Attitude

by EC Sheedy

  "Ian here?" Hud asked.

  The question snapped his attention back to business. He shifted in his chair. "No, he's in Chicago tickling his pork bellies." Ian was Cal's brother. It was his money funding the business. Cal owed him. Big time.

  Hudson grinned. "Still the deal maker, huh?"

  "Yup. Still at it." And still dogging my every step. Owing Ian came with a price. In exchange for his cash, he'd taken the majority share position and would hold it until Cinema Neo was doing well enough that Cal could buy him out. Cal intended to make that as soon as possible.

  "You've managed this far without my big-city rates, Cal. Why now? No local talent?"

  Cal had a fleeting image of a woman in tent fabric. Slim ankles. Soft, soft skin. "Not good enough." He put his coffee aside and brought the tent image back. Ginger wouldn't work, either for business or pleasure. Well, maybe pleasure.

  Hudson straightened in his chair. "Then let's do it. Let's talk movies. What're you opening with?"

  "No Friend At All. Snagged it at Sundance."

  "That's the comedy with that new guy... Kiff something."

  "Quick. Kiff Quick. And yes, it's as funny as the buzz says it is. I couldn't have a better opener."

  "All right!" Hudson pulled out a notepad and pen. "So, let's hear it. What are you looking for?"

  Cal leaned back in his chair and started talking, while Hudson listened, questioned, and jotted down the occasional note. Cal felt better already, his guilt about canceling his appointment with Ginger dissipated with every question Hudson asked. For the first time in weeks he stopped worrying about his opening night.

  He was doing the right thing here. And with luck he'd never see the Cameron woman again.

  * * *

  Ginger stared at the theater doors, paralyzed. To say she was tense would be the mother of all understatements.

  High pressure selling was one thing, but what she was about to do ranked up there with force-feeding and entrapment. She tried the doors, unlocked just as they'd been two days ago. She let out a relieved breath.

  Inside the lobby, she heard men's voices; deep, rumbling, and too muted to hear properly. Taking another second to compose herself, she marched to Beaumann's office, a warship on a mission, armored in gunmetal gray wool, white shirt buttoned to the throat, and practical leather pumps. She eased her collar away from her neck with her index finger and rapped on the half open door to Cal's office. With a slight shove, it opened wide enough to show two men sitting at the desk.

  Cal's feet were propped on one end, the other man's at the other. Both sets of feet hit the floor in tandem. The stranger stood and Cal gaped. She had a moment of satisfaction at the guilt on his face. He looked like an ex-con who'd spotted his parole officer at an illegal arms sale.

  "Am I early?" Ginger asked. She directed her question to Cal and shot a friendly, innocent glance at the other man in the room. She hoped she looked ingenuous but doubted it. She was the world's worst poker player.

  "I called," Cal said bluntly. "Cancelled the appointment."

  "You did?" She widened her eyes, ever so little.

  "I did," he repeated with a read-my-lips expression on his face. "Left the message with your assistant. Tracy?"

  "That explains it, then," Ginger said, stepping into the office as if she belonged there. "First off, Tracy's not my assistant. She's my housemate. An artist, actually. A good one. She just answers the phone sometimes when I'm out... if she feels like it. This time, obviously, she forgot to give me the message." She stopped, both her babbling and her white lying, and cleared her throat. She'd got the message all right, and decided to ignore it. She smoothed down one of her gray wool lapels, but didn't move to go. "Too bad."

  "Yeah." Cal's eyes narrowed. "I can see you're really torn up about it."

  She focused on him. "I said I'd be back in two days, Mr. Beaumann, and here I am. I generally do what I say I'm going to do. Of course, if you really want me to leave..." She held her breath.

  They stared at one another, two cats on a narrow fence.

  "Anyone care to introduce us?" the other man said, his expression quizzical—and amused.

  "No point. The lady won't be staying," Cal said.

  Ginger turned to the other man. "Ginger Cameron, Ginger Ink."

  He took her hand. "Hudson Blaine, The Blaine Group. My pleasure."

