IT TAKES A REBEL

by Stephanie Bond

  “Jack,” Derek said, his voice dipping. “I’m proud of you.”

  Touched and a little shaken, Jack scoffed. “Don’t go getting all mushy on me. The business isn’t in the bag yet.”

  “You just have to impress this Tremont lady, huh?”

  “Yeah, but she’s an uppity princess.”

  “Single?”

  “I didn’t ask,” Jack hedged, knowing she was single—ergo Reddinger.

  “Just be on your best behavior, okay?” Derek pleaded. “Don’t try to be starting something.”

  “That’s crazy,” Jack protested. “I wouldn’t—”

  “Yes, you would. If you haven’t noticed, little brother, you have a way of sabotaging your own success.”

  Jack sighed. “Relax, she has a boyfriend.”

  “Ha! Never stopped you before.”

  “Oh, and this coming from a guy who married the bride-to-be of a friend of his.”

  Derek grunted. “Steve and I aren’t friends.”

  “Wonder why?”

  “Okay, Jack, okay. But I’m telling you—stay away from this woman’s bed.”

  “My contact with Alex Tremont will be limited to her wiping her six-hundred dollar stiletto shoes on my back.”

  “Promise me.”

  “Promise you what?”

  “Promise me you won’t become involved with this woman.”

  “What? No!”

  “Then I’m coming home.”

  “No!” Jack sighed, then turned his back to the eavesdropping auditor and cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. “Okay.”

  “Okay, what?”

  He rolled his eyes heavenward and lowered his voice even more. “Okay. I promise I won’t become involved with … this woman.”

  “Great. I know I can trust you to keep your word to me, Jack.”

  Derek’s words reverberated in his head long after he hung up the phone. By the time he signed all the outgoing checks and sealed the envelopes, Mr. Stripling was ready to leave. Jack helped him to his car while doing his best to ignore the man’s ominous comments about missing forms and late payments. He assured the man they would discuss it later. Then Jack locked the office, rode his motorcycle to the bank to make the deposit, and dropped the bills into a mailbox.

  Maneuvering through five o’clock traffic, he acknowledged he hadn’t yet called Alex to set up a time to meet with her as her father had suggested. He also acknowledged that just the thought of seeing her again sent the blood rushing to the lower portions of his body. And irritation to nerve endings elsewhere.

  He dreaded talking to the woman on the phone, knowing she’d probably resist every opportunity to meet with him. Her father’s words came back to him. You’re going to have to suck up a little to win her over, but I’m sure you can handle it. Jack had never had to suck up to a woman in his life, and Alex Tremont didn’t strike him as someone susceptible to sucking up anyway. Dammit, he’d have to be clever, which meant this was going to be a lot of work.

  He sighed heavily, then from nowhere an idea popped into his mind. With growing confidence, Jack smiled and revved toward home, telling himself that just because he was already anticipating seeing Alex again did not mean he was going back on his promise to Derek.

  *

  Chapter 7

  « ^ »

  Alex kicked off her shoes and removed the pins from her hair, lightly massaging her scalp as she finger combed the waves. Taking stock of her physical well-being, she acknowledged wryly that her feet hurt, her back hurt and her hair hurt. On a scale of one to ten for bad days at the office, she gave this day a nine, saving ten for the distinction of being fired.

  Noticing the flashing light on her voice recorder, she pushed the play button as she walked past.

  “Alex, this is Lana. You have to help me, I’m begging you. Vile Vicki is hip to me borrowing her things to get her back for borrowing my things. I need to stash a few valuables at your place until I can off her and dump the body.”

  Shaking her head at her friend’s nonsense, she attempted a laugh, but in light of her abysmal day at the office, the noise came out sounding a bit strangled. After the farce of a meeting to “investigate” Jack Stillman’s company as a potential advertising firm, she’d received preliminary reports from a reputable retail research firm that Tremont’s was definitely losing sales ground, even worse considering that one of their main competitors was holding steady, and the other was posting significant gains.

