Alex looked up, and swallowed hard. The man was gorgeous, for sure, his dark eyes nearly black in the filtered light of the hallway, his short hair appealingly rumpled from his helmet, his cheeks ruddy from the cool wind. She shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to him, self-consciously smoothing her own disheveled hair. “Thanks for the ride home. And I, too, hope this project is productive for both of us.”
He didn’t move, and neither did she, afraid she would sway into the sexual pull emanating from him. Something was happening here, and although she couldn’t put a finger on it, her body seemed to know. His Adam’s apple moved. His mouth twitched, as if he were about to open his mouth and … and…
“Goodnight, Alex.”
Say goodnight. Relief and something else less identifiable coursed through her, and she reached for the doorknob. “Goodnight, Jack.” Heart thudding in her ears, Alex pushed open the door, then froze, a scream dying at the back of her throat.
“What?” He was by her side immediately.
“There!” she shrieked, cowering against him. Across the room, the silhouette of a man stood out clearly against the light pouring in from the windows.
Alex’s heart jumped to her throat as Jack thrust her behind him. “Who’s there?” he shouted.
The intruder didn’t answer, didn’t move.
“Go call the police,” he barked.
She felt the muscles of his arm bunch beneath her death grip. When she realized he meant to confront the person, fear paralyzed her. He lunged across the room, tackling the dark figure. Jack’s grunt reverberated through the room as both men fell to the floor. Horror descended when she heard the sound of a gunshot, and a corresponding groan from Jack.
“Jack!” she screamed. Police forgotten, she lunged for the light switch—she had to help him.
As light spilled into the room, she ran forward, then stopped at the scene before her, her hand to her open mouth. Uncontrollable laughter bubbled out, so intense she had to bend at the waist.
Jack lay sprawled facedown on top of Lana’s blow-up doll Harry, who had suffered a blowout when he’d been tackled. Jack gingerly turned his head, blinking under the wattage of the row of track lighting running overhead, then pushed himself up, staring down at the doll’s half-inflated leering face. “What the hell?”
Alex could only shake her head and laugh harder.
He frowned and lumbered to his feet, feeling his ribcage. “I’m glad you find my pain so amusing.”
She sobered a tiny bit, hiding her laughter behind her fist. “Are you injured?”
One side of his mouth pulled back in a wry grin. “Just my pride.”
“If it makes you feel better,” Alex said, laughing anew as she walked over to the victim sagging against the floor, the life hissing out of him, “Harry got the brunt of it.”
“Harry?”
“Er, Horny Harry, to be exact.” She picked up the unfortunate rubber doll, glad his somewhat alarmingly anatomically correct body was covered by a pair of baggy pajamas, although his hard plastic erection was obvious beneath the thin fabric.
Jack pursed his mouth. “And does Reddinger know he has such, um, stiff competition?”
Alex threw him a withering glance. “He’s not mine.”
His eyebrow quirked upward. “Reddinger, or Harry here?”
He maintained a teasing expression, but she had the strangest feeling he was half-serious. “I was talking about Harry,” she said lightly. “My neighbor Lana asked if she could bring some of her things over, but I didn’t realize she meant him.”
He emitted a low, rolling laugh. “Sounds like a lonely woman.”
“It’s a long story. Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked as she stowed Harry safely in a chair.
He nodded. “On hindsight, I’m glad you didn’t call the police.”
She wet her lips, suppressing another smile. “Now I know why they call you Jack the Attack.”
“Oh, now that’s hilarious. And I was beginning to think you didn’t have a sense of humor.”
Alex warmed, realizing that in the past few hours they had gone from near-enemies to sharing a moment of laughter in her apartment
“Nice place,” he said, his head pivoting. He hesitated a second longer than necessary when his gaze passed over her bed in the far corner.
Alex ignored the zing of electricity that barbed through her. “Thanks.”
“Do you live alone?” His voice held only casual curiosity.
“Yes.”
“Then you play?” He nodded toward the baby grand piano.
