Hostile Makeover (26 page)

“Gold lamé in a tire store bathroom?” Brett asked.

“Well, only in the ladies’ room. We’re leaving the men’s rooms alone.”

“No faux fur or imitation crocodile for us?” He grinned in delight. “So how do I get an invitation to this opening?”

“You have to be really, really nice to me,” she teased.

“Funny, that’s exactly what I had in mind,” he replied, caressing the double entendre with his voice.

Judy felt a tiny quiver deep inside. It was emanating from a place that Craig no longer bothered to go.

“We got tahrs with art on them,” she mock-drawled in an attempt to dispel the quiver. “And food that’s shaped like tahrs. In fact, tahrs most definitely are us.”

“I had no idea tires could be so . . . haute couture,” he said, his eyes and smile growing even warmer. The man was a veritable space heater. But even more impressive than his heat and good looks was how enthralled he appeared to be by . . . her.

“Consider yourself invited.” She smiled. “I’ll make sure you get an invitation.” She could not believe she was flirting back.

His gaze locked on hers and he leaned closer.

She felt incredibly attractive and suddenly wicked. “The invitations are . . .” Her voice trailed off as he caressed her with his eyes.

“Round?” he murmured.

“Yes.” She wanted to look away, but couldn’t. His gaze was like a tractor beam dragging her toward him.

“And made of rubber,” she managed. “They’ve even got tread.”

He was throwing off heat and light. And she, she was a flower experiencing full sunshine after a long, dark winter. Why, she could practically feel her petals opening and straining toward him, reaching for . . . she didn’t know what.

Now, there was a load of fertilizer.

When the food arrived, she barely tasted it. Too soon, the bottle of wine was empty and the dishes were removed. He was looking at her as if she were dessert.

“So,” she finally said. “Tell me about Chicago . . .” she swallowed nervously “. . . and your life there.”

“Well.” He flashed a white-toothed smile; one of many he’d bestowed on her throughout the meal. “I’m divorced—mostly amicable. No kids. No pets. Currently trying to remember why I left Atlanta in the first place.” He looked into her eyes when he said it. “Some of my best memories were made here.”

Judy blushed; she could feel the prickly heat stain her cheeks and knew they were both picturing the backseat of his Mustang and the gymnastics having sex in it had required.

This would be the time to tell him about Craig and their sons. And why she shouldn’t be here.

He laughed lightly. “Do you remember the Mustang?”

Did she remember the Mustang? Did Texans remember the Alamo? Napoleon his Waterloo? Custer his last stand? It had been the scene of her sexual awakening; her one mad grasp at completely forbidden fruit.

“It was a great car, wasn’t it?” He grinned. “A little cramped, but where there’s a will . . .”

There was no way she was following that with “My husband doesn’t understand me,” or “I’ve moved out.”

This needed to remain what she had told herself it was: a casual lunch with an old friend; an unexpected opportunity to catch up on old times. Not a reliving of old intimacies or the beginning of new ones. She’d have to be an imbecile to encourage Brett O’Connor’s attentions. But that didn’t mean she had to spoil their lunch with brutal honesty.

She smiled, relieved by the rationalization, and then, feeling someone’s gaze on her, looked up to see one of Craig’s law partners staring at her from a nearby table. As their eyes met, his expression turned frosty. Embarrassed, she dropped her gaze and looked away.

“Are you all right?” Brett turned to see what she’d been looking at, but when she finally followed his gaze back toward the other table, a busboy was clearing the dishes and the back of Joe Hirsch’s head and shoulders was moving toward the exit.

Her stomach lurched as she realized how the man would probably interpret what he had just seen. He might already be on his cell phone, calling the law firm. It would take about ten seconds for the news to spread around the office that Craig Blumfeld’s wife had been spotted having lunch with another man.

chapter
25

I
t was the day that would not end. God, in the form of Jake Helmsley, was in a bad mood; the dachshund, possibly irritated that everyone would have preferred Benji, refused to perform; and Ross Morgan continued to be a great big pain in the tush—taking exception to the expense of everything, from the elegance of the food the caterer served to the amount of film shot for each scene to the number of times Jake rehearsed the actors. Since all of these complaints were funneled through her to Luke and then on to the deity himself, she spent the day on edge and swallowing great big buckets of irritation that she couldn’t let spill out on anyone.

