IT TAKES A REBEL

by Stephanie Bond

  She turned her back to the bar and leaned on her elbows. “You played football for UK, didn’t you?”

  Jack smirked. “You don’t look old enough to have followed my career.”

  “I’m not. My father has an autographed picture of you in our rec room—it’s been there since I was a kid.”

  Feeling ancient, Jack picked at peanuts from a dish on the bar.

  “Buy me a drink?” she asked, pursing her bright pink mouth into a pretty pout.

  “Looks like you’re still working on that one,” he said, nodding toward the frozen pink drink she held that coincidentally matched her binding pink T-shirt.

  “I’m always planning ahead,” she oozed, and leaned closer as she laughed. At a loss, he manufactured a laugh, too.

  “Did I miss something funny?”

  Jack jerked around to find Alex standing behind them, her dark eyebrows high. He straightened, feeling ridiculously guilty, and conjured up an innocent smile. “No, just making conversation.” He tossed a few bills on the counter, nodded to the redhead, then turned back to Alex. “Ready?”

  She nodded, but from the pinched look around her lovely mouth, she was feeling guilty about meeting him … which meant she was capable of bending the rules. He grinned at the prim set of her shoulders as she walked three steps ahead of him all the way to the reservations station.

  “What name?” the hostess asked.

  “Reddinger,” Alex said.

  “Stillman,” he said at the same time, which garnered a sharp look from his companion. At the hostess’s perplexed expression, he added, “There’s been a change from Reddinger to Stillman.”

  Alex shot him a suspicious frown and he winked back. “Right this way.”

  He fell into step behind Alex as the hostess led the way to their table. She’d bound her hair again into a tight little wad, but had changed to loose, black dress jeans that hugged her hips and a turquoise silk blouse that shimmered under the lights as she walked. More than one man stole a glance as she walked between tables. Jack picked up his pace, his hand hovering near her waist of its own volition.

  The hostess stopped at a secluded table for two near the enormous stone fireplace that held a fire, more for appearances than for heat. He beat Alex to her chair by a heartbeat and pulled it out for her.

  “Thank you,” she said, sounding wary as she allowed him to scoot the seat beneath her.

  After handing them a wine list, the hostess disappeared, replaced seconds later by a waiter. “Good evening, Ms. Tremont,” he said, a genuine smile on his young face as he unfolded her napkin and draped it over her lap. But when he turned to Jack, he faltered a bit, obviously expecting someone else. So she and Reddinger were regulars, huh?

  “Rick, this is Mr. Stillman,” Alex supplied. “He’s a…” she glanced over at Jack, making eye contact for two whole seconds “…business associate … of Mr. Reddinger’s … and mine.”

  The waiter eyed him suspiciously, but nodded cordially enough.

  “We’ll have a bottle of chardonnay,” she continued, setting aside the wine list

  “I’ll take another beer,” Jack said.

  Alex eyed him as if he were a barbarian. “Bring a carafe of chardonnay for me,” she amended with a small smile.

  Once the waiter left, silence enveloped them. Jack attempted to catch her gaze, but it was as if an invisible iron gate had sprung up around her—she sat folded into herself, serene and stunning, as sleek as a cat, a different creature than the woman who had answered the door barefoot, on the verge of going horseback riding. The dichotomy intrigued him. “You look beautiful,” he said before he could stop the words.

  He got her attention, but she didn’t appear particularly pleased. “Mr. Stillman—”

  “Jack.”

  “—let’s get down to business, shall we?”

  Although he wanted nothing less than to talk about business, he said, “Sure. Where do you propose we begin?” She toyed with her empty wineglass, her engagement ring twinkling under the lights. Reddinger was a very lucky man.

  “First things first,” she said, leveling her ice-blue gaze at him. “You were lying this morning when you said that my visit to your office fit into some convoluted plan of yours. You had no way of knowing I would be stopping by.”

  “You can’t prove that allegation,” he said mildly, leaning his elbows on the table, etiquette be damned. God, she was gorgeous.

