It Takes a Rebel (16 page)

Tingling with indignance, Alex stepped back while the young man shot several photos in succession with Jack grinning into

the lens. Then Jack signed an autograph for the young man who asked that he sign "Jack the Attack". And either several

spectators had already recognized Jack or the reporter's camera had tipped them off, because before Majeris could leave, a

knot of people had gathered for autographs. He worked the crowd like a pro, flirting and signing his name with a flourish.

Alex drained her half cup of beer, then sat down when the alcohol bypassed her empty stomach and zoomed straight to her

head. He was a good-looking man, she admitted miserably, an opinion that was mirrored in the eyes of the women trying to get

close to him. The denim shirt he wore accentuated his dark hair and his ruggedness. But she remembered too well that he

looked just as good in a designer suit. And even better in black thong underwear. Extremely vexed, she acknowledged that her

father's choice to make Jack the store spokesman might not have been as faulty as she had first presumed.

God, how she hated being wrong. And in front of her father, no less.

By the time his fan club had dissipated, Alex had even ventured to taste a spoonful of the dark stew he had bought—which

wasn't half bad—and she was contemplating going to the ladies room to remove her pale, sheer panty hose. Why keep up the

pretense of dignity? She sighed as her beautiful hat, torn, dusty and misshapen, skipped and bumped its way across the infield

far below.

"It didn't suit you anyway," Jack murmured as he reclaimed his seat. "You look better in a motorcycle helmet."

"I'll let the milliners know they're missing out on a trend," she said wryly, not about to let on that his words made her heart

skip a beat.

"I predict we have the winners," her father announced as he and Heath returned, tickets in hand.

Heath smiled as he handed her a ticket. "I picked horse number six for you, sweetheart, because the silks are red, and I know

it's your favorite color."

Next to her, Jack snorted softly.

Alex squirmed. "Thanks." She shot an irritated glance toward Jack. "Which horse did you bet on?"

His mouth twitched at the corner. "Let's just say that red isn't my favorite color." When Heath and her father sat in the front

seats, he added under his breath, "I prefer flesh tones."

She tried not to react, but the man was so outrageous, she couldn't help shaking her head in exasperation.

"I think I see the beginning of a smile," he whispered.

"You're mistaken," she whispered back, determined to keep her mirth under wraps. Jack simply mustn't know how much his

nearness affected her.

The tote board ticked down to five minutes until the first race, and the mounted entries were led onto the track by calmer lead

horses with their own riders. The crowd hummed louder in anticipation as the horses performed their customary walk down the

homestretch of the track, then turned and walked back to the starting line. The jockeys lifted their crops toward the grandstands,

churning the spectators into a higher froth.

"Alex," Heath shouted over the din. "Is that your hat?" He pointed, his eyebrows high, toward the swollen infield, where the

weary hat was still being bandied about.

"Yes," she replied dully, refusing to look at Jack. "It … got away from me."

The starting gate was pulled across the track by a small tractor, and the nail-biting task of loading the horses into the gate

was begun. Alex had seen more than one horse and rider injured during this most dangerous part of the race. As was customary,

the second the last horse was safely inside, the front gates slammed open, and the horses shot forward.

Alex gave in to the tangible excitement, impossible to ignore as the horses stretched forward until their bodies were almost

horizontal. The crowd in the grandstand jumped to their feet in waves. The noise was thunderous as everyone shouted for their

chosen mount and the nimble-tongued announcer belted the names of the front runners at every turn. Less than a minute later, the

race was over. Horses number two, one and seven came in to win, place and show, and a quick glance at the program revealed

the odds on at least two of the entries had been long. Much to her dismay, the number six horse carrying the red-silked jockey

not only crossed the finish line last, but way, way behind with a lazy, playful trot that had the audience laughing.

Alex ripped her ticket in half to the tune of Jack's chuckle.

"I only had the show horse," her father said, turning around.

"Nothing for me," Heath said.

Everyone looked to Jack, who seemed remarkably calm. "Well?" Alex prompted.

His shrug was casual. "I hit the exacta."

Alex glanced at the tote board just as the payout for the exacta—choosing the win and place horses—flashed on the screen. A

two dollar bet returned three hundred and fifty dollars, and she suspected that Jack's bet had been more than two dollars.

Her father whooped and Heath pursed his mouth. Alex simply smiled and murmured, "At least you can afford to buy me a

new hat."

He didn't answer, simply relaxed in his chair to study the day's racing form, punctuated, she noted, with mysterious notes in

the margins, and dotted with curious circles and boxes in various colors.

"Some kind of foolproof system of yours?" she asked, squinting under the glare of the sun.

He handed her his sunglasses, and feeling stubbornly deserving, she took them. "My system isn't quite as scientific as picking

the horse based on the jockey's silks," he said, one side of his mouth drawn back.

Scientific or not, his system seemed to work because by the end of the third race, he'd racked up more winning tickets. Her

father had hit a couple of payoffs himself, but she and Heath had nothing to show for their hit-and-miss guessing.

"What do you have in the fourth race?" she asked, waving off Heath's offer to place her bet.

"This one's tough," Jack admitted, shaking his head. "The favorites are so strong, they're bound to win and place, but they'll

only pay out a pittance."

"So?" She leaned over, watching his finger move over the form as he pointed out subtleties in bloodline, jockeys and race

length. He had nice hands, she observed, her mouth going strangely dry. Large and square-palmed, long, blunt-tipped fingers,

good for catching footballs, she supposed. With a flash of revelation, she realized how Tremont's new fine jewelry department

could be showcased in the commercials in a way that would appeal to women—she could put a wedding ring on him. But as

quickly as the idea occurred to her, she tabled it, struck by the feeling that a wedding ring on Jack Stillman's finger seemed so

unnatural that it might come across to the audience as being unbelievable.

