Deceiving Derek

by Cindy Procter-King

  “He’s not too bad to look at, either,” she murmured.

  “Excuse me?” a condescending voice asked.

  Jumping in her chair, Magee swiveled around. Her elbow bumped the CycleMania file folder. She grabbed, but before she could stop the folder’s momentum, it skated across the desk, careened off her smartphone, and plopped into the wire mesh wastebasket.

  Patti Slotnik, with her ever-ready smirk, leaned into the cubicle. “What did you say, Maggie?”

  Magee clutched the papers. Why must the woman continually mangle my name?

  And sneak up on her? She was lucky she hadn’t lost her grip on the hard copy Justin Kane had re-quested.

  “Nothing. Thinking out loud.” She tried to sound breezy and unconcerned. “The name’s Magee, as you know. Short A, hard G. Like the surname. My mother’s birth name.” So get it right. “If it’s too hard to remember, I could write it phonetically.” She pasted on a sweet smile.

  “Ah,” Patti replied. “My bad.” Her mud-brown eyebrows rose. “Sure you don’t need help? I thought you’d left for your meeting already. I was about to drop you a note. I’m happy to lend a hand if you’re feeling stressed.”

  “No, thank you. I know you’re more than willing to help, but I have everything under control.” Magee possessed enough of Patti’s let-me-ease-your-burden messages to wallpaper the ad agency’s break room. She certainly didn’t require another.

  “Just offering,” Patti sing-songed before moving on.

  That’s it. Be gone. Good riddance. Magee realized her fellow account executive didn’t respect her, and, in some ways, she couldn’t blame Patti. Magee hadn’t worked for the ad agency as long as Patti had. Yet, as the owner’s daughter, Magee stood to inherit the account director position her father planned to create, effectively making her Patti’s boss. The woman’s resentment was only natural, al-though irritating up the wazoo. And the mix-up with the billboards in January—an event of mega-embarrassing proportions that had fallen on Magee’s shoulders—had supplied Patti with additional reason to smirk.

  At this rate, Magee would have the respect of a flea by the time she assumed the new post. If she assumed it. At the moment, she didn’t feel too deserving. In her current role as one of four AEs, her responsibilities included overseeing the campaigns Creative Services produced for her clients. If she’d done her job properly the last several months, her father’s advertising agency wouldn’t be out three major accounts. And she wouldn’t feel trapped in an endless game of Pick Up Sticks.

  She placed the papers on her desk and bent to retrieve the folder from the trash. Her fingers jammed on a snag in the mesh. A nail caught and ripped. Ouch.

  Squeezing shut her eyes, she lifted her hand.

  Be okay. Please be okay.

  She peeked at her hand, and her stomach dropped. Oh my God. She’d ruined her beautiful spa manicure! The expensive exfoliating scrub and paraffin dip mani-pedi she’d indulged in this morning to wow Mr. Hottie Pants Kane. A huge crescent of missing raspberry polish mocked her from the ragged nail of her middle finger.

  Not her pinky. Not her thumb. Not any finger that might escape notice.

  But her freaking screw-you-buddy finger.

  Magee, how could you? When would she stop messing up? Hadn’t her parents hammered into her that client meetings required a professional image? For a future account director—the agency’s first ever account director—that included a skirt, heels, and ten flawless, skillfully polished nails.

  Not nine perfect nails and one screw-you torn to the quick. Ten.

  She collated the papers and returned them to the folder, then stuffed the preliminary plan and her tablet into her briefcase. From a desk drawer, she grabbed nail clippers, her best crystal file, and the bottle of raspberry polish she’d bought on a whim before leaving the spa. Hey, maybe she was learning, after all.

  She hurried to the ladies room for repairs.

  ~*~

  “More ice water, miss?”

  “Please.” As the waiter refilled her goblet, Magee stared at her plate and sighed. Whatever had possessed her to order an enormous Caesar salad laced with enough garlic to do in a mob boss? And the anchovies… She hated the salty devils. Detested them. Why, then, had those words of doom, “Heavy on the anchovies,” escaped her mouth?

