by Wendy Wax
“Oh.”
Shelley snapped the briefcase shut. “You can tell your boss that while I appreciate his offer, I don’t need him to come on my appointments with me. I’m completely capable of handling things on my own.”
“But I don’t think that’s an option. He distinctly said that—”
“Mia?” Shelley said.
“Yes?”
“I don’t really care what Mr. Morgan said. He gave me a client list and I’m working it. Period. I don’t need an escort.”
“But maybe your clients do.”
Both their gazes swung to the doorway at the sound of Ross Morgan’s voice.
This time he was wearing a suit, a black pinstripe with a crisp pink shirt and a tie she recognized as Armani. The bold color brought out the blue of his eyes, and the cut of the jacket emphasized his broad shoulders. He was a manly man, all right; just looking at him made her think of supply closets and strong sure fingers, which was completely inappropriate and not likely to help her win this current power play.
Ross nodded to his secretary. “Thanks, Mia, I’ll take it from here.”
“Take what?” Shelley asked as the secretary beat a hasty retreat—undoubtedly headed for today’s equivalent of the water cooler. “I don’t need or want you on my appointments.” Maybe naked in a supply closet, but not calling on clients. She slung her purse over her shoulder and picked up her briefcase. “End of conversation.”
“As the director of Account Services it’s totally within my authority to meet with clients before turning them over to the account executive and/or supervisor. It makes the client feel good to know that the upper echelon of the agency is involved.”
She let the fact that she was now even lower echelon than she used to be slide. She did not want to call on clients with this, or any other, man staring over her shoulder.
“Well, I’m a little confused,” she said. “I thought you were the president now, and as the daughter of the former president, I happen to know that dogging, er, accompanying the staff on sales calls is not a good use of a president’s time.”
She walked straight up to him, only stopping when they were toe to toe and nose to . . . chest, damn it. She raised her head slowly to reestablish eye contact. “And of course these aren’t exactly new accounts. Are you afraid I’ll lose one of these big producers?”
He looked down at her and she realized, with some surprise, just how tightly leashed he was. As if he was holding back all kinds of things that might spring forth at any moment. “Until I find a new director of Account Services,” he said quietly, “I’m wearing both hats. And whomever I go as, I’m going. I want to see how you handle yourself and how you represent the agency. I don’t need permission for that.”
She refused to react to this heavy-handed pronouncement; she simply couldn’t give him the satisfaction. And she definitely wasn’t going to blow up and quit, no matter how tempting the idea.
Casually, she took a step backward to put some physical distance between them, because even when she was steaming with indignation or wanting to slap his annoyingly handsome face, she was aware of him physically. This was not a good thing.
“Fine,” she said with a shrug. “Be ready to leave here Monday morning at nine o’clock. We’re meeting with Wiley Haynes from Tire World at their Gwinnett location and then going on to the corporate offices of Mendelsohn TV. The owner, Abe Mendelsohn, is an old friend of the family.”
She looked him up and down, trying not to notice what a fine specimen he was. “Wiley Haynes is a good ol’ boy from Alabama. Abe hasn’t worn anything but golf clothes to the office for fifty years. If I were you, I’d lose the Armani.”
After Ross Morgan, Trey Davenport seemed somehow . . . smaller. Or at least more . . . restful.
It wasn’t his size so much, Shelley realized as she joined Trey in a quiet booth at the back of the Ritz-Carlton lounge, since both men were similarly built. It was more the force of Ross’s personality. Or maybe it was the fact that she was always so angry with him, she couldn’t push him all the way out of her mind.
Trey was just . . . sweet and . . . fun. With him there was no clashing of goals, no need for confrontation, none of that appalling . . . sizzle.
Winding her way through the bar, she searched Trey’s face for any sign that he might have a room key on his person, but he smiled back easily. When she reached the table, he stood to pull out her chair and leaned over to brush his lips across her cheek. He was as blond and beautiful as ever, better looking than Ross Morgan, really, if you went feature by feature, though she wasn’t all that wild about the way she kept comparing them.