"What's wrong?" he asked, scrutinizing his hands.

She shook her head, embarrassed. "Um, nothing. I was just thinking that you must miss playing football."

"Why would you say that?"

Alex shrugged. "It's your identity, isn't it? Jack the Attack?"

Jack nodded, then stood abruptly and mumbled that he needed to place another bet. Perplexed, she turned to watch him climb

up the concrete steps of the grandstand, noticing hers wasn't the only pair of feminine eyes following him. And her chest filled

with unreasonable satisfaction that he was with her today.

Well, not really with
her
, since he'd come as her father's guest.

A cell phone rang, causing Alex, Heath and her father all to reach for their personal devices.

"It's mine," Heath said, flipping up his phone's antenna and pressing his hand against his opposite ear.

Alex took the opportunity to tell her father about Jack's "plant" with the local sports reporter. "I don't like it, Dad. I thought

we agreed he would prove himself first—two weeks, one of which is almost gone, I might add."

"We did."

"Yet he's acting as if he's already a permanent fixture at Tremont's. He didn't even run that little stunt by me first!"

"But you know any publicity is good publicity as long as they spell the name of the store correctly."

"Dad, he's a loose cannon."

"Which means," her father said mildly, "that it's up to you to keep tabs on him."

"But—"

"Honey, like I said before, Jack Stillman is a rebel, and I think he's just what we need around Tremont's to shake everything

up a bit. In fact—" he tilted his head and gave her a gently curious look "—if I didn't know better, I'd say Jack had
you
shaken

up."

Alex swallowed hard, telling herself not to overreact, yet stunned since her father had never before broached the subject of

her personal life. "But you
do
know better," she corrected in a calm tone that belied her panic. Was her attraction to Jack so

transparent that even her
father
could tell? She searched his blue eyes, so like her own, looking for comfort, trying to relay her

confusion over the men in her life.

Al wet his lips and looked as if he might say something, then was interrupted by Heath flipping his phone closed.

"I hate to do this to you, Alex," Heath said, "but I'm needed at the office."

"What?"

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, but I didn't give my secretary enough notice to clear my afternoon calendar, and one of my

appointments was already on a plane to Lexington when she called to reschedule."

She stood and sighed. "Well, if it can't be helped."

"There's no reason for you to leave," Heath said quickly. "I'm sure your father will be glad to take you home."

Alex looked to her father, who nodded confirmation.

"Okay," she relented, thinking that the day hadn't turned out anything like she'd planned. Still, she could have fun with her

father and perhaps start to chip away at the wall erected between them by neglect and indifference. They both were to blame,

she realized, studying her father's noble profile—she hadn't exactly extended herself since Gloria had come onto the scene. She

vowed to make more of an effort to draw her father closer to her. And when she was a vice president, they'd be working closer

together, too.

Heath distracted her from her musings with a quick kiss, and her father left to place a bet on the next race. Alex sat down,

feeling restless and warm with the sun bearing down. Since her hat was no longer making the rounds, she imagined it dying a

slow, painful death under the feet of tipsy spectators. Her ire rose just thinking about it.

"Shade, milady?"

She looked up to see Jack twirling, of all things, a cream-colored ruffled parasol.

His smile highlighted the cleft in his chin. "I'd hate to be responsible for freckles on that upturned nose of yours."

Despite his backhanded compliment, the picture he presented was simply too incongruous to keep a straight face. "Feeling

guilty, are you?"

"Feeling generous," he corrected with a grin as he stepped into the box and slid the frilly umbrella into the hole behind their

seats provided for the boxholders who wished to buy the pricey souvenirs. "Since I cashed in on the last race, and since it's

down to just the two of us—" Jack stopped when she placed her hand on his arm—not an unwelcome gesture, just surprising.

"What do you mean 'down to just the two of us'?"

Jack pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "I saw Al upstairs. He said he and Reddinger had to leave, and asked if I

would see you home." He watched the emotions play over her face with a sinking realization. "You didn't know?"

She shook her head. "Don't worry, I'll call Heath to come back and pick me up when his meeting is over."

And he'd actually thought she'd agreed to—perhaps even wanted to—spend the rest of the afternoon with him, hence the

ridiculous umbrella. "Suit yourself," he said with a mild shrug, not about to admit his acute disappointment, and not sure if he

understood his own reaction. Regardless, considering how close he'd come to kissing the woman—and more—the last time

he'd taken her home, her alternate plan seemed wise. His promise to Derek ran through his head as if on continuous play.

Determined to get his mind off the leggy beauty sitting next to him, he turned his attention to the leggy beauties on the racetrack.

Except his task proved to be harder than he expected, mostly because Alex showed more curiosity in his picks and the

reasons behind them. Despite his resolve, he liked having answers to questions she asked—for once. As her interest grew, she

placed a couple of bets based on his recommendations, and when their long shot horse came in to place in the next race, she

grabbed his arm and jumped up and down. Impulsively, Jack whirled her around and lowered a quick kiss on the cheek. Her

eyes widened, but before she could chastise him, he grabbed her hand and pulled her up the steps to collect her payout. Jack

blamed his pounding heart on the quick ascent. Derek was right, he conceded—he knew the woman was dangerous, yet he

couldn't seem to help himself.

For her part, Alex quietly cashed in her winning ticket, then excused herself to the ladies' room. When she rejoined him at

their seats a few minutes later, warning bells sounded in his head because she handed him a beer, and held one of her own.

Plus, to his consternation, she'd shed her panty hose somewhere along the way, which gave him even more bare skin to endure.

Jack took a long sip of the beer, then held the cool cup to his cheek. Best to steer the conversation back to business as soon as