by Jo Leigh
ARM CANDY
Jo Leigh
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
1
JESSICA WAS SECONDS away from a clean getaway. At a quarter to midnight on a Thursday night, she figured everyone else had left Geller and Patrick, Inc., and she could simply go to the elevator and make it to the street and a taxi without interference. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Owen McCabe, her boss, her former mentor and current major pain in the butt, popped out of his office one second before she pressed the down button. Not only did he scare the bejesus out of her, but he also made her drop her portfolio, which gave him an excuse to rush over and help her pick up her papers.
“Burning the midnight oil, Jess?”
“Yep, and now I’m exhausted, so if you’ll just give me the—”
“I know,” he said, handing her the prospectus on the new eyeshadow line, “why don’t we go get ourselves a nice nightcap. That’ll help you get right to sleep.”
She took a deep breath as she slipped the papers back into the portfolio. “Thanks, Owen, but I don’t need any help. Just a taxi.”
“I’ve got my car right downstairs.”
“No, that’s okay. You go on home. I’m sure Ellen’s worried that it’s so late.”
“She went to bed hours ago,” he said. “The boys had track today and they wore her out.”
“I understand how she feels.” Jessica pressed the down button again and silently prayed for the elevator to arrive.
“So,” Owen said, leaning against the wall in a not-so-casual effort to appear relaxed, “you all set for next week?”
“Pretty much. Just a few more odds and ends. We’ll be fine. It’s going to be a huge success.”
“Yeah, yeah, it will. Mostly due to your efforts.”
“Nonsense. Everyone’s been working like dogs.”
“With you as captain and commander.”
Six months ago she would have been thrilled by the compliment, but things had changed.
Somewhere along the way, her boss had gotten the idea that the two of them could be more than co-workers. Despite the fact that he was married with twin boys. Despite the fact that she’d never given him a smidgen of encouragement. Despite the fact that he knew she had no time or desire to date anyone, period.
She’d given the situation a lot of thought. She could complain about harassment, make a stink, but for all practical purposes, she’d ultimately be the loser. No matter the outcome, a suit would put a very large dent in her career plans. Instead, she’d decided to deal somehow with Owen until the new line was in place, then, with that success under her belt, make her move. Revlon had expressed interest in her, and she was pretty sure there was going to be a shake-up at Clinique. All she had to do was get through the next two weeks without a major fiasco, and she could write her own ticket.
“Sure I can’t persuade you?” Owen asked as the elevator doors hissed open.
“Not tonight. Thanks anyway, I appreciate it.”
He touched her arm as she walked into the car. “And I appreciate you.”
She smiled until the doors closed, then she let out a loud groan. God, what a nightmare. And it was only going to get worse.
In four days, the new line would be launched with one of the most elaborate campaigns and media focus in cosmetics history. A solid week of high-impact promos featuring A-list celebrities, all taking place in Manhattan with locations from the Rainbow Room to Central Park, and she was in charge of seeing that nothing went wrong. Luckily, her team was top-notch, especially her assistant, Marla, which meant she could concentrate on putting out fires rather than concerning herself with the details. Unfortunately, the biggest fire she’d have to put out was in Owen’s pants.
To make matters worse, they were all staying at the Willows hotel for the duration, and Owen had booked her a suite right next to his own. Undoubtedly with connecting doors.
Something had to be done. Something that wouldn’t get her fired. Something that would show Owen once and for all that she wasn’t available.
The elevator stopped in the lobby and she nodded at the security guy as she headed for the street, her heels clicking on the marble floors. Once she was outside, she stood still for just a moment, letting the cool air of the early-fall evening refresh her. This was her favorite time of year, especially in New York. The whole city seemed more alive. The humidity and heat of summer had finally passed, and the promise of brilliant holidays shimmered just around the corner.
She stepped to the curb and hailed a taxi. In another ten minutes or so, she could take a nice warm shower, crawl between her Egyptian-cotton sheets and forget about Owen, makeup and ad campaigns until five-thirty, when it would all begin again.
The cabbie was mercifully silent, and Jessica leaned her head back on the torn seat. There was so much to do before the premiere, and she felt guilty about leaving work at all. Ridiculous, but nonetheless it was true. Her job was everything…No, that wasn’t true. Her career was everything. Nothing, not even Owen and his out-of-control libido, was going to stand in her way. She would be an executive VP before she reached thirty, or die trying.
But that meant fending off Owen’s advances until the campaign was over. The only thing that would keep Owen away was her having a boyfriend. But he knew she didn’t have one, and how in hell was she supposed to come up with one in the next week?
Her gaze flickered over the staccato images flashing by the window as the taxi zoomed toward Chelsea. At the corner of Seventh Avenue and West Twenty-first, she saw a billboard for Angel’s Escort Service.
