by Savanna Fox
“You too.” She gave him a warm smile and studied him intently, like she was analyzing him in detail.
Georgia must’ve been so mad at him, she’d bailed on the campaign, transferring him to these two. Maybe that was for the best. Working together would’ve been tough. “So,” he said, “Georgia …?” What had she given them as an excuse? What had she said about him?
Viv’s arched brows rose, maybe because he hadn’t used the nickname George. “I’m sure she’ll be here any moment.”
So she hadn’t dumped the campaign.
“Have something to eat?” Viv offered. “A cup of coffee?”
“Don’t drink coffee, thanks.” He went to look at the selection on a sideboard. High-fat muffins, which he ignored. He poured a glass of orange juice, then sat at the foot of the table.
When Terry started to talk about last night’s game, Viv steered the conversation toward world events. Watercooler chat. Woody’d never been good at that stuff. The women he went out with were usually happy talking about sports, or about themselves.
He gave Viv short answers, finished his juice, went for a refill. He hated the whole idea of the VitalSport contract, but he’d signed it. So could they just get on with things? Restless tension sent him over to the twentieth-floor window.
Vancouver Harbor was busy this morning. A red-striped float plane bounced down onto the water. Sky was blue; sun was climbing; he could be out doing something. Georgia was fifteen minutes late. If that was some kind of pointed message directed at him, he wasn’t grasping that point.
The door crashed open and she rushed in, gasping for breath the way he’d done on the first mile of his morning run. She wore a suit that looked like the navy twin of yesterday’s charcoal one, except today the bottom half was a straight skirt that covered her knees. Her cheeks were pink, and loose tendrils of hair escaped the knot to straggle around her face. As she wheezed, today’s white shirt rose and fell in a manner that made him remember the pretty curves underneath. He’d been inside this woman. And been a crappy lover. They’d promised they’d put all that behind them, but it wasn’t going to be easy.
She choked out a few words between gasps. “Car broke down. So sorry.”
Broke down, he wondered, or just ran out of gas?
Viv went over to her, face anxious, and touched her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, except I speed-walked from Robson and Burrard.” The gasping was easing.
“What did you do about the car?” Woody asked.
Defensively, she said, “No, I didn’t leave it sitting in the middle of the road. I pulled off—” She shook her head. “Forget the car. I’m sorry to delay the meeting.”
She sat at the head of the table, yanked her hair back into its neat knot, then pulled a laptop out of her briefcase.
Figuring she could use a glass of water, Woody poured one.
When he put it down in front of her, she froze, staring at his hand. It made him remember stroking her pussy, thrusting a finger inside her steamy depths, teasing her clit.
Realizing he was getting hard, he let go of the glass and took a seat. Thank God for the loose Beavers jersey that hung down over his swelling fly.
“Thanks,” she muttered, then took the glass and downed half the contents. “Terry, can you hook up my laptop to project?”
“Sure.”
While he did, Georgia went over to the side cabinet and returned with coffee and a chocolate chip muffin. “We’ll start with a little brainstorming.” She turned to Woody, her gaze sliding past his without meeting it. “Brainstorming, Mr., uh, Woody, is a creative process where we toss out ideas without worrying whether they make sense.” There was an edge to her voice that said, “You should be good at that.”
Yeah, he got the message yesterday: she didn’t think much of his brain. It was true he’d never done well in school, preferring to be outside and active. True, too, that he’d always been more interested in the sport of hockey than the business side, so he’d left contracts and finances to his agent. He used to think that playing well was all that mattered. Now he was learning differently.
Damn it, he wanted to impress this woman, and if he’d failed in the sex department, he didn’t stand a hope in hell when it came to smarts.
Why did she get to him? Why were those amber eyes more intoxicating than beer?
“I’ll type up our ideas as we go along,” Georgia said briskly. She clicked through menus until a document appeared on the wall screen, blank but for the title “VitalSport Canadian Campaign—Brainstorming Notes” and today’s date. “We want to be creative and open to discussing ideas, not critical.”