“It’s been way too long,” Trey said in greeting. “You look great.”
“Thanks.”
He signaled the waitress over and they placed drink orders. Settling back into the chair, she took a handful of mixed nuts and popped one into her mouth. They made small talk until their drinks arrived.
“I was sorry to hear about your dad,” Trey said as she took a first sip of martini. “How’s he doing?”
“Much better now, thanks.” She didn’t have the energy to go into the handover of the business to Ross Morgan and how that had shaken up her world. Better to turn the subject, keep things light. She took another sip of her drink then set it down. “Tell me about the rafting trip. I can’t remember who went.”
Obligingly, Trey launched into a monologue about the mishaps that had befallen them, turning the whole episode into a City Slickers–style adventure. “I’m telling you, I was hearing the theme song to Deliverance at one point, but everything worked out OK.”
Shelley sipped her drink and allowed herself to be entertained. The story was greatly exaggerated—Trey was too strong a naturalist and athlete to have been seriously daunted by any river—but as he spun his yarn, Shelley reflected how much easier this was than interacting with Ross Morgan. The sound of Trey’s voice washed over her, warm and fluid, and some of the tension seeped out of her body. Yes, this was much nicer and a whole lot easier than dealing with Ross. Who needed the butting of heads and the gnashing of teeth when one could sit back and enjoy the company of an undemanding, yet undeniably attractive, man?
When the waitress checked back, Shelley ordered a second martini and nibbled a few more nuts. The green olive was perfectly tart after the smoothness of the gin and vermouth. A welcome languor spread through her bloodstream and into her limbs.
“Shel?”
“Hmmm?”
“You look like you’re going to fall asleep.”
“Me?”
Trey smiled and took the drink out of her hands. “We need to get you something to eat.” He set her drink down on the table and smiled again. “Then we can head on over to my place so I can show you how much I’ve missed you.”
“Hmmmm . . .” She considered the idea slowly. It was so peaceful here with Trey in the darkened corner of the bar. It had been a long grueling week, and next week was bound to be even tougher. She deserved some attention and a firsthand reminder that some men didn’t question her competency. She knew from the look in his eyes that Trey Davenport found her sexy and alluring just the way she was.
“Why don’t we kill both of those birds with one stone?” Shelley asked as he called for their check. “I don’t think either of us should be driving right now.” She smiled up at him as the waitress approached. “And I’m a big fan of room service.”
Trey signed the tab, then reached over to squeeze her hand. “Wait here.” He smiled happily as he pushed back his chair and stood. Trey Davenport was as sunny and uncomplicated as the request she’d just made. “I’ll go over to the front desk,” he said, “and see what’s available.”
Judy lay in bed and pretended to be asleep. It was six A.M. on Saturday morning and not a creature was stirring—not even her spouse.
Careful not to wake him, she listened to Craig’s breathing. In the early morning it was soft and regular—a far cry from the Richter-scale levels he reached d
uring the night; snores that obliterated the soundtrack of the late-night TV shows and forced her to buy earplugs and pop the occasional sleeping pill. Unlike some of her friends, she refused to sleep elsewhere when Craig was the one making all the noise. And since moving him when he was in full snore mode was pretty much impossible, she’d passed far too many nights sleep deprived and resentful, not to mention spoiling for a fight.
Keeping her eyes slitted so that she could feign sleep if necessary, she studied her husband’s face. His features were even, his mouth wide and mobile, his hairline receding. Craig Blumfeld had once made her heart race and her pulse skitter. But the reality of eighteen years of living together was a high hurdle to jump.
How did you forget the snores and snorts, the burps and farts? The toilet seats left up—or even worse, down—and the dirty underwear piled on the floor? These days when he reached for her those were the things she saw; the everyday familiarities that did, in fact, breed contempt.
