His Style of Seduction

by Roxanne St Claire

  “And no privacy.”

  “I turn the lights out when I want privacy,” he said, balancing the drink on his solar plexus. “And I function well in the dark. Remember?”

  As if she could forget. “Two walls and all glass, huh? Well, that tells me you’re a man who doesn’t like limitations or obstacles.”

  He chuckled, his stomach muscles nearly toppling the drink.

  “As if you needed to see my floor plan to figure that out,” he said, crunching up for one more long drink.

  Then he set the cup on the floor and shifted onto his side, propping his head up under one hand. The position accentuated the length of him, and spilled a lock of golden hair over one eye. He looked like the poster boy for illicit sofa sex.

  “So, Miss Manners,” he said, somehow making the snarky nickname sound provocative. “Why don’t you show me your plans and I’ll show you mine?”

  She tipped her laptop screen open and cleared her throat. “All right.” She looked at the screen for a second, then back at him. She couldn’t help it. He looked so much better than her PowerPoint slide. “I have devised a five-step program specially designed for top-level managers and executives. Would you like to hear it?”

  “More than life itself.”

  “It includes work in each of the following areas—appearance, social protocols, body language, verbal and nonverbal communication skills and organizational skills.”

  “Let me see if I get this straight,” he said. “We shop for some ties and hit a barbershop for a trim—that should cover appearance. Then we can have dinner at a restaurant with multiple forks to choose from to manage social protocols. A game of telephone should cover verbal and nonverbal communications. Which leaves organizational skills. How about I fold your clothes after taking them off you?” He grinned victoriously. “Good plan, huh?”

  “You forgot body language.”

  He winked. “Like hell I did. That comes after the clothes are off.”

  “Jack,” she said, situating herself straighter so that Reggie’s oversize rolling, reclining desk chair didn’t swallow her up and make her appear ineffectual, “it’s a little more complicated and intense than that. Following a complete external makeover, I also help clients through an exercise of self-discovery. Knowing who you are, understanding your flaws, weaknesses and points of vulnerability will help us create a way for you to handle—”

  “Don’t waste your time. I know my downsides.” He absently twirled the cup on the floor, looking at her through that fallen strand of hair. “My flaw is that I like to sleep late, my weakness is chocolate and my point of vulnerability? Sweetheart, you found that with your tongue around three-thirty this morning.”

  Heat burned. She knew exactly what spot he was talking about. Right below…“I’m referring to issues that impact your professional life and how you conduct your business.”

  “I conduct my business however the hell I want to.” He shifted onto his back, to the classic “shrink’s couch” position. Was he aware of that?

  “After that,” she continued, purposely not responding to his comment, “we’ll put it all together for a final exam.”

  He turned to look at her. “Here’s something for your self-discovery. I’m a creative guy and I hate tests. If it hadn’t been for a baseball scholarship I didn’t deserve I wouldn’t have gotten in the second-rate college I did.”

  She heard the tiniest note of defensiveness in his voice and it nearly folded her in half. God, she knew that feeling.

  “This will be a positive experience, Jack, I promise. I know you’re reluctant to participate, that you don’t want any part of changing or transforming or making any sort of professional renovation, but I believe you will benefit from this. And so will Reggie.”

  “This is a total waste of your time and my effort and Reggie’s money, but, hey. Whatever scratches your itch.” He shrugged against the sofa. “Now you wanna hear what I have planned for you?”

  “I’m the coach, Jack. You’re the trainee.”

  His eyes twinkled with a silent Yeah, right, but he said, “How long are we trapped on the island here? Six days, five nights? Something like that?”

  “We don’t need to work at night,” she said, clicking her screen to a mock schedule she’d made. “Anyway, if all goes well, you’ll need some time off for good behavior.”

  Very slowly he pulled himself up and stood. “The time off is the good behavior,” he said with a sly smile. “Ready for my plan?”

  He came around to the side of the desk and parked one hip dangerously close to her, crossing his arms and looking down. She leaned back a little, the executive chair squeaking as it reclined an inch. “I’m not sure. Am I?”