Woody chose to stay quiet and listen. The best strategy was to size up the opposition, and even if this marketing campaign wasn’t exactly opposition, it was a challenge.
He learned that Terry was a sports junkie and knew as much about the Beavers and hockey as Woody did. The women weren’t into sports. They were smart, though, and creative.
Would Georgia be creative in bed? No, he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about sex with her, but how could a guy concentrate on business when his throbbing cock kept telling him it wanted to get back inside that woman? Not that she’d allow it, after his miserable performance.
Viv caught his attention when she said, “Woody, let’s look at what you’re wearing now. Old jeans—not designer ones, am I right?— and a rather worn Beavers jersey.”
“Nah, not designer.” The concept of designer jeans was stupid.
“He wore the same clothes yesterday,” Georgia put in as she got up to refill her coffee. She’d demolished the muffin. Fat, sugar, caffeine. She’d never survive on the ice.
“Different jersey,” he said, offended. Did she think he didn’t do laundry?
“On the video clips,” Viv said, “you and the other players wore suits when you went in and out of the stadiums.”
“They have to,” Terry said. “They’re going to work, they’re paid a lot to do that work, and they’re supposed to look professional. Right, Woody?”
Woody nodded. “Yeah, and it sucks.” He hated those uncomfortable suits. He also hated having the press shove microphones in his face. Why couldn’t a guy just play hockey?
“Okay, then,” Georgia said. “Let’s talk about the concept of uniforms.” She typed the word and it appeared on the wall screen.
“Uniforms?” he asked.
She glanced at him, then away again. No, even if she wanted to forget yesterday, he could see she wasn’t succeeding. “You wear one on the ice, for the game,” she said, “and I assume it’s mostly about safety, right?”
He nodded.
“You wear another—a suit—going to and from games. That’s about professional image.”
“Yeah, I guess.” He’d never thought of those suits as a uniform, but she was right.
“You’ll have to wear VitalSport clothes, not just for the photo shoots but when you’re out in public.”
“My jeans and jerseys are comfortable.” Did he sound like he was whining? He really wished they hadn’t had sex. Especially bad sex. It made things way too awkward.
Viv jumped in. “Woody, here’s my take on it. You’re wealthy and could dress however you want, yes?”
Not these days. It had been true before his agent lost all Woody’s money and got him in debt with the tax people—but even then Woody’d never been into acquiring stuff. Yeah, he’d bought himself an apartment, a sports car, and a big TV, but what else did a guy need? Pretty much the only money he spent—and yeah, it was a small fortune—was on his mom. “I guess,” he hedged.
“But you don’t care about clothes,” Viv said. “You dress for comfort, you don’t like shopping, and you’ll wear clothes until they’re falling apart rather than buy new ones.”
Hey, this woman knew him.
“You buy off the rack, making choices as quickly as possible.”
“Yeah.”
“I saw that in the video clips. Your suit
jackets don’t fit right.”
“They don’t?”
“Don’t you find they pull across the shoulders?”
“Yeah.” He’d figured that was what suits did, and that all ties felt like nooses.
“Woody,” Georgia broke in, “you’re going to have to dress differently.”
He grimaced. He had no issue with taking direction from a woman, but he’d have been way happier about it if he’d given her great sex rather than humiliating himself. He’d have been way happier if just the sight of her didn’t make him want to do it again, slow and thorough and hot and sweet this time.
Viv crossed one leg over the other. “Clothing should drape and hug and caress. Like a balmy breeze, a tropical ocean against bare skin, the touch of a lover’s hand.”
Girly words, but the way her very adult voice lingered over them made his flesh tingle. This was not the way to get his mind off sex.
Georgia ran a hand inside the paired collars of her shirt and jacket. Were they too tight, or was she imagining the touch of a lover’s hand? His hand? When he’d stroked her pussy and made her come, he’d done it right. It was only later that he’d lost control and been a selfish bastard.