“Not really. It was my mother’s.”
“Was?”
“She died a few years ago.”
His brow clouded. “I’m sorry. I know how tough it is to lose a parent.”
She nodded, unable to speak past the lump of emotion that lodged in her throat at his earnest tone—they did have something in common, she and this rebel.
Silence stretched between them, gazes locked, until he looked past her and gestured to the still-open door, a smile hovering on his handsome face. “Well, I guess I’d better be going.”
Alex grasped the back of a bar stool and stood rigid until he walked by, closing her eyes as his energy field passed over her. At last she made her feet move, and she followed him to the door, strangely reluctant to see him leave, yet unable to identify why. “Jack.”
He turned around, his hand on the doorjamb. With his back to the light in the hallway, his face was cast in shadows.
Flustered, she gestured toward her tiny galley-style kitchen. “W-would you like a cup of coffee? It’s the least I can do for someone willing to brave a prowler on my behalf.” Was that her voice squeaking? Was that her heart thumping?
His dark eyes glittered and she thought he was smiling, but couldn’t be sure. “You were right earlier about us keeping this relationship strictly professional,” he said, “and no matter how much I’d like to stay for, um, coffee, I think it would seriously compromise our deal.” He touched his hand to his forehead in a mock salute. “But I appreciate the offer, boss, more than you know.”
Mortification bled through her veins when she realized he thought she was propositioning him. For the second time that evening, Alex banged the door shut in his face.
*
Chapter 9
« ^ »
“At least he knows who’s in charge,” Lana said, forking spinach salad into her mouth.
“Believe me,” Alex said, “when he called me ‘boss,’ it wasn’t out of respect.” She sneezed into her napkin. “And that damn motorcycle ride gave me a cold. Yesterday was the first sick day I’ve taken since I had mono when I was eighteen.”
“Didn’t Jeff Summers have mono about that same time?”
Alex frowned. “So?”
“Ah, so your last hell-raising boyfriend made you sick, too.”
“Jack Stillman is not my boyfriend, Lana. I’m engaged for heaven’s sake!” Then she pursed her mouth. “But now that you mention it, he does remind me of Jeff—what a loser he turned out to be.”
“So either bad boys are gritty and germ-laden, or they wear down your resistance,” Lana teased.
Feeling sour, Alex severed a miniloaf of bread with a small serrated knife then set it back down on the restaurant table. Jack Stillman’s words from two nights ago still rang in her ears. “How that man interpreted ‘would you like a cup of coffee?’ to mean ‘would you like to have sex with me?’ I’m not sure, but it’s indicative of his gutter mind and abounding arrogance.”
“Maybe you were giving off signals,” Lana said with a shrug.
“That’s ridiculous.”
Her friend eyed her. “You don’t find him attractive?”
She averted her eyes. “Well … I’m not blind. He’s nice looking, as much as I can remember.” She’d recalled every contour of his face, every expression, at the oddest times over the past couple of days.
“You’re blushing.”
“I am not.
”
Her friend laughed. “You know, Alex, the rest of the world entertains a naughty thought once in a while and even survives. Lighten up. It’s okay to lust after this guy.”
Alex scoffed. “Lana, I’m in love with Heath. We’re getting married, remember?”
Lana leveled her violet eyes across the table. “So you’ve set a date?”
She squirmed on the tiny chair. “Not yet, but soon.”
After a few seconds of pregnant silence, Lana said, “I just hope you’re not settling for Heath because you think it’s the right thing to do.”
She sighed, a little annoyed with the psychoanalysis. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Lana put down her fork. “Alex, I know you. You miss your mother, and your father is so … distant, it’s natural that you would turn to Heath for the security of a warm, fuzzy family.”
Alex swallowed the lump of emotion that had formed in her throat. “What’s wrong with wanting security and a family?”
“Not a thing. As long as you truly love the man.”
“But I do love Heath.”
A dreamy expression came over her friend’s face. “But does he make you feel passionate and alive?”
