleasure of meeting our creative director,” Alec said. “Sam Parker, meet Tom Marsh.”
Those strange eyes locked with Alec’s a moment and narrowed, then flicked Sam’s way. Cripes, the man gave him the willies.
“How do you do? Would you care for some tea?” Tom gestured toward a fancy coffee and tea service, frowning when Alec poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down.
“No, thanks,” Sam said. The creative director’s nasal accent placed him north of Oklahoma, a grave offense in Sam’s book. He grasped the hand being offered and inwardly grimaced at the soft contact. As quickly as business etiquette allowed, he released Tom’s hand and sat down.
Alec’s manner turned brisk. “I’d like to say a few words, then let Tom explain his creative concepts and strategy to you.”
Ignoring Tom’s obvious surprise, Alec launched into a review of the agency’s accomplishments to date. Sam had to admire the smoke screen. Unfortunately the most brilliant account management in the world couldn’t make up for a weak creative message.
“All mechanisms to begin an aggressive advertising campaign are in place and functioning smoothly. I’m sure you’ll be pleased with this new concept,” Alec concluded. “Tom has been working hard on a fresh approach. I’ll let him take over from here.”
Sam shifted in his seat, glad he wasn’t on the receiving end of Alec’s glacial stare.
Tom cleared his throat. “Regency Hotels’ basic strengths have always been excellent service, luxurious appointments and spacious suites. Past advertising has focused on your founding slogan—The Standard In Royal Treatment—as a way to capitalize on those strengths.”
He flashed Alec a defiant look. “Mr. Whitman and I see no reason to tamper with tradition. The fault is obviously not with your message, but with a lack of visual support to lend the message credibility.”
He pushed his chair vigorously away from the table, rolling on solid brass castors to the base of the left easel before standing up. With an affected flourish, he lifted the cover flap.
Four magazine-ad layouts glowed like jewels against the black art board. Everything about them was first-class. The design, images and copy sent the clear message that if a hotel bears the name Regency, it’s worthy of royalty. The creative theme had served Regency Hotels admirably for thirty years.
Too bad his founding hotel was thirty-two years old.
Sam’s shoulders sagged. He felt betrayed, as if he’d gone to a gourmet restaurant and been served a microwave dinner.
Alec stirred in his chair. “I thought I asked you to red
o those layouts,” he said in a soft chilling voice.
Tom paled and thrust out his jaw. “As I said, Mr. Whitman agreed with me that wasn’t necessary.” He pointedly ignored Alec and turned to Sam. “Of course, these are only illustrations. Once people see the unique beauty of Regency Hotels in the new photographs we’ll take, they’ll believe our claims of superiority. Technology and computer imagery have come so far since the hotels were last photographed you wouldn’t believe what can be done to disguise flaws.”
“Are you saying that we need to alter photographs to make Regency Hotels look good?”
Tom appeared startled, then wary. “No, of course not. Regency Hotels are known for their exceptional beauty.”
“Then why do we need to spend thousands of dollars for new photographs to show people what they already know?”
“These photographs will show them better. Interesting angles. Dramatic lighting. People will want to frame these photographs.” A bead of sweat glistened at Tom’s left temple.
Sam slammed a fist down. “I want people to sleep in my hotels, not frame them! The rules have changed, God help me. I can build the most beautiful hotel in the world, sink everything I have into it. And in six months’ time a Marriott or Carlson or some other megacompany will have built three more just like it. If the old advertising theme still worked, I wouldn’t need a new agency.” He knew he was yelling, but it had been pure hell the past year watching occupancy rates plummet, in spite of all his efforts.
Glancing at the second easel, he sighed with resignation. “I don’t suppose you have anything revolutionary hiding under there, do you?”
Tom’s face tightened. “It appears you’ve already closed your mind to this particular campaign. Although I think you should reconsider its merits.”
There was a tense silence as each man adjusted to the implications of the meeting. The account relationship was finished. Hell, they all knew it.
Tom glanced at Sam. “You’re not looking for something revolutionary, Mr. Parker. You’re looking for a miracle. Well, let me be the first to wish you good luck,” he sneered, his silver irises glowing malignantly. “Because you’re definitely going to need it.”
Sam withdrew a new Havana from his inside jacket pocket and calmly bit off one tip. His gaze followed Tom’s huffy departure from the room before turning back to Alec with true regret. He struck a match and pulled deeply, silently, until a fat grub worm of ashes inched slowly toward his mouth.
Alec lifted his cup and shoved a saucer forward just in time to catch the crumbling mass. “Now what?”
“You’ve left me no choice, Alec. Unless you’re a magician and can pull something out of the hat better than that—” he pointed at the exposed layouts “—this meeting, and my company’s association with this agency, is finished.”
A tiny spark of interest, a vitality Sam had never seen before in the other man’s eyes, flickered to life. Without knowing why, he found himself suddenly hopeful.
Alec held up a pencil like a cautionary finger and stretched to the center of the table. Pulling a sleek black phone toward him, he dialed an extension.
“Sharon? Did my three-o’clock appointment show up?” Listening with that curious gleam in his eye, he tapped his eraser against the table. “Yes, yes. Please apologize for me. But don’t let her leave, yet. In fact, send her here to the conference room as soon as possible.” He nodded. “Good.”
If Sam didn’t know better, he’d swear the legendary Ice Man was nervous. “Just what are you trying to pull, McDonald?”
“Pull? Pull,” he repeated, chuckling to himself. “You wanted a rabbit, didn’t you, Sam?”
A sharp rap sounded on the door.