Viv went on. “Woody, you’ll see that being stylish doesn’t have to mean being uncomfortable. I promise.” She gave him a dazzling smile.
That, plus her reassurance, made him smile back and say, “Thanks, sunshine. I’m counting on you.” He didn’t get any sense she was flirting with him, just that she was all woman and didn’t mind showing it in the workplace. The blonde’s approach was sure different from Georgia’s, passionate though the redhead was once she let her hair down.
Viv’s foot, in a bright green shoe with a mile-high heel, swung in circles. With a glint in her eyes, she said, “Of course you’ll wear VitalSport underwear, too.”
Jesus. “No one’s seeing my gonch,” he protested.
“Ah, so you’re not dating anyone these days?” the blonde asked.
Since when was his dating life their business?
Eight
Georgia, typing notes at the head of the table, froze at Viv’s words. Why had that question never occurred to her? She’d had sex with the man and he might be involved with someone. Well, no, Billy’s background research made it clear Woody didn’t get “involved”—he was anti-commitment—but he might be dating someone. And Georgia was not the kind of woman who’d sleep with a guy who was seeing someone else.
Of course, until yesterday, she’d never figured herself as a woman who’d have random sex with a near stranger whom she didn’t even like, much less respect. Never figured she’d have the first orgasm in her life, much less two, at the hands of said near stranger.
Ever since she’d broken her shoe heel, her life had tipped upside down.
Looking annoyed, Woody ran a hand over his bushy beard, and the diamond on a big ring he wore flashed. “I don’t date much during playoff season. It’s too distracting.”
Right. And having sex with her wasn’t distracting in the least. It was just a little tension release. Something he felt sorry about the minute it was over.
“Bet that pisses off the puck bunnies,” Terry said.
“The what?” she asked.
“You know, George,” Terry said, “like buckle bunnies who follow rodeo riders. Hockey players have puck bunnies who—well, you get the picture.”
“Right.” Grimly, she stared at Woody. Did he think she was a puck bunny, getting her kicks from screwing a hockey star?
“It’s good you feel that way, Woody,” Viv said.
Startled, Georgia glanced at the other woman. No, Viv couldn’t have read her thoughts.
The blonde was going on. “A man’s judged by the company he keeps, and puck bunnies aren’t the right image for VitalSport. I know this sounds offensive, but—George, do you agree?—I’m thinking that if you want to go out with someone, you should run it by us first.”
“You want to approve my dates?” Woody asked disbelievingly.
“It’s all about image and brand,” Viv said.
“I do agree,” Georgia said coolly.
Woody shook his head. “No way. Stay out of my private life.”
“The contract—” Georgia started.
“Doesn’t say anything about who I date.”
“It contains a morals clause,” she pointed out. “If you’re involved in a scandal, VitalSport can terminate the contract.”
“Morals clause?” he echoed. “Jesus.”
“It’s there for good reason,” she said stiffly. “Billy Daniels and VitalSport did their background research. I understand there was a, uh, situation last year. With a woman who said you’d promised to marry her, made her fall in love with you, then dumped her.”
“Crap. It was all lies. I was up front all along. Told Angela I’m not into serious relationships.” He snorted. “I’m not even into serial monogamy. No way was she in love. She was a wannabe actress who liked dating someone famous. When I broke up with her”—he shrugged—“I guess she figured going to the tabloids would get her some PR and hook her a movie or TV role.”
Terry chimed in. “It never went anywhere. She and her story weren’t that interesting. Everyone knew Woody’s rep and no one believed he’d led her on, much less proposed to her.”
Georgia nodded. “So I read in Billy’s notes. He and VitalSport didn’t figure it was a significant detriment to having Woody as the campaign figurehead. Still, we don’t want anything like that blowing up now.”
Woody slitted his eyes. “You’re not seriously going to tell me who I can sleep with.”