  “I’ll be your own private science experiment for the daytime. Make me over, polish me up, change me into whatever the Brits want to see across the conference-room table. That’s what you do, so you can do it all day long.”

  She looked warily at him. It couldn’t be this easy. “What’s the catch?”

  He put his hands on the high back of the chair, tilting it enough to raise her feet off the ground. “At sunset…” He twirled the chair around in a dizzying three-sixty. “The tables turn.”

  She closed her fingers over the armrest and looked up at him. “How so?”

  “You’re in charge of the days….” He loomed above her, honey hair hanging over his chiseled features, his tight black T-shirt inches from her crisp white blouse, his long legs astride hers. He dipped the chair back until she was parallel with the floor. “I’m in charge of the nights.”

  “What exactly does that mean?” She dug to her own personal China to keep her voice steady, and barely succeeded.

  “Whatever you do to me during the day, I get to do to you at night.”

  “I have to think about it.”

  “Think about this.” He closed the space and kissed her, tilting her head so far back she swore the top of the chair almost hit the floor as his tongue slid between her lips and invaded her mouth. Blood rushed to her head, thumping wildly in her ears, and she did the only thing she could do—she grabbed his shoulders, hung on and kissed him back.

  His lips were cold and creamy. They tasted like…Chocolate milk. Icy, rich, sweet milk. She curled her tongue around his and took another taste.

  “So, Lil.” He barely took his mouth off hers to speak. “Deal or no deal?”

  “Jack, I—”

  “Say deal and I promise,” he said, softly cutting her off by flicking his tongue over her lower lip, “that I will do your whole stupid program from shopping to shoes.”

  “It’s appearance and social protocol, not shopping and shoes.”

  “Call it whatever you want, baby. I’ll still prove to you that you can’t change me.” He nibbled her chin and trailed a cool tongue over her jaw. “You have the days and I have the nights.”

  She hesitated, closing her eyes to try to think. But who could think with all this man and testosterone and persuasion pushing her upside down?

  “Come on, Lily. What do you have to lose?”

  Her sanity. Her client. Her mind. “My balance.”

  “That’s the fun part.” He tipped her the last little inch, forcing her hips right into his. “Deal or no deal?”

  She could feel the power of him, the heat and sexuality that rolled off him in waves, his hair tickling her face, his muscles clenched against her body as he held her suspended, upside down, inside out. She could feel his daunting erection, growing steadily against her. It all made her dizzy and crazy and wild and helpless.

  “Deal.”

  She closed her eyes, expecting the kiss to seal it. Wanting the kiss. Needing the kiss.

  But he straightened the chair and backed away, leaving her suddenly cold and seriously frustrated.

  “All right, then, let’s go shopping for my new wardrobe.”

  She blinked at him. “Shopping?”

  “Appearance is up first, right?”

  “Yes, it is.�
� She smoothed her skirt, which had ridden up her thighs as he tilted her back. “We’ll start with a new wardrobe for you.”

  “And one for you to wear tonight.” He cocked his head toward the door. “Meet me in the kitchen in five minutes. I’ll drive.”

  What in God’s name had she just agreed to?

  Five

  J ack snagged the Jeep keys from the wall hook in the kitchen, not even considering taking the Mercedes two-seater that Reggie kept in the garage. He was more of a red Wrangler with the top down and the music up kind of guy, anyway. Especially on a killer Indian-summer day in Nantucket, a pretty woman by his side and nothing to do but…shop.

  All except for the last part, he liked the way the afternoon was shaping up. He’d had enough time to think and come up with a strategy of his own. He wouldn’t wreck Reggie’s plans. He’d do what had to be done, especially for Samantha. If Reggie had to sell Wild Marketing, well, hey, that sucked, but Jack wouldn’t stand in his way. Then he’d convince the suits in England that he was fine precisely the way he was, or he’d help them find a replacement.

  Anything else made zero sense, and obviously Reggie wasn’t thinking straight when he proposed something as stupid as a corporate image makeover for Jackson Locke.