  Ginger's spirit withered. "I've heard of your firm, Mr. Blaine." The Blaine Group was one of the most talked about PR firms in L.A. It didn't take a Mensa member to figure out what he was doing in Cal's office. But she wouldn't quit now. Trouble was, she didn't know where to go from here. "You do fabulous work."

  "And that's yours?" He nodded at her bulging portfolio.

  She nodded back.

  "I'd like to see it."

  "Hudson." Cal's tone was low and lethal.

  Ginger didn't miss a beat, even though she suspected the polished Hudson Blaine expected she'd fall flat on her unbuffed face. "And I'd love to show it to you." She glanced at Cal. He looked thunderous. She plopped her case on his desk and started to unzip it. "I've got some great ideas for Cinema Neo and—"

  "Miss Cameron?" Cal put a hand over hers, effectively terminating the unzip.

  She looked up at him, unaccountably flustered by the slide of his warm hand over her knuckles. "Yes," she croaked, desperate to look assured, but afraid she'd only managed the desperate part.

  Cal looked as if he were about to loose a blister of words, but instead he took a noisy breath, and left his hand to linger over hers. "You've got twenty minutes," he said, then gestured at Hudson Blaine with a jut of his chin. "And you owe it to him. Better say your thanks now, because after you leave he's going to have an unfortunate accident."

  Hudson chuckled and pulled out a chair. "Ginger, take a seat. Let's make the big guy squirm."

  * * *

  An hour later Cal walked Ginger out of his office and out the main theater door to the street. The sun hit her eyes with a blinding smack, but she'd barely blinked before Cal had the doors locked behind her.

  When she got to her aging Omega, she slumped against it with the sluggishness of a centenarian on tranquilizers, her mind alternately buzzing and whiting out. She brushed an errant curl behind her unstudded ear.

  She'd blown it.

  She'd given it her best shot and had the biggest misfire in her brilliantly short career. She sighed. Ginger Ink was back to promoting doughnut shops and tire sales.

  Hudson was nice enough, but Beaumann? He hadn't said a word during the entire presentation. Sat there and glowered like an old bull moose with a rock in its hoof. Not a question, not a nod, not a sign she'd made any impression at all.

  She'd exhale if her lungs weren't filled with lead. Still, she couldn't figure out if she was mad or sad.

  She chalked the feeling up to disappointment, got in her car, and fired it up. She needed a cream puff drenched in chocolate, and she needed it fast.

  To hell with Cal Beaumann and his precious Cinema Neo.

  * * *

  "You have to go with her, Cal. That was great stuff." Hud poured himself a glass of water and went back to his chair.

  "I don't know." Cal shook his head, still in doubt.

  "Why the hell not?"

  "God, Hud, you saw the way the woman was dressed."

  "So undress her. You used to be pretty good at that as I remember."

  "Funny," he answered dryly, knowing he'd been thinking the same thing all through Ginger's presentation. Take it off, Ginger. Take it all off.

  "She's into retro." Hud shrugged. "What's the big deal?"

  "The deal is she looks like a nineteen-twenties Salvation Army officer." Cal got to his feet. "Her ideas for radio spots, local ads, and press releases? Great, sure, but the meet-the-people part of this project? I can't see it."

  "So tell her to pick up her image. Get some new clothes."

  "Tell a woman what to wear? I'd rather face a prison riot with a water pistol."

 
"Your call, but under that tarp she calls a suit there's a helluva creative person." Hud got to his feet. "I'm going back to the hotel. Call when you decide." He paused. "And remind yourself of this... she'll be a lot cheaper than The Blaine Group."

  Cal watched him go. Money! It always came down to money.

  He leveled his shoulders, committed himself to the equivalent of an hour walking a bed of burning coals. He'd do it. He'd take Hud's advice, tell Cameron to take off her clothes... change her style.

  He'd be straightforward, businesslike, and above all, tactful with a capital T. He'd call her tomorrow, set up a meeting.

  How bad could it be?