  As if you don’t know the answer, Magee.

  Justin Kane. He of the lustrous coal-black hair and piercing slate-blue eyes, which, at the moment, remained fixed on the hard copy of her preliminary advertising plan. The man confused her some-thing fierce.

  She picked up her fork. Even with the bread basket and bottle of balsamic vinegar separating them across the restaurant table, Justin Kane made her nervous. He always had, from the instant they’d met four months ago in her ultimately successful bid to woo the CycleMania account from a rival agency. However, today Justin’s troubling effect on her had mushroomed. Despite the unexpected adjustments to her manicure, she’d arrived at the restaurant her standard fifteen minutes early to discover him already seated, a predatory glint in his eyes.

  Almost as if…as if he knew her little secret behind snaring his account and was biding his time be-fore ambushing her.

  But he couldn’t know. How would he have found out? It had just been one teensy, tiny white lie.

  Not a stark white, either. More of a subtle cream.

  Strangely, the distinction didn’t comfort her. If anything, she felt worse.

  She jabbed her fork at a gargantuan crouton. Instead of piercing the tidbit, the tines bounced it off her plate. Glancing sidelong at Justin, she crept a hand toward the crouton. He looked up. She pinky-kicked the crouton beneath the cloth napkin and flashed an overeager smile.

  Fortunately, he didn’t notice the crouton’s acrobatics. His gaze lowered to her salad.

  “You’re not eating. Is something wrong with the Caesar?” He smoothed the triple-striped tie he wore with a conservative gray tweed blazer.

  “Oh no,” she answered too brightly. “I had a huge breakfast. I should have ordered the half-size salad.”

  His eyes narrowed, and the predatory glint she’d noticed upon her arrival returned. He glanced at the preliminary plan, then back up. He rubbed a thumb along his strong, square jaw.

  Magee’s heart thundered against her ribs. This is it. The jig’s up.

  She waited for the guillotine blade to drop.

  He opened his mouth. She sucked in a breath.

  His mouth snapped shut. Her breath whooshed out.

  “What?” Her voice squeaked. If the guillotine didn’t get her, the suspense surely would.

  “You’ve done your homework. I like that.”

  Her homework? Phew. He didn’t know her secret, after all.

  Good on ya, girl. Stay cool.

  Placing aside the hard copy, Justin retrieved her tablet from the empty third place setting and browsed through the presentation again. “Your idea to use magazines like Mountain Bike Frenzy sounds expensive, but worth it. I’m impressed.”

  Magee tucked a lock of hair behind one ear. Leaning forward, she bracketed her hands—with their ten flawless short raspberry nails—around her salad plate. The fishy scent of anchovies assailed her nostrils, but she ignored it.

  “I’m glad to hear you say that, Justin, because the market research clearly indicates two distinct audiences for CycleMania’s advertising purposes. The first is the recreational cyclist your stores currently target through local Internet, radio, and newspaper spots. That approach is working well. Aside from updating the ads, I see no reason to change it. Streamlining the website and increasing the company’s social networking efforts will make a difference, too.” Her finger bumped the crouton out from beneath the napkin, exposing it to Justin’s line of vision. Discreetly, she curled her pinky around the crouton and nudged it toward the table edge. Another nudge…

  Tik-plop.

  The crouton ricocheted off her chair arm, landing on her lap.

  “The second target au
dience,” she continued with as much professionalism as she could muster, given the crouton on her skirt, “is the cycling enthusiast. Specifically, the hard-core mountain biker. Young. Hip. Radical. Intense. Serious about the sport and willing to pay top dollar for the latest innovations. For this particular audience, we need a medium with a concentrated focus. Mountain Bike Frenzy is an excellent example.”

  Justin nodded, and she released a breath. She’d sold him. She could sense it.

  “This is where Willoughby Bikes comes in,” he said, returning her tablet to the table. He dipped his spoon into his minestrone.