  She lifted one delicate eyebrow. “I don’t trust you.”

  He lowered his voice. “Are you normally this paranoid?”

  One side of her mouth drew back. “Call me prudent.”

  The woman had lost her sense of humor somewhere between her apartment and the restaurant parking lot. “How about if we call a truce?” he asked, steepling his hands. “Just through dinner. Then we can go back to pecking each other to death if we want to.”

  She inhaled deeply, then released the breath in a long sigh. “Okay. I suppose the first thing we need to do is figure out how much can be feasibly delivered in the next two weeks.”

  “I’ll follow your lead.” Anywhere you want to take me. He blinked—where had that thought come from?

  She pursed her mouth, and he could see the wheels turning in her pretty head. “I say we meet with the television producer and a photographer as soon as possible to shoot a duster of spots around the—” she cleared her throat “—slogan.”

  Jack ignored her slight. “Meanwhile, I can polish the text for the print ads, come up with radio scripts, and shop around for billboard space.”

  “Then my team and I will coordinate internal promotions to complement the media efforts,” she said with resignation in her voice. “We’ll do the best we can with what we have to work with.”

  Jack gave her a wry smile. “You really should put a lid on your excitement.”

  The corners of her mouth curled up a fraction. “You might have blinded my father with your pseudo-celebrity, Mr. Stillman, but I’m a bit more skeptical. By signing your agency, my staff’s work is multiplied. Believe it or not, babysitting you for the next two weeks isn’t at the top of my wish list.”

  She leaned forward, offering a glimpse of her cleavage in the silky, button-up blouse. Speaking of wish lists. His promise to Derek was forgotten as lust flooded his limbs. He knew he was on shaky ground, but he opened his mouth anyway. “If it’s any consolation, you are hands-down the best damn looking babysitter I’ve ever had.”

  *

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  Shaken down to her sensible loafers, at first she thought she had misheard him. But one look at the raw invitation in Jack’s eyes, and she knew she hadn’t. How did one respond to such an overt remark? Sure, the feminine part of her was flattered, but the practical part of her was convinced he was playing her. He needed her cooperation, didn’t he? The man probably knew only one way to influence women—between the sheets.

  She opened her mouth to put him in his place, but the waiter arrived with her wine and his beer, then asked for their dinner order. Alex murmured she would have her usual, and Jack ordered a rare porterhouse steak, barbarian that he was. She capped her agitation and concentrated on steering the conversation back to business, finally pinning him down on a delivery date for the print ads. Within a few minutes, she felt as if she were regaining control.

  “Will your brother be contributing to our account?” she asked, taking a larger swallow of wine than was probably wise on her empty stomach.

  “Not creatively,” Jack said. “Derek is more of a numbers man. And he’s out of town for another couple of weeks on his honeymoon.” Her expression must have given her away because he smiled and said, “You look surprised.”

  “I guess I assumed he was like you,” she admitted, although she really didn’t know what that was.

  “You mean footloose and fancy free?”

  So he wasn’t attached. Alex lifted her glass to her mouth and nodded, more interested in his answer than she cared
to reveal.

  “He was, up until a couple of months ago. Derek flew to Atlanta to stand in for me as best man at my college buddy’s wedding, and ended up falling in love with the bride.”

  She choked on her wine, coughing and sputtering like an idiot. Jack stood and jerked on her arm as if she were three years old, and as if it would help at all. At last, she waved him away, still tingling where his big warm fingers had touched her. “You mean,” she asked hoarsely, “that he stole his friend’s fiancée?”

  “Well, it’s not as sordid as it sounds,” he said. “They were trapped together in a hotel room under some kind of strange quarantine, and fell in love. Janine decided to call off the wedding, then a few weeks later, she and Derek reunited and were married.”

  Alex acknowledged the wine was going to her head because she actually cooed. “That’s so romantic.”

  Jack shrugged, apparently less convinced. “I suppose.”

  “Is he like you in other ways?” She remembered the two of them in the yearbook, and wondered if they were as close as the picture portrayed.