Turning her back, she curled into a ball and willed herself to sleep, but her mind refused to leave the path she’d set it on. Was it possible to keep things fresh and exciting when you’d been sleeping with the same person for twenty years? Could this be done without Saran Wrap? Or greeting one’s spouse at the door wearing nothing but a bow?
“Jude?” Craig’s arm slid across her waist and his hand searched out her breasts, which admittedly hung a little lower than they used to. “Wanna fool around?” He asked the question as he always did, as if it were some sort of erotic invitation she couldn’t possibly resist.
A wave of annoyance washed over her and she opened her mouth to refuse, but at the last moment she couldn’t do it.
She couldn’t even remember the last time they’d made love; absolutely could not recall the last time his request had prompted anything resembling a positive response.
Her eyes squeezed shut. How many headaches could a woman claim? How many times could she say no before her husband took that as permission to ask elsewhere?
Craig’s hand skimmed over her breasts then moved lower. Judy lay perfectly still, careful not to encourage or discourage, while she tried to tap into the excitement she’d once felt for him. Unfortunately, the vein seemed to have run dry. It was dry as toast, just like her.
Of course, if she was honest, a lot of that original excitement had had more to do with his suitability as a spouse than his prowess in bed. Craig Blumfeld had been so absolutely what she’d been looking for that just having him want her had been a complete aphrodisiac. She’d been downright orgasmic—multiply so—right up until the time her honeymoon tan had peeled off.
She opened one eye and stared at the wall. She was awake; she didn’t have to be up with the kids or rushing out the door. She already knew she wasn’t going to say no. She was just having a hard time saying yes with any enthusiasm.
Craig nibbled on her ear and pressed his growing erection up against her bottom and Judy tried, again, to dredge up some real enthusiasm for what was about to happen.
Ten minutes later she was staring at Craig’s back and listening to his contented snores, and feeling none of the lazy comfort she’d felt earlier. Getting up, she showered quickly, drew on her robe, and padded quietly downstairs wishing, not for the first time, that she’d been born second so that she could run around and have a good time and sleep with hunky men like Trey Davenport whenever she felt like it.
Their mother could harass Shelley about getting married all she wanted; Judy knew which one of them was leading the more interesting life.
chapter 11
Wiley Haynes was ferret-faced and towheaded, with two oversized front teeth that would have done Bugs Bunny proud. He met Shelley and Ross in the Tire World parking lot, barely nodding at Shelley before reaching out to pump Ross Morgan’s hand. “That’s one fine car you got there,” he said, nodding to Ross’s Porsche Boxster. “But that right rear tire’s lookin’ a little iffy. You want me to have my boys put it up on the rack and give it a goin’ over?”
Morgan swallowed and blanched slightly, which was the most emotion Shelley had seen him display that day.
“No, thank you, Wiley,” he said. “It’s due for regular service soon. But I’ll, uh, be sure to have them check it out.”
“Suit yourself.” Wiley stuck his hands into the pockets of his jeans and led them through the garage, where the blare of the radio and the clanging of tools made conversation impossible. “We’ll use my manager’s office,” he said as they followed him through the tire showroom and entered an office, which was shaped like a shoe box and roughly the same size. It was unclear how all three of them would fit without benefit of a shoehorn.
Ross waved her into the single guest chair—which along with a battered metal desk, chair, and ancient file cabinet were the only furnishings in the room—then wedged himself between Shelley and the file cabinet, a chivalrous act that left his hip and thigh practically embedded in her shoulder.
Despite the fact that she was the one seated directly across from him, Haynes spoke to Ross. “This here was my first location, and I’m opening my sixth at the end of April. As I told your assistant here on the phone,” he nodded toward Shelley, “I don’t have a whole hell of a lot left over for advertisin’.”
Assistant? The flush of anger worked its way up her spine. “But I’m not—” she began.
“I’m sure you don’t know too much about tahrs,” he said to her. “Fortunately, your boss appears to know his way around a vehicle.”