  “Exactly.” Taking her cue from her client, Magee dug into her salad. She really did love garlic. Too bad her breath preferred mints. “With the manufacturer picking up half the cost to have their bikes featured in your ads, it’s a win-win. Plus, the similarity between store and product names lends to great short copy ideas. Picture a glossy spread in Mountain Bike Frenzy ending with something snappy like, ‘The Cyclone. Available exclusively at CycleMania.’ It has a nice ring to it, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Provided I sign the deal with Nathan Willoughby.”

  “You will.”

  “Yeah? I don’t know anymore.”

  Magee’s scalp tingled. She’d never before heard Justin Kane speak of the CycleMania–Willoughby Bikes deal with less than absolute confidence. “Why do you say that?”

  He didn’t answer, just eyed her, his ring-less ring finger tapping staccato time on the table.

  She moistened her lips. “Uh, Justin?”

  “Something’s happened.”

  “What?” Please don’t say this ‘something’ could affect the deal.

  “It’s personal, but…it could affect the deal.”

  Argh. Magee held her breath. The substantial advertising revenue inherent in Justin’s deal with Willoughby Bikes would help repair the financial damage she’d caused her father’s advertising agency these last several months. If Justin lost the deal, his expansion plans for the CycleMania chain of bike stores—an additional source of revenue for the agency—would be postponed. He’d said so during one of their many conversations leading to the development of the preliminary advertising plan. He needed the deal with Willoughby Bikes to make his expansion fly, and she needed him to get it.

  “Something personal?” She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  His gaze drifted over her. Abruptly, his finger stopped tapping. “You will. You see, I need your help.”

  “Not an issue,” she said without missing a beat. “What can I do?”

  “Come with me to Whistler.”

  Her pulse fluttered. “What?” She put down her romaine-laden fork.

  Justin regarded her with his deep-set, thickly lashed eyes. “Nathan Willoughby wants to spend a few days in Whistler and Vancouver checking out my stores and the mountain biking trails in the area before we sign the deal. Right now he’s in California with his wife, doing the same with the new U.S. distributor. He arrives in Vancouver tomorrow.”

  “With his wife?”

  “Kathryn. Yes.”

  Oookay. Magee rubbed her neck. She must be suffering from an anchovy-induced stupor, because she still couldn’t make the connection. “And you need me…why?”

  “It’s a couples thing. You know, relaxation before business. At any rate, Tina, my girlfriend—” Jus-tin practically ground out the word “—let me know an hour ago that she’s not coming.”

  “Oh.” Magee gazed at him. “Is she sick?”

  “No. She dumped me.”

  “D-dumped you?” In Magee’s world, that meant he didn’t have a girlfriend.

  “Yes,” he said without cracking a smile. “And that presents me with a problem. I can’t go to Whistler alone. I need you to come with me, as a replacement, of sorts, for Tina.”

  Magee blinked instead of insulting her client by bursting out laughing. The man’s girlfriend had cut him loose an hour ago and he was already cruising for a replacement to accommodate a deal?

  Her opinion of Justin Kane slipped several notches.

  “It’s business, you understand,” he continued. “Willoughby Bikes is grounded in the long-standing English traditions of loyalty, family honor, and trust. Stability in business and relationships is important to both Nathan Willoughby and his father. That’s why the company invested so many years building a reputation overseas before entering the North American market. That’s also why I can’t tell Na-than that Tina turfed me.”

  “Because then he wouldn’t find you desirable?” Magee asked before she could stop herself.

  “In a way. If my personal life isn’t under control, how can Nathan believe that my business is?”

  A male perspective, if she’d ever heard one. And she’d heard enough in her twenty-nine years to last her ninety, thank you very much.

  She swigged her ice water. “So what you’re saying is that by telling him you could risk the deal.”

  “Precisely.” He had the audacity to smile. “I’m glad you understand.” He finished his minestrone.

  “To be honest, I don’t.” She swept the crouton off her lap and ground it into the floor with her shoe. Other than for the stated business complications, didn’t Justin care that his girlfriend had bro-ken up with him? If so, he hid it well. “I don’t understand why you need me. Can’t you ask a female friend?”

  “You seem upset. Why?”