She attempted a laugh. “Lana, passion isn’t the glue of a lasting relationship. You were passionate about Bill Friar, and look what a mistake it would have been to marry him.”
Lana held up her hand, stop-sign fashion. “Right you are. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
“Good,” Alex said with a smile. Her friend resumed eating, unaware that her words had dredged up worries Alex thought she’d put to rest when Heath had proposed. Suddenly her friend burst out laughing. “I just wish I’d been there when Jack tackled Harry—oh, that’s hysterical.” She dabbed at her eyes with her napkin.
Glad for the change in subject, Alex smiled wickedly at the memory of the great Jack humbled. “It was a bright moment in my week. Is Harry repairable?”
“He blew a nut, but with a little duct tape, hell be as good as new. I’m not sure why men need two of those things anyway. By the way, when will you see your hero again?”
She frowned, uncomfortable talking about Jack Stillman on the heels of discussing her wedding. “We’re meeting in less than an hour to select his wardrobe for the commercial shoot.”
“Oooh, dressing and undressing—sounds like fun to me.”
“Fun? We’ll be lucky to find something big enough to accommodate his ego.”
Lana wagged her eyebrows. “Do you need an assistant?”
Alex pointed her pinkie across the café table. “It’s shameless women like you who keep shameless men like Jack Stillman on a pedestal.”
“Yeah, well, it’s uptight women like you who keep Metamucil on the shell.”
“I’m trying to be professional about this.”
“And it sounds to me like he’s abiding by your wishes. After all, he could’ve stayed for coffee the other night and not have respected you the next morning.”
“I offered the man a lousy cup of coffee, and that’s all.”
Lana laughed. “Don’t worry. I believe you. You’re the only woman I can think of who wouldn’t jump his bones at the first chance.”
“Why does that sound like an insult?”
“Because you’re being way too sensitive. Not to change the subject, but what’s the status of your promotion to vice president?”
“Status quo. A decision should be announced any day now.”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.”
“Thanks.”
Lana glanced at her watch. “I hate to run, but I’m meeting with the bank manager this afternoon.”
Alex clasped her hands together. “You’re buying the coffee shop!”
“Thinking about it, that’s all.”
She grinned, elated for her friend. “Let me know if you need a silent partner.”
Lana’s bordeaux-colored mouth quirked from side to side. “Thanks, Alex, but I’d rather have your friendship than your money.”
“It doesn’t have to be an either-or situation—look at me and my dad.”
Lana gave her a pointed look.
Alex sighed in concession. “Okay. Just let me know if I can help.”
“Thanks. And eyes wide open this afternoon in the dressing room—I expect firm details.”
“Get out of here.”
“Bye.”
Alex toyed with the angel hair pasta on her plate a few minutes longer before she abandoned her lunch, troubling thoughts niggling the back of her mind. She’d been outraged at Jack’s recognition that she was physically attracted to him, and it was that outrage which had kept her awake at night, she told herself, not the image of his mocking grin, his dancing eyes.
And this infuriating anticipation of seeing Jack again was only because she wanted to get the whole thing over with, this expensive, time-consuming experiment of her father’s. And the dressing and undressing part was nothing to be nervous about—she’d worked with plenty of male models. One thing was certain: She would have to take control of the situation early on to maintain the upper hand where Jack Stillman was concerned.
Yes, she decided, reaching for her water glass with a shaky hand, take control.
*
Considering the way their business-dinner meeting had ended, Jack figured he’d better arrive at the wardrobe meeting at Tremont’s early. But as luck would have it, Stripling had questions regarding some of Jack’s entertainment expenses incurred the previous year. Since Jack could barely recall the events of the previous week, he had problems substantiating the receipts. Jack spent over an hour trying to convince the man that The Golden Pony was a hotbed of business networking opportunities—this while ignoring Tuesday’s muttered quotes from the Bible on the evils of the flesh as she flitted around the office taking measurements. For what purpose the woman was measuring, he didn’t care to know.