  * * *

  "Get up, Ginge. It's the phone. And it's him!" Tracy yelled as if she were trying to hurl her words to the third floor instead of the two feet separating her from Ginger's bed.

  Ginger blinked, stared at the phone in Tracy's hand, then grabbed for it. "Hello."

  "Cameron?"

  "Yes."

  "Can you stop by this afternoon? Around three?"

  Ginger pushed herself to a sitting position and looped the spaghetti strap of her silky night top over her shoulder. "I'll be there," she croaked, her voice heavy with sleep, her brain still unable to accept that Beaumann was on the phone.

  "Are you still in bed?" he asked, his tone an octave lower. "Did I wake you?"

  "It's okay. I, uh, overindulged a bit last night."

  "On something sinful, I hope." There it was again, that edge of hoarseness in his voice.

  Ginger's breathing shallowed. Not sinful enough. Not as sinful as I could be. With you. "Hot dogs. Chocolate ice cream. And Kool-Aid."

  "That's your idea of over indulgence?"

  "Not always. Sometimes it's—" she stopped, not sure what she was about to say, but certain it wasn't the new, improved Ginger who was about to say it.

  "Don't stop now. You've got my full attention."

  "Bananas. I mean splits. Banana splits. I can really go to town on those."

  "Ah."

  Silence. One of those heavily pregnant ones.

  "So... should I bring my presentation?"

  "Pardon?"

  "My presentation. Should I bring it with me?"

  "No, just bring yourself." She heard him exhale. "Today that's all I can handle. See you at three." He hung up.

  Ginger clicked off the phone. When her chest relaxed, and her heart found its normal pattern, she smiled so hard her cheeks hurt.

  "Well..." Tracy urged, eyes wide. "What did he want?"

  Ginger shot to her knees and bounced on the bed. "He wants me, Trace. He wants to see me."

  Tracy plunked herself on the edge of the bed. "Hot damn. I'll get to meet this guy, yet."

  Ginger stopped bouncing. "I've got to get dressed." She scrambled off the bed.

  "You've got hours yet."

  "Yeah, well my, uh, look takes some planning."

  "Speaking of your 'look,' as you call it—"

  "Don't start." Ginger tossed a pillow at her.

  "The black suit, at least it fits," Tracy begged, fending off the pillow, then clutching it to her chest.

  Ginger rifled her closet. "The tan skirt, I think. The one with the pleats."

  "The pregnant hippo look. Sweet." More rolled eyes.

  "It's in good taste and it's comfortable." And it's enough armor to stop a horny man from a mile off. Now was not the time to drop her guard and let Cal Beaumann slip in, figuratively or literally.

  Tracy threw up her hands. "Okay, I know when I'm beat. Wear whatever you want, but don't plan on dandling my grandkids on your knee because you don't have any of your own." She flounced out, leaving Ginger to make the connection between pleated skirts and grandchildren.

  In the shower, Ginger was excited—and smug. Maybe Trace didn't like her new image, but it had worked on Cal Beaumann. He'd clearly seen she was the best person for the job, and he didn't give a damn what she looked like.

  Chapter 3

  Cal, protected behind the fortress of his desk, figured things had gone okay. In retrospect he could have edited out the remark about tweed underwear, because right now she looked like a cornered badger with a toothache.

  "Let me make sure I have this right. You want me to buy new clothes?" Ginger said, her voice lethally low.

  "That's what I want."

  "And getting the job depends on it?"

  Cal nodded. He'd said his piece, and at this point the less foot he put in his mouth the better. The honey-haired woman glared at him, looked ready to combust. And while combustible women were sexy as hell, he preferred meltdowns in bed not his office.

  Her skirt smacked her mid-calf as she paced in front of his desk. Cal frowned. He figured a woman's skirt should swirl, not smack. He tilted his head to get a better look at her legs. The six inches of them he could see between hem and ankle looked damn good. But an odd color...

  "What are you looking at?" She sounded mad.

  "Your legs." He squinted. "You're not wearing those support things, are you?"

  If looks could kill, this would be a bloodbath. "You"—she jabbed a finger in the air in his direction—"are a jerk."