  “Because. I don’t like the sound of this.”

  “You don’t have to like it. You just have to help me.”

  “Again, why me?”

  He stared at her. “I can’t take any woman along. I need someone who mountain bikes.”

  Magee’s stomach flip-flopped. She couldn’t mountain bike to save her life. Thinking about the sport terrified her.

  There it was, her secret exposed…if she chose to expose it.

  But she couldn’t tell Justin the truth now. If she did, he might terminate his contract with her father’s advertising agency—and she wouldn’t blame him.

  She’d screwed up.

  Again.

  She had no choice but to go along with whatever her client suggested.

  “I see.” Her homemade noose tightened. “That makes sense.”

  ~*~

  Justin straightened in his chair. For a second, he’d thought Magee would turn him down, and then where would he be? During his six months with Tina, he hadn’t looked at another woman. All right, he’d looked, but he hadn’t touched. He might not believe in marriage before forty, but that didn’t mean he’d lost faith in monogamy, particularly in this age of STDs and crazy women blathering their personal lives all over the Internet.

  “Then you’ll do it?” he asked Magee.

  She nodded as if he’d sentenced her to face a firing squad.

  Odd. He’d offered her a chance to go wheel-skiing at Whistler, one of the few local mountain biking venues she hadn’t tried. Or so she’d said when he’d signed with her advertising agency two months ago. He’d thought she’d feel ecstatic. Instead, her creamy complexion had assumed an ashy tinge.

  “Remember,” he told her for added incentive, “what’s good for CycleMania is good for Sinclair Advertising. We both stand to gain financially from this deal.”

  Her light green gaze darted away. “I’m game. What do you want me to do?” She ran her fingers through the chin-length blond hair framing her face. The color reminded him of liquid honey, natural and appealing.

  “Accompany me to Whistler for the weekend as my girlfriend. A long weekend, to be specific. The Willoughbys arrive tomorrow—Thursday. We’ll meet them at the airport and leave for the mountain right away. We won’t return to Vancouver until Sunday. Will that work for you?”

  She looked him square in the eyes. “I’ll make it work, Justin. You’re a valuable client. I wouldn’t want you to lose this deal.”

  “Good, we’re on the same wavelength.” The cell phone in his pants pocket vibrated, signaling an incoming text. He
rat-a-tapped his hands on the table. He’d scheduled a tour of warehouse sites with a realtor for this afternoon. The woman liked to check in. He should leave and let her know he was on his way.

  “You don’t have to bring your mountain bike,” he advised Magee. “We’ll use rentals from the CycleMania store in Whistler. As for what to pack, we’ll go out for dinner once or twice. Also, bring your hiking boots and a bathing suit for the hot tub.”

  “Hot tub?”

  “At my parents’ cabin. They have a place in a subdivision near Whistler. Three bedrooms, so there’s plenty of space. Except, of course, we’ll have to share.”

  “We?” She winced. “As in you and me?”

  “Well, I don’t think Nathan would appreciate it if I tried to bunk with his wife.” Justin tucked the printout of the preliminary plan into his briefcase. When he glanced up, the ashen cast to Magee’s skin had intensified. “Don’t worry, this isn’t a convoluted attempt at sexual harassment. We’ll pretend to share a room. I’ll sleep in another.”

  “But…we’re supposed to be…lovers?”

  Clearly, the prospect of participating in the charade disturbed her. However, he didn’t have time to address her concerns now. He’d have to do so later. “That’s the idea. I need to keep this simple, Magee. Believe it or not, I don’t usually engage in deception to get what I want. In order to pull off this weekend, I need to think of you as Tina. In other words, as my lover.”

  “How? We barely know each other.”

  “I have a plan to correct that.”

  Her pert nose crinkled. “What?”

  “Practice, Miss Sinclair. Lots of it.”

  CHAPTER 2

  “He wants you to pretend to be his lover?” Susannah Deshane’s bubbling laughter bounced off the bedroom walls in Magee’s small apartment. “Magee, how do you keep finding yourself in these nutty situations?”