“What I was trying to say,” Shelley bit out, “is that I’m actually your account executive. Mr. Morgan is just—”
“Really pleased to be here,” Ross interrupted. “We’ve been wanting to talk to you about your business for some time. We think there’s a lot more we could do for you besides just placing occasional newspaper ads.”
Wrestling with her annoyance, Shelley snapped open her briefcase and pulled out the proposal she’d put together. “I went ahead and worked up a—”
“Phew,” Wiley interrupted. “I have got to get that AC unit fixed. It’s hotter than a witch’s—” He shot Shelley an apologetic look. “Sorry, ma’am.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a stack of quarters, which he set on the desk and pushed toward Shelley. “How’d you like to run on over to the Coke machine out in the garage and get us all somethin’ cold to drink?” he asked. “My treat.”
Shelley’s mouth may have fallen open. There was a not-so-subtle pressure on her shoulder, and she knew exactly what Ross was trying to tell her. But then, it was easy for him to expect her to be diplomatic; he wasn’t the one who’d just been sent out for drinks.
She closed her mouth and swallowed back her outrage. “Sure.” She scooped the quarters off the scarred desk and left the office, barely resisting the urge to walk out the front door, hop in the impressive-mobile, and peel out of there.
When she entered the garage, conversation ceased, and she could actually feel every eye in the place glom on to her rear end. She moved slowly to the Coke machine and then carefully—so as not to drop any change she’d have to bend over and pick up—fed the coins into the machine. Clutching the cold cans to her chest, she made her way out of the garage and back through the showroom.
In the office she delivered the refreshments without comment and took her seat in the metal folding chair—smack up against Ross Morgan’s rock hard body and the tons of heat it was throwing off.
“Thank you, little lady.”
She knew Wiley Haynes hadn’t really called her that, because this was, after all, the twenty-first century. The pressure on her shoulder told her that he had.
“Mr. Haynes,” she said as calmly as she could. “I assure you I am—”
“Ross here tells me you prepared this report.” He held up the proposal she hadn’t had the chance to hand out.
“Yes.” Surprised, she fumbled in her briefcase for her copy.
“So maybe you know a little more about tahrs than I gave you credit for.”
>
“Well . . .”
The pressure on her shoulder was more subtle this time, but she didn’t need any warning pressure to remind her of Ross Morgan’s presence or their purpose here.
“I’d never pretend to be an expert on tahrs, um, tires, Mr. Haynes,” she said. “But I have been doing my homework. There are a zillion tire locations to choose from here in the Atlanta area and all of them—including Tire World—are ignoring a potentially important market segment.”
“Which is?”
“Well, actually . . .” She swallowed, already imagining how a man who still called people “little lady” and assumed all females were assistants was going to feel about this. “It’s women.”
Ross stiffened beside her and Wiley Haynes started in surprise.
“I assure you there are women out there who buy tires. And we want to make sure they buy them from one of your six locations.”
Wiley Haynes appeared to be speechless, which Shelley decided was not necessarily a bad thing.
“That’s a very interesting premise,” Ross began. “Maybe we should give Wiley some time to, um, digest this idea and then . . .”
Shelley refused to let him backpedal on her behalf. She was right about this; the research said so and she knew it in her gut. If they backed off now, Wiley Haynes would never agree to consider the idea. Hell, after this kind of heresy he’d probably never let them back in the door. “I’d like to see you do a huge grand opening celebration with entertainment and giveaways targeted toward women.” She felt Ross’s hand on her shoulder, warning, cautioning, but she ignored it. “I also think we should offer tire clinics for women. You know how Home Depot teaches people how to do home repairs and remodeling? Tire World could give free workshops to teach women about tire selection and safety. And when they’ve completed the workshop they get a discount coupon as a graduation gift.”
Wiley winced, then snuck a peek up at Ross.
The weight beside her shifted and she braced herself.
