It Takes a Rebel (13 page)

"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
.

* * *

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?"

"Thirty-six."

Reggie returned, reporting that a tailor would meet them at the dressing rooms.

"Thank you, Reggie. I need you to record the items of clothing as I select them."

Jack squirmed. As
she
selected them?

Reggie produced a rolling clothes rack, and appeared poised to follow her around.

She walked to the suits first, walking her fingers through them. "The brown Twain, the light blue Dion, the olive Tremont's."

Alex moved from rack to rack, rattling off colors and labels for slacks, shirts, ties, sweaters, jeans, belts, socks, underwear,

shoes and a couple of items he'd never even heard of, all of it conservative and stuffy. She frequently consulted Reggie, whose

opinion she seemed to respect.

"Follow me," she said, explaining that a couple of dressing rooms had been set aside for the fitting. He and Reggie traipsed

behind her as if carrying the ends of her fur-trimmed robe. Jack did, however, manage to snag a package from an underwear

rack as he trotted by. If he had to be subjected to this dress up game, why not shake up Alex a teensy bit?

The dressing room area was a secluded clearing of gleaming gray marble. A love seat faced two changing stalls with

louvered three-quarter doors. Jack suspected that special male customers were treated to this private alcove during extensive

shopping trips. Alex directed Reggie where to place the rolling clothes rack, then thanked and dismissed him.

Alex consulted the list Reggie had assembled, then without ceremony, transferred a stack of clothing from the rack to his

arms. "We'll start with underwear so the tailor can take your precise measurements."

"You don't trust the ones I gave you?"

Her smile was deceptively sweet. "Men have a way of exaggerating in one direction or the other."

He lifted his eyebrows, but her expression was threatening, as if she dared him to make a smart remark. Amused by her

solemn demeanor, Jack simply smiled and moved obediently into the dressing room. The louvered door covered him from

shoulders to knees, allowing him to watch Alex watch him beneath her lashes as he removed his shirt. Masculine pride welled

in his chest as he tossed his shirt on a bench. Twenty-two was a distant memory, but thanks to good genes and occasional

exercise, he'd been able to maintain a decent physique.

"Did you get your car released?" he asked.

She sneezed into a handkerchief, then nodded. "Yes, in exchange for ninety-five dollars."

He whistled low. "You should have let me buy your dinner." When she didn't answer, he added, "Next time." Again, she

didn't answer. Shrugging, Jack removed the black thong underwear from the package he'd nabbed and proceeded to stuff

himself into the scrap of Lycra. Damn, men actually wore these things? A jock strap was more comfortable. After much

adjusting, he stepped back to appraise his bulging reflection. Not half bad for a has-been.

He glanced over the door to where Alex sat in the middle of the love seat, legs crossed primly, expression humorless. "Mr.

Stillman, I don't have all day, and you still have a lot of clothes to try on."

Incredibly, his body leapt at the sound of her chiding voice—he'd never been turned on before by a scolding. He sucked in a

breath through his teeth and said, "Coming." Chuckling at his own word choice, he stepped out, adopting a most innocent look

on his face.

* * *

she feared he was naked, then realized with no small amount of relief that his privates were covered by a minuscule amount of

stretchy black fabric. He stood before her, hands on hips, legs shoulder-width apart. His bronze body was finely corded and

accented with patches of dark hair on his chest, stomach and thighs. He had the physique of an athlete, all right—any athlete.

Long-limbed and so finely put together, his body seemed tuned for any type of physical activity. Sexual awareness zipped

through her, warming her erogenous zones.

At last, she dragged her gaze from him and pretended to study the list Reggie had assembled. "I … don't recall seeing that

particular … garment … on the list." Was that her voice, high and breathless?

"They were on the pile," he said simply. His shrug displaced all kinds of muscle. "This modeling stuff is new to me—am I

supposed to turn around or something?"

On treacherous ground, Alex swallowed, striving to calm her jumping pulse, the desire that had pooled low in her stomach.

Perhaps if she didn't have to look him in the eye… "That … would be fine."

He turned to stand with his back to her, his legs wide apart. The skinny strap of the thong left nothing to the imagination, and

why should it, she asked herself, when the reality was so impressive? The sole flaw on his body, if it could be called a flaw,

was a black tattoo high on his right shoulder, a pair of wings about the size of a silver dollar. The lower regions of her body

thrummed outrageously at the sight of those wings, given movement and texture by the bumpy muscle beneath his smooth skin.

"You … can turn back around now," she said, struggling for composure. In hindsight, she should have started with suits.

Where the devil was that tailor?

He didn't move, except to lift a hand to scratch his temple. "Gee, boss, I don't think turning around would be such a great idea

at the moment."

The meaning of his words sunk in, sending heat to her thighs. Then she heard footsteps on the other side of the privacy screen

and breathed a sigh of relief that the tailor had arrived.

"Hello, my dear—oh!"

Alex turned just in time to see her father's eyes widen as his gaze landed on nearly nude Jack. Worse, Heath walked in

behind her father and adopted a similar expression. Her heart jumped to her throat and she jumped to her feet when she

realized how compromising the situation looked. "Father, Heath—what an unexpected surprise." She hugged the clipboard to