Jessica smiled as she stared, the entire plan falling into place with a sweet little plunk. An escort. Of course. She could say it was someone from Harvard, someone she’d been with before. It would be a simple enough thing to hire a man for the job, someone sophisticated enough to play the part, handsome enough to look good in the inevitable photos, and someone discreet enough not to blow the whistle on her.
Glen. Her best friend. Of course. God, why hadn’t she thought of this before? It was so obvious. The only person in the whole office who’d even heard of Glen was Marla, and Marla was the soul of discretion. She’d call him tomorrow. He’d love a week at the Willows. And Owen McCabe could take his advances and shove them right up his Armani.
“LOVE TO. Can’t.”
Jessica blinked, not wanting to believe the words. “Glen, no. Please. Maybe you don’t understand the seriousness of the situation. He’s relentless. He’s everywhere. I need you.”
“I know, Jess, but I just can’t, I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing, I’ll be in California for four of the days.”
“You can’t cancel? Reschedule?”
His deep baritone filled her ear and made her clutch the phone with a desperate fist. “No, I can’t.”
“Dammit, dammit, dammit. This was the perfect solution.”
“So, find someone else. Surely I’m not the only guy you know.”
“No, but you’re the only guy I know well enough to ask. Come on, Glen. You’re perfect.”
“Ah, you say the sweetest things.”
“How about a friend? You have friends. Lots of friends. I’ll pay. Well. But he’s got to be discreet. If anyone finds out…”
“I think I m
ight know someone.”
“Really?” She grabbed her Mont Blanc, the pen she’d gotten as a graduation present from her aunt Lydia of Belgium, and twirled it between her fingers.
“Yeah, but I’ll have to convince him.”
“Do it. Please. I’m begging.”
“Hey, I’ll do my best.”
She could picture him sitting in his gallery, underneath the Jean-Michel Basquiat collage, wearing something fabulous that flattered his blue eyes and dark, dark hair. “Thank you.”
“Just a thought,” he said, “but have you tried telling your boss you’re not interested?”
She laughed, which she hadn’t done in quite some time. It wasn’t a good laugh, though, and she thought of the many, many times she’d told Owen straight out that she had no intention of stepping over the line with him. “He has selective hearing. And don’t tell me to file a suit. I’ve thought this through and I’m going to bail when the time is right.”
“I figured. You’re nothing if not thorough.”
“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”
“Make that thorough and paranoid.”
She smiled. “When this is all over, I’m going to buy you the most decadent meal in Manhattan. You say where and when.”
“Deal. Now let me go see what I can do.”
“Go!” She hung up, then leaned back in her chair, consciously relaxing her shoulders as she sank into the kidskin leather. Glen would come through, she had to believe that. If not, she’d just plain hire someone from an escort agency. She’d heard of it being done, although she’d never met anyone who’d used the service. But she hoped she didn’t have to resort to that. This was too important.
A knock on the door brought her back to the business at hand. “Come in.”
Marla Scott, Jessica’s assistant, walked in, her arms filled with magazines. She came over to the desk, put them down carefully, then rubbed her hands together. “I’ve marked all the ads. Check out The New Yorker. There’s a column raving about the budget and our conspicuous consumption. It’s great.”
The stack was huge, and this was only the beginning of the blitz that would blanket newspapers, radio and billboards across the city. By the end of the campaign there wouldn’t be a man, woman or child in the country who wouldn’t know about the New Dawn line.
Marla sat down in the chair across from Jessica. “So are you up to your elbows?”
“Yes, but talk anyway.”
“Okay,” she said, flicking a strand of her long red hair away from her face. “So I went out with this John person last night. The one from the Starbucks? Who got the last oat scone?”
Jessica remembered. Poor Marla. Shy as a butterfly, and so lonely. She was the best assistant Jessica had ever had, completely on top of the job, no nonsense, but also generous and funny, and she had the absolute worst luck with men. “He’s the tall one, right? NYU?”
Marla nodded. “Lookswise, scrumptious. Datewise, disastrous.”
“No.”
“Yes. He took me to a play. Off-off-Broadway. More like performance art, really, with this one woman complaining about her period while this other woman pretended to masturbate. It was very high on the yuck factor.”
“It wasn’t his fault it was terrible.”
“True. Very true.”
“So?”
“So it turns out the woman pretending is actually his ex-girlfriend, only by the time we’re backstage schmoozing with the cast and fans, they’re not so ex, if you know what I mean.”
“What?”
“Complete with kissage. I mean, they moved behind a poster of The Vagina Monologues, but I could still see them all over each other.”
“Oh, God.”
“He didn’t even pay for the taxi home.”
“Bastard. He deserves someone who pretends to masturbate onstage.”
“My sentiments exactly. Only…” She looked down at her lap, to the hunter-green skirt she loved so much. “…he made me laugh at dinner. And I was so…I don’t know.”
“Yeah.”
Marla smiled purposefully. Adamantly. “No big. I’ll just keep, you know, trying. Never give up. That’s my motto. Not till you’re old and toothless and have all the cats that can fill an apartment.”