  What a time to be flushing their advertising dollars down the drain.

  Before it slipped her mind, Alex dialed Lana’s number—she and Vile Vicki were way beyond sharing a phone number—and left her a message to use the spare key and deposit her valuables in the antique chest she used as a coffee table, adding that Lana simply could not, however, hide Vicki’s body in the chest. She hung up, thinking the couch looked extremely inviting, but she needed to eat, and the sole food items in the refrigerator—a jar of pimento olives and the carton of leftover fudge icing—would not suffice.

  She also refused to stay in simply because Heath had left town. Irked for no reason she could put her finger on, she paced the perimeter of her apartment, peering out the windows at early dusk, feeling jittery. She sat down at her mother’s mahogany baby grand piano showcased in the window of her loft, aching with the need to talk to her mother, to solicit her wisdom.

  Life was pulling at her—Heath wanted to set a date, the pressures at the store had grown exponentially. Al wanted her to bond with Gloria while she yearned only for her father’s affection. And now this liaison with Jack Stillman that went against her every instinct. The man oozed trouble, and she had the distinct feeling that the situation would become much more complicated before leveling out.

  Alex pinged on a key or two with a sad smile—considering the few rusty tunes she could play, turning on the groaning faucet in the bathroom seemed simpler.

  Suddenly she brightened, deciding that this evening would be the perfect time to indulge in her long-unfulfilled desire to ride again—to climb onto the back of a horse like when she was a child and bring the animal to a gallop.

  She hadn’t ridden in over a decade, but lately the longing to lean into the wind and feel her hair whipping her neck had recurred with more frequency. Lana said the urge for unbridled freedom was a by-product of becoming engaged, an explanation which Alex had dismissed. All she knew at the moment was that a therapeutic ride this evening would erase the stubborn image of Jack Stillman’s smug, handsome face and her father’s grating words, When people see “Tremont’s,” they’ll think of “Jack the Attack.”

  Not the person who bore the name of his store, the person who had devoted her entire life to his business, the person who spent sleepless nights mulling strategies to grow sales, to eke another half percent out of their margins. Not her, but Jack Stillman.

  She stomped to a bookcase, yanked out the yellow pages, then flipped to the H’s, only to be interrupted by a telltale frenzied knock on the door. Loath to answer Lana’s certain questions about Jack, she nonetheless recognized the futility of postponing the inevitable. Still holding the phone book, she undid the chain and swung open the door. But the sight of the figure standing in the hallway stunned her into silence.

  Holding a black motorcycle helmet beneath his arm, Jack Stillman inclined his dark head, his green-brown eyes dancing. “Good evening.”

  Her first impulse was to slam the door in his face, but she resisted. “The evening just took a decided turn for the worse,” she said wryly. “How did you find my apartment?”

  He gestured to her hand. “A brilliant invention, which I see you also utilize—the phone book.”

  His gaze swept over her, lingering on her loosened hair, traveling down to her stockinged feet. She tingled, and curled under her toes, mortified to be caught so completely off guard by the man she was supposed to “monitor,” according to her father. “A gentleman would have called first.”

  He winked. “Ah, finally w
e agree on something—I’m not a gentleman.”

  A threat? A promise? “What are you doing here?” she blurted. Besides looking impossibly handsome, that is. His white cotton shirt, unbuttoned just enough to reveal the top of a snowy undershirt, was tucked into plain-front khaki chinos, belted with a thick black leather belt that matched his low-heeled boots and slightly worn leather jacket. Seasoned, generic clothes that might have come from Goodwill for all she knew, but devastatingly appealing on his lean frame. The split-second observation gave her a jarring glimpse into how the man might come across in a commercial.

  He grinned—oh, Lord, a cleft in his chin, too.

  “Your father suggested that you and I get together to talk about the ad campaign, and after the meeting today, I thought maybe it would be better if we got together in a more casual setting.”

  She pursed her lips, warily considering him and his offer. “Such as?”

