It Takes a Rebel (10 page)

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 we 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?"

"Horse
power
," 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.

* * *

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 impression 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.

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.