“I’m sure it won’t come to that.”
“Probably not. But it’s good that I’m not allergic. To cats, I mean.”
Jessica shook her head, and wished she had something akin to a social life where she might be able to meet someone right for Marla. But since her entire entourage consisted of Glen, who was gay, her mother, who lived in Cincinnati, and her landlord, who made an art out of complaining while not actually doing anything, there didn’t seem to be much hope.
“If there’s not anything else,” Marla said, “I’m going to call the Zephyr agency and double-check on the models.”
“No, that’s good. Thanks.”
Marla stood up, and headed for the door. But before she went out, she turned back. “Do you think we have a chance of getting Shawn?”
Jessica leaned back in her chair. “Who knows. We’re certainly offering him enough money.”
“Can you imagine? Shawn Foote in the same room? I’d get all swoony, I just know it.”
“He may be hunky, but he’s just a guy.”
Marla leaned her head to the right and quirked her lips. “Just a guy? I think not. He’s…he’s…”
“The Uberhunk. I know.”
Marla nodded. “I’ll report back.”
Jessica looked down at the spreadsheet on her desk and forgot all about male models, dating fiascos and even her own personal problems. Seconds later, the world outside her office could have crumbled and she wouldn’t have noticed.
DAN CRAWFORD WAS at sixes and sevens. Which was an interesting expression he’d just looked up on his computer. Seems it came from an old French game called Hazard, and had something to do with difficulty in shooting dice. But knowing what the term meant didn’t help the situation. He had to make a decision, and neither of the two immediate options appealed all that much.
Okay, so he could take the job in Botswana. He liked Africa, and hadn’t been there for almost fifteen years. It would be a challenge, and the company, an international trading firm, had been after his consulting services for a long time. But it would mean a commitment of almost a year, which seemed excessive.
On the other hand, he could partner up with Zeke on the Baja 1000 race, but that would mean a whole hell of a lot of training, getting the car up to specs, moving down to L.A. until the race, and, of course, being with Zeke, who was a great guy unless he got too drunk, which he did whenever he raced.
Dan’s gaze moved next to the fireplace, to the glass cabinet where he kept his mementos. The large second-place trophy from the Baja three years ago taunted him. Then he looked at the bookcase, at the pile of papers and articles he’d collected, everything from the psychology of racing to the topography of Baja. Damn, he’d put in a lot of manhours on winning. So why wasn’t he more interested? Zeke wasn’t that bad. And if Dan supplied the booze, he could maybe rig it so his buddy couldn’t get so much of it.
He got up from his desk and walked over to the window. From the fifteenth floor he could see the bookstore on the corner, Villard’s Books, big, independent and as quirky as his own tastes. The staff there indulged him and his projects, the more obscure the better. In fact, between the New York Public Library, Villard’s and the Internet, he could research anything to his heart’s content.
Maybe he’d go down now, browse through the travel section, have a cup of coffee. Come up with something new to discover, or as his mother would say, bury himself in a new obsession.
He headed for the bedroom, but before he made it there, he got buzzed from the lobby. Crossing to the door, he answered the intercom. “Yeah, Jimmy?”
“Someone to see you, Mr. Crawford. Glen, uh, what’s that?”
Dan heard a mumble in the background. Then, “Glen Vider
s.”
“Great, send him up.” Dan let go of the buzzer, curious. He’d known Glen for about a year, mostly as someone who kicked his ass regularly at racquetball. He liked Glen, liked his sense of humor and his taste in art. He’d bought a Lichtenstein from his gallery and he’d paid a good price for it. But they’d never really socialized, except for the occasional showing invitation. What could bring him by?
Dan opened the door and invited Glen in.
“This isn’t a bad time, is it?”
“Not at all. I was just going to make some coffee. Would you like some?”
“Sure.”
Dan led the way into the kitchen, where he pulled the beans out of the fridge to begin the process. “So, what’s up?”
“I have a proposition for you.”
Dan stopped short. “Oh?”
Glen laughed. “Not that kind of proposition. This one should be more to your liking.”
Smiling, and a touch relieved, Dan continued with the coffee making. “Intriguing. Do go on.”
Glen leaned against the kitchen door, crossed his arms over his chest and smiled. “I have this friend. Her name is Jessica Howell and she’s got a problem.”
Dan worked on the coffee while Glen filled him in on the situation. His first instinct was to say no and be done with it, but the more he heard about Jessica, the more an idea began to germinate. “So she’s brilliant, huh?”
“Top two percent of her class at Harvard. She’s razor-sharp, and too damn articulate for that foolish job she’s got.”
“Workaholic?”
“Beyond belief. I don’t think she’s been on a date since she moved to New York six years ago.”
“And I’d be with her. In her room for the whole week?”
“Yeah. Well, wait. I’m not sure about the ‘in her room’ part. But you’d have to stick pretty damn close.”