In short, he was late.
“You’re late,” Alex confirmed when she emerged from her office to meet him, her arms crossed, her red mouth unsmiling.
“Sorry,” he said, shaken anew by her beauty. “Problems at the office.”
“Your problems, not mine. Let’s go—my time is money.”
And his wasn’t, apparently. How did she do that? he wondered. How did she give the impression she was snapping her fingers in time to her rapid little stride. He had to jog to catch up to her, barely making it onto the elevator before the door closed. Sensing her mood, he stepped to the opposite side of the small cubicle and whistled tunelessly while they descended. Not a great lover of perfumes—he refused to stray from Old Spice—he nonetheless appreciated the citrusy fragrance emanating from her rigid body. Very … tasty.
Her hair was tightly bound again. She wore an immaculate pale gray suit with sharp, uncluttered lines and a lemon-yellow blouse peeking through the vee of her buttoned jacket. He’d bet the woman didn’t own a single garment with polka dots or ruffles. Ten to one, she slept in that big cold-looking bed of hers in black flannel pajamas with thick socks on her feet. Reddinger didn’t seem to be the hot-blooded type.
As if she were reading his mind, her shoulders shook with a shiver as she stared straight ahead.
“Are you cold?”
She sniffed. “I caught pneumonia riding on that death machine of yours the other night.”
“Oh, good,” he said as the doors slid open. “Something else today that’s my fault.” He swept his arm toward the opening and gave her a pleasant smile.
Her mouth tightened and she strode out into the men’s department as if she owned it. Which she kind of did, he acknowledged with a smirk, then followed her, wishing he’d taken more pains dressing this morning. His “proper” attire was negligible to begin with, and the set of barbells in the corner of the Florida guest house he’d shared with Teresa—or was it Tammy?—had expanded his biceps and deltoids to the seams of the polo shirts in his closet. One beige golf shirt had been a passable fit, so he’d tucked
it into navy slacks, which weren’t bad. But he couldn’t find a belt or a pair of non-holey socks, so he skipped both and donned a pair of buttery-soft loafers, which had once been tan-colored, if memory served.
Oh, well, clothes had never been that important to him. Nakedness was just so much more interesting.
“Hi, Reggie,” Alex said as she walked up to a sales counter.
He recognized the handsome black youth immediately because of the resemblance of his smile to Tuesday’s.
“Hello, Ms. Tremont.”
“Mr. Stillman, this is Reggie Humphrey, one of our top sales associates. Reggie, this is—”
“Jack Stillman,” Reggie finished, stepping out from behind the counter and extending his hand with a grin. “This is a real pleasure, sir, working with Jack the Attack.”
“The pleasure’s mine,” he said smoothly.
Alex cleared her throat, bouncing a time’s-a-wasting glance between them. “Let’s get started, shall we? Reggie, would you fetch a tailor?”
The young man nodded, then disappeared. Alex turned back to him and tapped the notepad she held. “I’ll need your sizes, please.”
She really was a stunner, he affirmed as he studied her smooth skin, and her luminous eyes, which were aimed straight at him. Darn his promise to Derek—he bet she was a real tigress in bed. Sometimes the bun-packing yuppies were sleepers. “Sizes of which body parts?” He grinned, hoping to cajole a smile out of her.
Instead, her mouth pursed into a tight little bow and fifteen seconds passed before she said through gritted teeth, “Shoulders.”
“Forty-four.”
She made a note with a gold-tone pen. “Height?”
“Six-three.”
“Neck?”
“Sixteen and a half.”
“Sleeve?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Waist?”
“Same.”
“Shoe size?”
“Thirteen, extra wide.”
She shook her head, as if disgusted.
“It has its advantages,” he felt compelled to inform Miss Unenlightened.
When she glanced up, pink tinged her cheeks, much to his satisfaction. She closed her eyes briefly, then looked back to the notepad. “Inseam?”
IT TAKES A REBEL Page 9