  “Such as Gerrard’s?”

  Alex blinked.

  His laugh was mildly apologetic. “At lunch I overheard your fiancé tell your father that he’d made reservations before he had to leave town unexpectedly.”

  Funny that neither of the men had mentioned that they’d lunched with him, or for that matter, had invited her along. “How did you know Heath was my fiancé?”

  He shrugged, his shoulders eclipsing the light from the hall. “I made an assumption based on the scene your secretary and I walked in on this morning and the rock on your finger.”

  “Oh.” She rubbed her thumb on the underside of the ring, causing it to tilt and flash in the incandescent lighting. Symbolic of everything she wanted—if she married Heath, she could create her own loving family. Even her staid father wouldn’t be able to resist the lure of grandchildren.

  “Have you two set a date?”

  Alex looked up and suddenly wondered if this playboy had children and ex-wives scattered about. He seemed too much of a big kid himself to be a good father, but then again, what did she know about good fathers? “I … I’d rather not discuss my personal business.”

  “Okay.” He scratched at his temple, shifting his weight to his other foot. “So what about dinner—does Gerrard’s work for you?”

  The man had a lot of nerve assuming she didn’t have something better to do like, like, like … where had she been planning to go? Oh, yes—horseback riding. She patted the phone book, glad for an out. “Sorry, I was on the verge of making other plans.”

  Before she realized his intention, he’d taken the book from her and turned to the page she’d held with her thumb. Her cheeks flamed as he scanned the listings.

  “Hmm. Either you’re looking to buy a new saddle, or you were planning to go horseback riding.”

  Feeling all of nine years old, Alex clasped her hands behind her back. “I, uh, was planning to go riding.”

  He closed the book and angled his head at her. “Well now, if it’s a ride you’re looking for, I can certainly oblige.” His throaty voice was free of innuendo, but his eyes told her the conversation could veer in any direction she wished to take it. In the course of a heartbeat, all kinds of naughty images galloped through her mind. She swallowed, squashing the imagery. The man was, after all, a professional flirt.

  “Oh?” she asked lightly. “Do you own a horse?”

  “Horsepower,” he corrected, setting the phone book on a table just inside the door. He patted his helmet. “Nothing like it—wind in your face, sun on your back, hugging the curves.”

  She almost smiled at the little-boy delight in his voice. The man was nothing if not compelling. His grin lit up his entire face, pushing up his sharp cheekbones, lifting his thick black brows, crimping the corners of his amazing eyes. He had a mischievous look that reminded her of a boy in her first grade class who had always talked her into stunts that resulted in either injury or punishment.

  “I’d better not,” she murmured, although even the hair on her arms strained toward him. “Besides, the restaurant probably already filled the reservation.” In truth, the thought of sharing a meal alone with Jack Stillman unnerved her mightily.

  “I checked, and they haven’t.” As if he sensed her wavering, he leaned forward, stretching his free arm to the other side of the jamb, filling the doorway. She caught a whiff of leather and a cologne unidentifiable to her well-trained nose. “Look, Alex, we got off on the wrong foot, and I’d like the chance to make it up to you.”

  Her nickname had rolled off his tongue so easily, she almost missed it. The implied familiarity rankled her, reminding her that she had much more at stake in the days ahead than Jack Stillman. A sobering flush warmed her neck. “Mr. Stillman, you assume too much. There’s no need to ‘make anything up’ to me. Our relationship is and will continue to be strictly professional.”

  He held up one hand and laughed. “Whoa—I think we can both agree that the only thing we have in common is being blindsided by your father.”

  Alex straightened. Why did his corroboration with her statement seem like a thinly veiled insult? “My father tends to be impulsive.”

  He nodded. “And you take after your mother?”

  His offhand reference to her dear mother struck yet another nerve. “I make my own way.”

  As if he sensed he’d stepped out of bounds, he gave her a rueful smile. “Let’s face it, I need your support to make this a successful ad campaign. You and I might disagree on the means to the end, but we both have a vested interest in the end itself—more visibility for Tremont’s.”