She supposed she should be grateful that Brian Simms seemed blissfully unaware of the strife on the set, but by the time she and Ross loaded the Simmses into the car to take them to dinner at a popular seafood restaurant in Santa Monica, she did not want to relay another request to anyone or hear another word about how much anything cost.

And she definitely didn’t want to deal with her appallingly conflicted reactions to Ross Morgan. Loathing and lust were not supposed to be opposite sides of the same coin.

Their table on the terrace of Lobster overlooked the Santa Monica Pier and the stretch of Pacific beyond, above which a magnificent sunset was shaping up.

“This whole trip is kind of like a dream,” Charlie said in wonder.

Brian Simms ruffled his nephew’s hair. “I’m real proud of you, Charlie. I can see you just soaking it all in.” He turned to Shelley, his smile warm. “I sure am glad you worked all this out.”

“Me, too.” She could feel Ross’s gaze on her, but kept her attention focused on the Simms. “The spots are going to be fabulous. We’re very lucky Jake was available.”

Ross Morgan snorted, and then fell blessedly silent. But even when he didn’t speak she was constantly aware of him.

They ordered drinks while the sky streaked red. Snatches of music floated over from the pier, and they could hear the waves kissing up to shore. Shelley tried to relax and soak it all in, but the thought of kissing brought her right back to Ross Morgan.

He was saying something to the Simmses, and though she tuned out the particulars, she actually shivered as the timbre of his voice washed over her. Shivering over his voice? How ridiculous was that?

She studied him from beneath her lashes, trying to understand his effect on her.

OK, so he was good-looking. Lots of men were good-looking, and as she had discovered with Trey, good-looking didn’t always lead to heart-pounding.

What was it about this particular man?

Why couldn’t she just shrug him off and stop reacting? Shove him into the no-longer-pertinent place in her head where she had filed poor Trey?

She needed Ross out of her thoughts so that she could better focus on her current goals and objectives. With her eyes on the Pacific, she breathed in the ocean air and tuned out his voice completely, and began to examine her failed pursuit of Selena Moore. Which led her to this morning’s humiliating tennis fiasco. Which brought her thoughts right back to the all-too-present Ross Morgan.

No!
She looked back out over the beach and drew in another steadying breath. It was time to heed Howard Mellnick’s advice; time to catalogue the positives, not dwell on the negatives. She’d made the Simmses happy and was going to walk away with a string of award-winning commercials. On top of that, she no longer needed to dress up like old or dead movie stars to get through the day. And, for the moment anyway—she stole a quick glance to confirm it—Ross Morgan was behaving himself.

As she watched, he pulled a hunk of lobster from its claw and popped it into his mouth.

He had a great mouth. And long sure fingers. She looked up as he slid one of them between his lips to catch a drip of butter. His gaze met hers and the word “SEX” popped into her consciousness. “HOT” and “STEAMY” followed.

“What time do you have to be on location tomorrow, Charlie?” she asked, though her gaze remained on Ross Morgan. Tomorrow they were shooting in a backyard in Beverly Hills—a scene with the child actors and Benji’s friend.

“They’re picking me up at five-thirty, and . . .”

She didn’t hear the rest of Charlie’s answer. She was trying too hard NOT to think about how Ross looked in the moonlight with his eyes as dark and inscrutable as inkwells.
Inkwells?

When he didn’t speak, Ross Morgan was way up there on her list of all-time attractive men. His silence allowed her to fantasize all kinds of things.

On the way back to the hotel, she contemplated her silent-male theory. When a man was silent he could be mysterious. He could be strong, yet soft; virile, yet sensitive. If a man kept his mouth shut, a woman could imagine him to be anything—and everything—she’d ever wanted. It was only when he opened his mouth that a woman was forced to admit he might be none of those things.

Perhaps someone should conduct a study of male silence as an aphrodisiac. Or so she thought, as they parted in the lobby and headed for their separate floors.