  He laughed and she registered alarming pleasure at the rumbling noise. “The similarity ends at the last name. Derek is serious, uptight, takes the weight of the world on his shoulders. But he’s a great guy, and he seems really happy with Janine. She’s good for him, I think. He’s lightened up quite a bit.”

  She propped up her chin with her hand and watched him refill her wine glass from the carafe. “Where did they go?”

  “Hawaii.”

  “That’s nice,” she murmured. She’d always wanted to go to Hawaii, but the timing had never seemed right to be away from the office. And now with the vice presidency on the line…

  “A client we recently contracted with, Donald Phillips, has a condo on Maui. He was so pleased with the work Derek did on his account that he gave him the keys for an entire month.”

  “Honey.”

  Jack’s head jerked up and his eyes widened. “What?”

  “Honey,” she repeated, reaching for her glass. “Donald Phillips’s company makes honey. I went to school with his daughter.”

  He relaxed, then lifted his beer.

  By the time the waiter delivered their food, Alex was feeling so relaxed herself, she was reluctant to indulge in her crab cake salad, and merely picked at it. Jack, on the other hand, dove into his steak and baked potato with such gusto, she had the feeling if he’d been by himself, he would have tucked his napkin into his shirt collar and dispensed with utensils. With no regard to the direction of her thoughts, she silently compared the man sitting across from her to Heath.

  Jack Stillman was a man’s man, big and angular and earthy, with a presence that would put most people at ease—most people who liked him, she clarified quickly. Heath, conversely, was precise and scholarly, with a presence that put most people on their best behavior. Jack had a wildness about him, from the way he talked to the way he carried himself across a room. She wondered if he realized that nearly every woman in the restaurant was captivated by him, sliding sideways glances his way behind reading glasses and dessert menus.

  She was starting to think she was the only woman in Lexington who was immune to his good looks and casual charm. Lucky for her, she’d gotten a glimpse of the scoundrel behind the smile before succumbing to his questionable charm. She had Heath, and she had no desire to get mixed up with the likes of Jack Stillman, a confirmed ladies’ man, with whom she would also be working. She was warming to the idea of him starring in Tremont’s commercials—women found him irresistible, it seemed. But she still didn’t trust him. The man was trouble, a rebel if she’d ever seen one, determined to have his way.

  She supposed he was the same with women. Swallowing more of the dry wine, she conceded that in another place, another time, she herself might have responded to his allure, his unrefined good looks, his smooth tongue. The mere fact that she was aware of him physically, however, didn’t alarm her, because knowledge was power. Subsequently, she made a pact with herself as the meal progressed to keep this man at a distance with whatever emotional tools she had handy—a sharp tongue, a cold shoulder—to preempt such an impossible situation. Who had said the best defense was a good offense? Probably some neurotic single woman afraid of losing herself to a man. Maybe Lana, after the Bill Friar incident.

  “Are you sure you feel like driving?” Jack asked an hour later when they emerged from the restaurant.

  “I didn’t drink much more than you did,” she said, giving in to her need to lean on his arm to combat her sudden lightheadedness.

  “But I ate a full meal,” he said. “And I outweigh you by at least a hundred pounds.”

  She blinked, trying to clear her head. “I’ll be fine.” She certainly wouldn’t drive in this condition, but neither did she want Jack to take her home. She’d wait in her car until he left, then walk back into the restaurant and call a cab.

  “Looks like the decision was made for you,” Jack said when they approached her car, pointing to a steel device locked onto her rear wheel.

  “Oh, no, they booted my car?”

  “The city’s new alternative to towing,” he said, nodding with no apparent concern. “It’s saving us thousands in tax dollars.”

  “Oh, shut up,” she snapped, then gestured wildly. “When I pulled in, the guy leaving this spot said it was paid for for the rest of the evening.” She groaned, then kicked the device, which sent pain shooting up her leg. “Ow, ow, ow!”

