It Takes a Rebel (9 page)

Frowning, Jack glanced around the front office, not a bit surprised to see that Tuesday had rearranged its contents in a more

pleasing manner. A fresh but pungent odor permeated the air. "What's that smell?"

"Paint," she said, nodding toward the yellow walls. "I thought this room could use a pick-me-up."

Jack stared at the dean, bright walls. What color had they been before? "
You
painted?"

Tuesday shrugged. "An apron, a gallon of paint, and a roller—no big deal. Besides, I was bored."

"Where did you get the supplies?" he asked suspiciously.

"Call it a contribution," she said. "I wanted to make this room more comfortable."

"Well, don't get too comfortable," he warned. "There
is
no job."

She sniffed, disregarding him completely.

Jack frowned. "When is Mr. Stripling supposed to arrive?"

She nodded toward the back office. "He's been here for an hour—I gave him another back adjustment and sat him at Derek's

desk. He wants to talk to you a-s-a-p about missing quarterly tax payments." Tuesday extended a hand-written note which

presumably held the man's instructions.

Jack glared and snatched the piece of paper. "Keep your hands off our auditor! Anything else?"

Tuesday walked around the desk she had made her own, complete with a nameplate—where had
that
come from?—and

picked up a handful of pink phone message slips. "Donald Phillips wants you to review new pages to the company's website."

"I don't suppose he said anything about sending us a check," Jack grumbled.

"It arrived today."

"Great. We need to—"

"Pay the phone bill, the electric bill, Lamberly Printing, the post office box rental, Beecher's Office Supplies and three

returned check charges from the bank." She smiled and handed him a stack of papers. "Counter-sign the check for deposit, then

sign all the checks I filled out."

"I'm not giving you this check to deposit," he declared. "I hardly know you."

Without missing a beat, Tuesday picked up her purse and swung it over her shoulder. "I wasn't offering," she said,

enunciating each word. "The rest of your phone messages are there for you to read yourself, and envelopes for the bills are

already addressed and stamped."

Jack felt a little contrite as she walked toward the door, her hips swaying with attitude. "Where are you going?"

"Home," she tossed over her shoulder. "I'm taking the rest of the afternoon off."

"You don't have a job to take time off
from
," he reminded her grumpily.

"See you tomorrow, model man."

Jack massaged the bridge of his nose, then carried the handful of papers with him to the back office. Mr. Stripling sat at

Derek's desk surrounded by files and folders, with a boardlike device strapped to his back, his face arranged in an unpleasant

expression.

"Good day, Mr. Stripling."

The man scowled in his direction. "Is it? I hadn't noticed, having been assaulted once again by your office manager and left to

sit here all afternoon wracked with unbearable pain."

Jack swallowed a smile at the image of Tuesday pinning the slight man down long enough to crack his neck—again. Hadn't

the man seen it coming this time? "I apologize, Mr. Stripling, but that unstable woman does
not
work for us."

"So you've said, and I find the entire situation quite suspect."

Jack flung his arm toward the files the man was delving into. "You'll see—there's no record of having a Tuesday Humphrey

on our payroll."

"Which means you've been paying her under the table," Stripling chirped. "A crime in and of itself."

"No—" Jack held up his hand, then stopped. "Forget it," he mumbled, crossing to his own desk where he tossed the stack of

bills. "I've got more important things to worry about."

If possible, the man stiffened even more, and his bow tie practically twitched. "More important than the IRS?"

"Yeah," Jack said, falling into his seat. "An irate woman."

"Your office manager?"

"No," he said, picking up the phone to dial Derek. "A different irate woman. I seem to be collecting them."

As the phone rang on the other end, his spirits lifted in anticipation of telling his brother the news about the account, but he

debated telling Derek that he had also been asked to be the Tremont's spokesman. He didn't want to give Derek the impression

that he might sacrifice the work of the agency to satisfy this spokesman gig. Besides, Tuesday had pricked a concern he'd been

harboring since leaving Tremont's—perhaps Al Tremont was more intrigued by the thought of Jack the Attack doing

commercials for the department store than the thought of Jack Stillman doing advertising work for the department store.

"Hello, this is Derek."

"Hi, bro. Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"Jack, thank goodness! I've been going crazy waiting to hear from you. How'd the meeting go with Tremont?"

"We got the account."

"That's great!" Derek whooped and lowered the mouth-piece to yell the news to someone else—presumably his wife Janine

—then returned. "How long is the contract for?"

"Two weeks."

"Two weeks?" Disappointment filtered his brother's voice. "Is that
all?"

Rankled, Jack said, "It was the best I could do under the circumstances."

"What circumstances?"

"The decision to go with our agency wasn't unanimous."

"Did Mr. Tremont like the presentation?"

"Yeah, he liked it fine. It was his daughter who had a problem with it, and she's the director of sales and marketing."

"Daughter? What's she like?"

Jack's pulse spiked. "Young and hostile."

Derek emitted a thoughtful sound. "Pretty?"

His shrug was for himself, he supposed. "If you like the white-and-uptight type. I have two weeks to impress her, and if I do,

we go back to the negotiating table."

"I'm coming home right away."

Panic gripped him—the last thing he wanted was for Derek to come home and find him making commercials. Two weeks

would give him time to get a handle on the details. "Derek, man, don't do that," he said, laughing and forcing a casual tone.

"Trust me, I'll have this thing well on its way by the time you get home. Enjoy the rest of your honeymoon."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely." He spent the next few minutes describing the concept of the ad campaign, then assured him—ignoring the

unfriendly look that Stripling shot his way—that the audit was going smoothly and that the crazy lady who had made herself

their office manager was gone. He didn't add "for the day."