Back in her room Shelley cased the minibar for a drink, finally selecting a miniature bottle of red wine. Setting it and a glass on the nightstand, she toed off her shoes, plumped two pillows behind her head, and stretched out on the bed.

The room was still and quiet, in stark contrast to the day just spent on the set. She was trying to work up the energy to remove her clothing when she noticed the blinking message light on the telephone. Worried that it might be an emergency call from Atlanta, she swiveled over to pick up the receiver, then punched in the numbers to access her voice mail.

“Shelley?”
She’d been expecting Judy, whom she’d been unable to reach by phone, or possibly her mother. The voice was Selena Moore’s.

Unable to read the tone, Shelley sucked in some air and scooted into a sitting position. What if she’d decided to sue for her tennis injuries? What if she was trying to find Ross Morgan? What if . . .

“I’m tied up today and I’m leaving in the morning. But I wanted you to know that I found out today just how persistent you’ve been.”

Shelley groaned and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

“I picked up all six of your messages from the Chicago office. The trainer, the spa receptionist, and the bell captain here at the hotel informed me that you’ve been on my trail since you arrived.”

Great. Next would come the part about the restraining order.

“Of course, I’ve also got a black-and-blue mark on my rear end and one on my arm from our match this morning. And I’m not too happy that Ross barely notices me when you’re around.”

Annoyed, bruised, and unhappy were not the kind of adjectives one wanted to hear from a coveted client. Shelley broke open the bottle of wine and took a great big slug of it, not bothering with the glass. Could the part about Ross Morgan be true?

“I expect what I should do is just put as much distance between us as possible. Because you’re dangerous, girl, in lots of ways.”

Shelley groaned and gulped more wine. She’d traveled all the way across the country to piss off the client whose advertising account she wanted. She could just imagine what Ross would have to say about this. She’d validated her father’s faith in him over her; proven once and for all that she couldn’t land an account on her own, let alone run the agency.

She closed her eyes and lay back on the bed, the receiver clutched to her ear.

“But I like that about you. I like that you don’t give up,”
Selena’s voice continued.

Shelley’s eyes flew open.

“I can’t stand quitters. I didn’t open as many retail outlets as I have by giving up when things got difficult.”

Shelley sat back up, held her breath.

“So if you’re interested in pitching my account, I’m interested in hearing it.”

There was a moment of silence. Then the smile was gone from Selena’s voice and she was all business.
“I’ve got a lot going on over the next few weeks, with the move back to Atlanta and all. But if you call my assistant in Chicago, she’ll get you on my schedule.”

Shelley whooped out loud and sprang from the bed.

“I’ve heard good things about your agency. And nobody’s better than Jake Helmsley. I’ll look forward to seeing what you come up with.”

Shelley pumped a fist in the air. She did a victory dance around the room. She could not wait another moment to share the good news.

Checking the bedside clock, she realized it was too late to call home. If her mother heard the phone ring at two
A.M.
, she’d assume someone had died. Skywalker would be excited, but he was notorious for having early nights and he had to be on set at the crack of dawn tomorrow. That left only one option.

Without allowing herself to think it through, she threw open her minibar and pulled out everything that possessed alcohol content. Then she took out everything that had chocolate in it. Scooping the celebratory goodies into her arms, she rushed out into the hallway and took the elevator down to the bottom floor. Barefoot, she traversed the back corridors until she found the room she was looking for.

She could hardly wait to rub in . . . er . . . share her good news.

Ross Morgan opened his hotel room door wearing a pair of pinstriped pajama bottoms. And nothing else.

The cocky words of victory Shelley had planned to utter stuck in her throat. Unable to stop it, her gaze traveled from his bare feet up the loose-fitting cotton that encased his muscular thighs, to the drawstring that hung just below his navel. His stomach was flat and well muscled, and his bare chest was broad, with a light dusting of curly blond hair. She stared stupidly at that chest hair for a moment then finally forced her gaze up to meet his.

He looked at the food and drink clutched to her chest. “Did I miss the party memo?”