Alec sobered, lifted his pencil theatrically and waved it toward the door like a wand. “Abracadabra.”
* * *
SHE WAS GOING to be sick. Right on the polished teak table. Dragging in a breath, Laura almost gagged as the thick faintly sweet fumes hit her lungs and empty stomach.
She’d spent eight hours at an all-night computer center preparing a seventy-page presentation, complete with color graphs, before rushing home with barely enough time to shower and change for work. By the time Sharon had directed her here, Laura was trembling from exhaustion, hunger and the most numbing case of stage fright she’d ever experienced.
Not exactly the best state when entering a room filled with noxious smoke.
“So this is your rabbit, eh, Alec?” The man’s words slurred around the odious cigar clenched between his teeth. “Looks more like a scared little bunny to me. If you’re counting on her to turn things around, she must be one hell of a trick.” He snickered as if he’d said something clever.
One hell of a trick?
Blessed anger surged through her body and brought with it revitalizing strength. She didn’t know what kind of game Alec had been playing, but it was over. Now.
Her gaze snapped to the older man’s cigar. “How chivalrous of you not to smoke, Mr....Parker, isn’t it?” She’d seen too many publicity clippings not to recognize him.
His jaw dropped slightly, tilting the cigar.
Laura reached over and plucked the nasty thing out of his mouth, holding it between two fingertips. Wrinkling her nose, she searched the room for an ashtray. Finding none, she dropped the stub into Alec’s unfinished coffee as if disposing of a bug.
Dusting off both hands with a grimace, Laura gave each man a long look. “Now then, let’s get this straight. I am not, nor have I ever been, anybody’s trick. I have never, in anyone’s wildest imagination, been a scared little bunny.”
She placed both palms on the table and leaned forward, focusing on the main culprit. “Apparently I have been naive, Mr. McDonald. I thought your assignment was the request of a mature professional. My mistake.” The look on their faces was priceless, worth every sleepless hour. “But now that you’ve had your laugh, gentlemen, I’d like your attention for a few moments.”
By God, they would either have the courtesy to listen to her presentation or watch her take it straight to a competitor! Laura pressed two fingertips on the bound proposal in front of her and shoved hard. It skidded across the table and was slap-stopped by a strong tanned hand.
I’ll give you something to raise your eyebrow at, you rat. Just sit back and watch the show.
CHAPTER THREE
WITH DEADLY PRECISION, Laura shot off a round of statistics gathered from her research of three diverse Regency Hotels markets. She analyzed occupancy rates, gross operating room profits, competitive factors and guest demographics for each property, and supported the facts with graphs.
At first, her words were fueled by cold anger at everyone and everything conspiring against her career. Somewhere along the way, her genuine enthusiasm for the project took over.
She spoke directly to the man with the most at stake. “Unless the trend is reversed soon, Mr. Parker, you won’t even be able to bail out by selling the company. No investor will touch the cash-eating monster Regency Hotels, Inc. has become in recent months.”
Sam opened his coat and reached for a new cigar. The Havana was halfway to his mouth when he paused, looked questioningly at Laura and slowly returned it to his pocket.
Both of Alec’s eyebrows shot upward.
“You seem to have made it your business to learn a lot about mine, young lady,” Sam said. “Think you have the answer to saving my company? Not that it needs saving, by the way.”
Was that a twinkle in his eyes? Laura found their sky blue directness appealing, now that they held no derision. She warmed another degree to the subject.
“I wouldn’t presume to say I have the only answer. But I do strongly recommend that you change your target market. To women.”
Alec’s startled look turned speculative.
Sam snorted. “I already target women. Who do you think the flowers and soaps and fancy froufrou are for?”
“The wives and girlfriends of the men you target. The twenty percent of the populat
ion all your competitors want a piece of, too.” She held up a hand to halt his protest. “Now I know you’re a savvy businessman, but hear me out, please.”
Laura poured herself a cup of coffee, sat down and prepared to jump in feetfirst. This time, she would bring her head along.
* * *
PRETENDING TO READ notes in his lap, Alec listened to Laura’s impassioned husky voice. He was stunned, pure and simple. Tom had botched the presentation so thoroughly by showing the same tired unrevised concepts that Alec had figured the agency had nothing to lose by presenting her proposal. But damned if she wasn’t putting on a show worthy of Siegfried and Roy, right down to creative concepts that blew him away.
How had she managed to put the thing together so quickly? It was impossible not to be impressed.
There was no trace of the impish tomboy now. In her place sat a no-nonsense businesswoman wearing a double-breasted navy jacket and slim gray skirt. Two days ago she wouldn’t have caused so much as a speed bump in his swiftly passing gaze. But now...
He studied her from under lowered lids. Her braided hair was pulled back tightly with the ends tucked up—a crinkled swim cap glinting with fiery auburn highlights. She wore little makeup, and her skin was fine-pored and translucent. The fluorescent glare overhead was not kind to the faint purplish shadows beneath her almond-shaped eyes, though. She’d obviously had a rough night.
His ex-wife, Susan, used to camouflage her after-party fatigue with artfully applied cosmetics. This woman chose to steamroll over her exhaustion by sheer force of will. Even dead tired, Laura Hayes vibrated with more energy than any female he’d known.
What would it feel like to bury himself in all that exuberance?
Alec stiffened. Good Lord, what was he thinking? He’d always favored feminine petite beauties, not man-eating Amazons. Obviously his brain, goaded by that part of his anatomy with a mind of its own, fantasized using the material at hand. Still...the woman didn’t have to act as if he were invisible, did she?