  “Don’t hurt yourself,” he said, laughing, which only fueled her ire. While she limped in a circle, Jack pulled out a piece of paper to write down the number on the neon sticker plastered onto her window. “Looks like it’s too late to call now, but you’ll get it straightened out in the morning, and your car should be safe here overnight. Meanwhile, I’ll take you home.”

  She stopped and straightened. “I … don’t like motorcycles.”

  “Have you ever been on one?”

  “No.” Motorcycles were too … risky. Jack was too risky.

  “It’s just like riding with the top down on your convertible,” Jack cajoled, steering her toward the bike.

  Now didn’t seem like the time to admit she’d only put the top down a handful of times, twice to get ficus trees home from the nursery. She lifted her index finger when an idea came to her. “I don’t have a helmet.”

  “I have a spare,” he said, unlocking a storage box behind the seat.

  “But … there isn’t enough room for me.”

  To her dismay, Jack turned her around to peruse her backside, then said, “I think we’ll be able to squeeze you on board.”

  She continued to claim she’d rather call a taxi even as he lowered a helmet to her head. Her bun was a painful obstacle. “Ow!”

  He looked amused. “Looks like you might actually have to let your hair down.”

  In response to his sarcasm, she withdrew two pins and released her hair, tossing it in defiance. Jack stopped suddenly and stared down at her, his expression more serious than she’d seen all evening. He was too close for her to think straight; the man emitted some sort of strange energy field—some kind of chemical, maybe? The perfume counter had reported mixed sales on the new scent that contained animal pheromones. Perhaps they should have tapped Jack Stillman instead of wrestling muskrats for the stuff.

  A noisy knot of diners walked by them, breaking the spell, thank goodness. Alex was then beset with a spasm of shivers in the cool night air, although she conceded that Jack’s oversize fingers fastening the chin strap of her helmet probably contributed to the gooseflesh. He slipped off his leather jacket and settled it over her shoulders. The silky lining of the heavy coat still resonated with his body heat, giving her insight as to how it might feel to be enveloped in his arms. Alex tried to drive the ludicrous thought from her mind, but his nearness set her reason on tilt, and set her skin on fire.

  “Ready?”

  She realized that he’d already climbed onto the machine, released the
kickstand, and was waiting for her to join him.

  Alex swallowed. “What do I do?”

  “Left foot on this footpeg, swing right foot over the seat, then get a hand hold.”

  She managed all of it rather shakily, except for the hand hold. “What do I hang on to?” she asked, nearly panicked when he started the bike engine.

  “Me,” he tossed over this shoulder, then gunned forward, forcing her to fling her arms around his waist. “Try to enjoy it.”

  She tried, but she didn’t. The bite of the chilly fall wind nipped at her exposed neck and hands. Traffic sounds rang in her ears. She buried her face between his shoulder blades, and the beating of his heart made her feel mortal and small—if they crashed, they’d be killed for sure. And she hadn’t planned to die hanging on to a man she didn’t even like.

  But gradually, she did relax, and finally opened her eyes. Her senses were heightened, her pulse elevated, her awareness of the man she clung to, keen. The fuzzy warmth of security seeped into her chest—Jack wouldn’t allow anything to happen to her. The vibration of the motorcycle combined with being jammed up against his body lent a heaviness to the juncture of her thighs, shocking her, but rendering her powerless to resist the sexual energy of the man and the machine. When he wheeled into her driveway and cut the engine, she was too weak to climb off without his support.

  “I’ll walk you up,” he said gruffly, looking around the dimly lit parking lot.

  She didn’t protest because he seemed to have acquired a black mood since they’d left the restaurant, and appeared anxious to be rid of her. He probably thought that she was an inconvenience, or that she was a wimp about riding the bike, or that she was keeping him from a rendezvous with that redheaded tart he’d been laughing with at the bar when she arrived. Regardless, she matched his stiff gait and maintained silence until they reached her apartment door. Jack took her keys and unlocked the deadbolt, then gave her an awkward smile as he handed them back to her.

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me,” he said curtly. “I hope this project turns out to be productive for both of us.”