Was there a threat in those words? A threat that, if she pushed too hard, he might reveal what the two of them had done? Warily, she said, “We’re asking that you use good judgment.” Heat rose to her cheeks, and deepened when he raised his eyebrows. No, what they’d done was most definitely not good judgment.
Georgia squeezed her eyes shut briefly. “Let’s move on.”
“Okay,” Terry said. “What’s up with the underwear line?”
Ignoring another groan from Woody, Georgia turned to Terry. “One of the VitalSport designers is female. She remembered a movie called—what was it now?—The Cowboy Way.”
“Oh, yes!” Viv said, but Terry shrugged, clearly not recognizing the reference.
Viv filled him in, then Georgia said, “The designer thought an underwear line could be a special feature of the Canadian launch.”
“I’m guessing our Woody will look even better than Woody Harrelson did in a pair of tighty-whities,” Viv teased.
Woody gave a third groan.
It was interesting, but despite Viv’s attractiveness, Woody wasn’t flirting with her the way Georgia’d expected. He treated Viv and Terry equally, nodding in agreement or groaning or making a face when he hated an idea. As for Georgia herself, she’d catch him watching her; then he’d look away. He probably wondered what crazy impulse had made him come on to her, just as she was wondering why she’d been insane enough to go along.
Well, there had been those two orgasms. …
No, this was a business meeting, and they’d been discussing … Right. Underwear.
Ignoring Woody, Georgia addressed Viv and Terry. “The question is”—she held out both hands, palms up—“would underwear ads be effective, or tasteless?” She jiggled her hands up and down, weighing alternatives on an imaginary set of scales.
Viv ran the tip of her tongue around lips painted hot pink. “Hardly tasteless, I’d say. And just what are you juggling there? Could it possibly be balls?”
Terry snorted, and the double entendre hit Georgia. She dropped her hands immediately. “It was scales! I was weighing … Oh, never mind.” She took a breath, then said, knowing she sounded stiff and self-conscious, “Obviously, Viv thinks underwear ads would be effective, at least with female buyers.” It was hard to argue with that.
“And gay men,” the other woman added. “Terry, how about straight guys?”
Georgia typed the idea, trying very hard not to imagine that picture. “Would that work for metrosexuals and gays? And women?” It sure worked for her, if the throb of need between her thighs was any indication.
“Yes,” Terry and Viv said simultaneously.
“Shit,” Woody said.
She ignored him, drumming her fingertips reflectively along the bottom of her keyboard. “Good. That’s an idea to develop.”
“No thongs.” Woody’s voice grated and his gaze met Georgia’s, pleading. “Please, Coach, no thongs. They’re not, you know, dignified.”
Dignified? This, coming from a man in a ratty jersey with a cartoon beaver on it? Still, she could sympathize. “It might turn straight men off,” she mused.
“Kids watch the games,” Terry said. “Thongs don’t project a family image.”
“You can say that again,” Viv agreed.
“Fine. No thongs.” Georgia typed it as Woody said a heartfelt, “Thank God.”
She turned to Viv. “Moving on. Viv, you can handle physical appearance. We’ll want to play on his, uh …”
“Sex appeal?” Viv provided.
“Yes.” Georgia eyed Woody dubiously. He was handsome, physical, and masculine, but his lack of polish and questionable clothing choices diminished his appeal.
He caught her gaze, raised an eyebrow, then ran a hand over the conference table in slow, caressing circles. Reminding her that her bare butt had been plunked down on the matching table in the room next door, as she let him spread her wide—in fact virtually begged him to enter her.
Ooh, he wasn’t playing fair. He’d agreed they would put the sex behind them.
But yes, he had effectively made the point that, despite his flaws, he did have sex appeal.
Deliberately, she typed “sex appeal” so the words sat up there on the screen, and said in an all-business voice, “We can’t alienate the male half of the market. Woody has to be a man they identify with.”