  A sliver of victory threaded through her chest as her mental footing returned. “Are you admitting, Mr. Stillman, that you can’t do this without me?”

  He laughed, a soft snort, then crossed his arms over his broad chest. “What I’m saying,” he said, the bass in his voice rumbling in her ears, “is that we need each other.”

  There it was, that implication of intimacy that sent a chill up her back—not to be mistaken for a thrill, of course.

  “But that’s where we differ,” she said with a tight smile. “You see, if you fail, then I will be proven right—that Stillman’s isn’t the ad agency for Tremont’s.”

  He nodded, then pulled at his chin. “Except I suspect you’re the kind of businesswoman who prefers to, um, win fair and square.”

  “This isn’t a contest, Mr. Stillman.”

  His mouth twitched. “Oh, but isn’t it? Father versus daughter?”

  Alex swallowed hard, mortified that the stranger could see straight into her heart. “That’s ridiculous. I only want what’s best for the business.”

  She defied the urge to squirm under his probing gaze. Suddenly he smiled again and smacked the helmet in his hand, as if a decision had been reached. “Good, then we want the same thing, which is precisely why we should get started as soon as possible. Dinner is my treat.”

  She inhaled deeply, contemplating the ramifications of having dinner with this man in a highly public place where she and Heath were known as a couple. Then she realized that Gerrard’s would be the most innocent of places for them to dine—no one could accuse them of a clandestine meeting.

  “All right,” she relented, injecting as much authority into her voice as possible. “But we go Dutch.”

  His smile wavered, but he nodded. “Wear something warm, night riding can be chilly.”

  Having a dinner meeting was one thing, but hanging on to this man on the back of his bike? Alex shook her head.

  “Oh, no—I’m not climbing on that rattletrap motorcycle.”

  He shrugged. “Okay, if you’d rather I ride with you—”

  “I’ll meet you there,” she said, then banged the door closed and exhaled.

  *

  The woman was a little short on charm, Jack decided as he glanced at the clock over the restaurant bar for the fifth time in as many minutes. He’d considered waiting outside her apartment complex until she emerged, then realized that some states would consider that stalking and, frankly, he didn’t want to give Alex the impressio
n that he would sit around waiting for her. With that thought, he sprang up from the barstool and leaned against the bar—he’d stand around waiting for her instead.

  “Want another?” the bartender asked, pointing to his draft beer.

  “No, thanks,” Jack said, swirling the remainder of the ale in his glass.

  The guy squinted, then his face broke into a wide smile. “Hey, you’re Jack Stillman, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  The man stuck out his beefy hand and pumped Jack’s. “Wow, this is a pleasure. What have you been doing, man?”

  Jack adopted an accommodating expression. “This and that, mostly traveling.”

  “You back in town for good?”

  “Good question.” Jack pushed his empty glass forward, loathe to engage in a drawn-out conversation. Where the devil was she?

  “Are you coaching?”

  “Nope.”

  “Too bad, man. So what do you do?”

  “My brother and I run an ad agency in town.”

  “Oh.” The man nodded awkwardly, duly unimpressed. “You waiting for a dame?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “You got that hang-dog look.”

  He shot him an irritated frown.

  “If you’re interested,” the man said, nodding across the room, “there’s a sweet little redhead in the corner who’s been trying to get your attention for a half hour.”

  Intrigued, and nursing a fair amount of spite toward the tardy Alexandria, Jack turned to check out the woman in question, quickly assessing she had all the bare essentials: height, curves and—most importantly—proximity. He twitched an eyebrow in her direction and was rewarded with a toss of hair and a dazzling smile. The redhead picked up her drink and walked toward him, a deep inhale away from splitting the seams of her faded jeans.

  “Howdy,” she drawled as she stepped up next to him at the bar.

  He nodded a greeting. Knowing he’d never remember her name, he simply didn’t ask.