"Jack," Derek said, his voice dipping. "I'm proud of you."

Touched and a little shaken, Jack scoffed. "Don't go getting all mushy on me. The business isn't in the bag yet."

"You just have to impress this Tremont lady, huh?"

"Yeah, but she's an uppity princess."

"Single?"

"I didn't ask," Jack hedged, knowing she was single—ergo Reddinger.

"Just be on your best behavior, okay?" Derek pleaded. "Don't try to be starting something."

"That's crazy," Jack protested. "I wouldn't—"

"Yes, you
would
. If you haven't noticed, little brother, you have a way of sabotaging your own success."

Jack sighed. "Relax, she has a boyfriend."

"Ha! Never stopped you before."

"Oh, and this coming from a guy who married the bride-to-be of a friend of his."

Derek grunted. "Steve and I aren't friends."

"Wonder why?"

"Okay, Jack, okay. But I'm telling you—stay away from this woman's bed."

"My contact with Alex Tremont will be limited to her wiping her six-hundred dollar stiletto shoes on my back."

"Promise me."

"Promise you what?"

"Promise me you won't become involved with this woman."

"What? No!"

"Then I'm coming home."

"No!" Jack sighed, then turned his back to the eavesdropping auditor and cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. "Okay."

"Okay, what?"

He rolled his eyes heavenward and lowered his voice even more. "Okay. I promise I won't become involved with … this

woman."

"Great. I know I can trust you to keep your word to me, Jack."

Derek's words reverberated in his head long after he hung up the phone. By the time he signed all the outgoing checks and

sealed the envelopes, Mr. Stripling was ready to leave. Jack helped him to his car while doing his best to ignore the man's

ominous comments about missing forms and late payments. He assured the man they would discuss it later. Then Jack locked

the office, rode his motorcycle to the bank to make the deposit, and dropped the bills into a mailbox.

Maneuvering through five o'clock traffic, he acknowledged he hadn't yet called Alex to set up a time to meet with her as her

father had suggested. He also acknowledged that just the thought of seeing her again sent the blood rushing to the lower

portions of his body. And irritation to nerve endings elsewhere.

He dreaded talking to the woman on the phone, knowing she'd probably resist every opportunity to meet with him. Her

father's words came back to him.
You're going to have to suck up a little to win her over, but I'm sure you can handle it.
Jack

had never had to suck up to a woman in his life, and Alex Tremont didn't strike him as someone susceptible to sucking up

anyway. Dammit, he'd have to be clever, which meant this was going to be a lot of work.

He sighed heavily, then from nowhere an idea popped into his mind. With growing confidence, Jack smiled and revved

toward home, telling himself that just because he was already anticipating seeing Alex again did
not
mean he was going back

on his promise to Derek.

Chapter 7

« ^ »

A
lex kicked off her shoes and removed the pins from her hair, lightly massaging her scalp as she finger combed the waves.

Taking stock of her physical well-being, she acknowledged wryly that her feet hurt, her back hurt and her hair hurt. On a scale

of one to ten for bad days at the office, she gave this day a nine, saving ten for the distinction of being fired.

Noticing the flashing light on her voice recorder, she pushed the play button as she walked past.

"Alex, this is Lana. You have to help me, I'm begging you. Vile Vicki is hip to me borrowing her things to get her back for

borrowing
my
things. I need to stash a few valuables at your place until I can off her and dump the body."

Shaking her head at her friend's nonsense, she attempted a laugh, but in light of her abysmal day at the office, the noise came

out sounding a bit strangled. After the farce of a meeting to "investigate" Jack Stillman's company as a potential advertising

firm, she'd received preliminary reports from a reputable retail research firm that Tremont's was definitely losing sales ground,

even worse considering that one of their main competitors was holding steady, and the other was posting significant gains.

What a time to be flushing their advertising dollars down the drain.

Before it slipped her mind, Alex dialed Lana's number—she and Vile Vicki were way beyond sharing a phone number—and

left her a message to use the spare key and deposit her valuables in the antique chest she used as a coffee table, adding that

Lana simply could not, however, hide Vicki's body in the chest. She hung up, thinking the couch looked extremely inviting, but

she needed to eat, and the sole food items in the refrigerator—a jar of pimento olives and the carton of leftover fudge icing—

would not suffice.

She also refused to stay in simply because Heath had left town. Irked for no reason she could put her finger on, she paced the

perimeter of her apartment, peering out the windows at early dusk, feeling jittery. She sat down at her mother's mahogany baby

grand piano showcased in the window of her loft, aching with the need to talk to her mother, to solicit her wisdom.

Life was pulling at her—Heath wanted to set a date, the pressures at the store had grown exponentially. Al wanted her to

bond with Gloria while she yearned only for her father's affection. And now this liaison with Jack Stillman that went against

her every instinct. The man oozed trouble, and she had the distinct feeling that the situation would become much more

complicated before leveling out.

Alex pinged on a key or two with a sad smile—considering the few rusty tunes she could play, turning on the groaning faucet

in the bathroom seemed simpler.

Suddenly she brightened, deciding that this evening would be the perfect time to indulge in her long-unfulfilled desire to ride

again—to climb onto the back of a horse like when she was a child and bring the animal to a gallop.

She hadn't ridden in over a decade, but lately the longing to lean into the wind and feel her hair whipping her neck had

recurred with more frequency. Lana said the urge for unbridled freedom was a by-product of becoming engaged, an explanation

which Alex had dismissed. All she knew at the moment was that a therapeutic ride this evening would erase the stubborn image

of Jack Stillman's smug, handsome face and her father's grating words,
When people see "Tremont's," they'll think of "Jack

the Attack."

Not the person who bore the name of his store, the person who had devoted her entire life to his business, the person who