  So Jack would simply take advantage of the time he’d been handed in a beautiful home with a hot, willing woman. He wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize Reggie’s chances of helping Sam, a lady he loved and admired so much that he flat-out refused to think about the possibility of her dying.

  Jack would play Lily Harper’s game. And then she’d play his. And when all was said and done, she’d like his game better.

  He glanced around the kitchen, which sparkled with the handiwork of its keeper.

  “Dots?” he called out. “We’re going into town for a while.”

  The familiar gray head appeared from around the laundry-room door, a fluffy white towel midfold in her arms. “Taking the Jeep, Mr. Jack?”

  He loved it that she knew him so well. “Yeah. You need anything in town?”

  “No, thank you.” She gave the towel a good snap. “I’m supposed to be getting what you need, Mr. Jack, and I was just trying to decide if I should make quahog chowder for you, or maybe you are interested in some of that fresh cod I steamed up for you last time you were here. I can do whatever you like, Mr. Jack.”

  “Better than anyone,” he agreed. “Make the chowder and I will have to marry you, Dots.”

  She laughed. “If I were forty years younger and thirty pounds lighter, I would do just that.”

  Lily came into the kitchen, a bag on her shoulder and a light jacket thrown over one arm. She’d changed from the uptight suit to linen trousers and a pullover. She looked good, all Nantucket upscale casual, but still not as good as she had soaking wet climbing out of the bathtub.

  “You would what, Mrs. Slattery?” she asked.

  “I would be delighted to make both the cod and chowder for dinner tonight.”

  “I’m sure that would be lovely,” Lily said. “But I had something more formal in mind. Can you recommend the best restaurant in town?”

  Mrs. S.’s face fell in disappointment. “You’re standing in it, but if you insist on going out, I suppose you could try the Sconset Café. Maybe a bit pricey, and it’s not necessary to go wrestling with the leaf-peepin’ tourists when I can make you anything on that menu.”

  “Better,” Jack added.

  But Lily powered on. “I need something with linen tablecloths and lots and lots of silverware.”

  “Because,” Jack interjected again, “we’d just slurp chowder and eat cod with our fingers if we stay here.”

  Lily shot him a look, but Dots stepped out of the laundry room, a question in her eyes. “Whatever would you need all that silverware for?”

  “I’m getting etiquette lessons,” Jack said, opening the fridge to grab water. “Apparently Lily and Reggie think I need an extreme makeover.” He shook some strands of hair out of his face. “And a haircut.”

  “A haircut!” Mrs. Slattery’s eyes flew open in horror. “Your hair is perfect!”

  He just chuckled and shrugged. “Gotta give the woman her props, Lil. She calls it like she sees it.”

  Lily remained unfazed, slipping into her jacket with her lips pursed. “All we want to do is make a few minor adjustments, Mrs. Slattery, to get Jack ready for his role as an ad agency president.”

  “Do they have to have short hair?” she asked.

  “They have to have a certain look. And,” Lily added, “they are expected to follow certain social protocols and codes of behavior. All we’re going to do is give him a few lessons. Nothing that will mar his perfection.”

  She couldn’t have doused the word in any more cynicism if she’d tried. He resisted the urge to remind her she’d thought he was pretty damn perfect when he nibbled her into nirvana the night before.

  “Well, keep your hands out of his hair,” Mrs. S. mumbled, heading back into the laundry room.

  “Hey hey hey, Dots. Don’t go crazy.” Jack winked at Lily. “She can put her hands in my hair if she wants. It’s the scissors we want her to avoid.”

  The older woman paused at the door and looked from one to the other, her expression morphing from distrust to love as her gaze landed on Jack. “You won’t be able to get into any of the nicer places without a jacket and tie, Mr. Jack,” she warned. “So perhaps—”

  “He’ll have several jackets and ties very soon,” Lily assured her.