  "So I've been told."

  "I should walk... straight out that door."

  "Is that your final answer?"

  "No! But I darn well have to think about it."

  "How long will the thinking part take?" He looked at his watch. "Time is something I'm short on. Hud either catches a plane in an hour, or stays. It's up to you."

  "You really are a jerk."

  He looked at his watch again. "And you're repeating yourself. Do you want the job or not?"

  She looked mad and mulish. He sighed, got to his feet, and went to stand in front of her. He lifted her chin with the tips of his fingers.

  "Look, Cameron, you're a pretty woman with a decent body." He hesitated. "I think." He stopped when her weird lavender scent and some kind of lemony smell drifted up from her hair. And while the two scents warred with each other, he breathed them in. Distracted, he went on. "Although it's damn hard to tell from this side of the drapery. And you have great skin, like rich cream." He smoothed a thumb across her cheek. The warmth and heat in it jolted him. Her gaze, hot and bright, collided with his, and his groin tightened. It surprised the hell out of him. He liked smells like vanilla and rose. He liked women in tight jeans or slinky evening dresses. What the hell he was doing soaking up lavender and lemon worn by a woman who probably starched her bras, he couldn't figure. He looked for words and found some. "I'm not asking you to turn yourself inside out. But for the next couple of months you'll be representing my company. Meeting a lot of people. All I'm asking is that you accentuate the positive for the benefit of Cinema Neo and Ginger Ink."

  "And if I refuse, I won't get the job?"

  "I'm afraid so. This is a sharp, fast-moving, contemporary industry, Cameron. We're not talking Sound of Music and Mary Poppins. Cinema Neo is edgy, distinctive, and modern. I want that image projected by everyone associated with it. Especially the person in charge of public relations. So what do you say?"

  "I say I should be judged on my brain not my fashion picks. I should be able to wear burlap and safety pins, and you shouldn't have a thing to say about it. But I want the job." She put out her hand. "I'll revisit my closet, that's all I can promise."

  Cal took her outstretched hand, wondered how she made a hand, so delicate and butterfly soft, feel like a carpenter's vise. Even so, he wanted to hang on to it. "I'll settle for anything that dispels the idea you've been in cryogenic storage for forty years."

  "Ah, not only is he arrogant and heavy-handed, he's a comedian."

  "Laugh or cry. Take your pick." He was sure he spotted a brief curve of her full, pale lips.

  Then her face went paper blank. "Right now, I don't feel like doing either one. I'd prefer to work. I'll get my presentation folder. It's in the car."

  "You brought it?"

  "Of course, I brought it. Why wouldn't I?"
/>   Because I told you not to. "Maybe because we hadn't exactly settled things," he said, suddenly remembering she'd also ignored him when he'd canceled their appointment yesterday.

  She waved his comment away as if the settling part had been decided before she'd left home. "Do I get it or not? It wouldn't hurt to go over some preliminary plans."

  "Sure, why not? While you're doing that I'll call Hud. Tell him to catch his plane."

  Ginger headed for the door.

  "Cameron?" he called.

  She swiveled. "Yes?"

  "We have an understanding, right? You are going to power up your wardrobe?"

  "I said I would, didn't I?"

  He stroked his jaw. "You did."

  "Then you have nothing to worry about."

  Cal watched her walk out the door. Worried? Cal never worried. The twist in his belly was just leftover tension. It wasn't every day a man told a woman how to dress for the job.

  The twist morphed into a tight knot.

  And it wasn't every day a man decided to trust a woman who'd already snookered him—twice. But there was something about Ginger...

  * * *

  It was late afternoon, a few days later, when Ginger passed her hand in front of Cal to reach for a file, and he grabbed her wrist, took a look at her watch, and cursed mildly under his breath.

  "I've got to get out of here, Cameron. Sorry. My brother's coming in tonight. We're slated for an early dinner."

  "No problem." Ginger herded the paper and drawings littering Cal's desk into containment. She and Cal had made good progress today. "Other than website design ideas, we're pretty much done for now anyway."