  He spun the key ring around his index finger. “The fun never stops. Let’s go, Miss Manners. Dots, you can try a reservation at Topper’s, but we may not get in on a Saturday night. If not, then book something for tomorrow, and we’ll have cod and chowder tonight.”

  She beamed. “I’ve already picked the fresh thyme from my garden for you.”

  He blew her a kiss, then swept an arm toward the back door. “Miss Harper, your chariot awaits. Hope you don’t mind four-wheel drive and a roll bar.”

  Lily followed him outside to the detached garage, where she paused to admire the SLR McLaren Reggie kept stored for special occasions.

  “Wow.” She reached toward the car, but seemed unwilling to actually touch it.

  “Yeah, that’s what four hundred thousand dollars will getchya.” He barely glanced at the car, but heard the bit of wonder in Lily’s sharp gasp.

  “It costs that much?”

  “I think Reggie stole it for three eighty-five. It’s the closest thing to a baby he and Sam will ever have.” At the thought of Sam his throat closed, so he ripped the rag top off with a little more force than necessary and crammed it into the back of the Jeep, along with thoughts of losing Reggie’s wife.

  “Now, this baby purrs.” He patted the side of the Jeep lovingly as he held the door open for her. “You’ll see. We’ll take the scenic route to town,”

  “Every route is scenic in Nantucket,” she said, settling into the Jeep and reaching for the seat belt.

  “The colors in September are good, but October would blow your mind.”

  Her gaze lingered lovingly on the Mercedes. “That car blows my mind.”

  He threw her a surprised look as he shoved the key into the Jeep’s ignition. “I wouldn’t have taken you for such a status seeker, Lil.” He reached down and lifted her bag to check out the logo. “Not Fendi or Kate Spade, I see.”

  “Not yet,” she said softly, and the tone yanked his attention.

  “So is that what this is all about? A quest for the holy dollar?”

  She didn’t answer while he pulled the car out and maneuvered around the long, circular drive.

  “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting the finer things in life,” she finally said as he pulled up to the intersection of Hammock Pond Road and shifted gears to hold the car on the hill. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t enjoy having a car like that if you could.”

  He could. But she didn’t need to know that. “Look at that view,” he s
aid, looking straight out at the hills dotted with weathered gray buildings, the trees tipped in russet and topaz, the white-capped navy water of Nantucket Sound in the distance. “That’s what I call one of the finer things in life. Who cares if you see it from a Jeep or a Benz? The view’s the same.” He threw the car into gear and barreled out onto the highway. “But knowing your motivations makes this easier.”

  He could practically feel her bristle next to him. “My motivations aren’t the issue.”

  “Still, it’s good to know what fuels your soul.” Once he had the car in fourth, he dropped his hand onto his own leg with a thud of disappointment. Lily Harper was in the game for the gold. What a shame.

  “Money doesn’t fuel my soul,” she said defensively. “But I appreciate nice things and the comfort and freedom that a good income can bring. Is that morally reprehensible?”

  He shot her a look and laughed. “Hey, I wrote the book on morally reprehensible. No, wanting cash is not evil. But greed is.”

  “Greed?” She turned in her seat to face him. “There’s nothing greedy about making a living. About wanting security and comfort. And if there’s a nice car and decent wardrobe in the mix, that’s not bad.”

  He’d hit a hot button, and filed the place where she kept it hidden in case he wanted to tap it again later.

  “So how does one become a performance coach?” he asked after a moment. If she appreciated the change of topic, she showed it only by shifting forward and looking straight ahead. “Did you go to special training or do you make it up as you go along?”

  “I’ve had various kinds of training,” she said, her voice vague as she looked out the window. “But it’s interesting how you phrased that. Do you make things up as you go along? Is that your corporate style?”

  He laughed softly. “If I had a corporate style, you wouldn’t be here. And of course I make things up. I’m the creative director. That’s the definition of my job.”

  “How did you get into advertising?”

  “The same way I get anywhere—through the back door. I can sketch. I can write. It was the only business that I thought might accept a nonconformist.” He closed his eyes for a second. “Was being the operative word.”