“Mr. Stillman, I don’t have all day,” Alex called out. “You still have a lot of clothes to try on.”

“Coming.” Jack stepped out of the fitting room, adopting an innocent expression.

At the sound of the door clicking open, Alex looked up…and the pen slipped out of her suddenly loose hand. At first glance she feared he was naked, then realized with no small amount of relief that he was covered by a minuscule amount of stretchy black fabric. Sexual awareness zipped through her.

At last she dragged her gaze from him and pretended to study her papers. “I…don’t recall seeing that particular…garment…on the list.”

“They were on the pile,” he said, shrugging. “This modeling stuff is new to me. Am I supposed to turn around or something?”

Alex swallowed. 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. The underwear left nothing to the imagination. “You can turn around now,” she said, struggling for composure.

He didn’t move, and she suddenly noticed that his breathing was as erratic as hers. He lifted a hand to scratch his temple. “Gee, boss, I don’t think that’s such a great idea right now.”

Dear Reader,

Every woman has one in her background—that sexy bad boy who revved up her engine but wasn’t exactly marriage material. Rough, tough and unconventional, complete with motorcycle and to-die-for looks, they were the stuff our dreams were made of…and gave our fathers nightmares!

Well, meet Jack Stillman, a bad boy you can fall in love with, heart and soul. He’s a former star athlete floating through life minding his own business until he meets Alexandria Tremont, heiress to a retail store chain, who suddenly holds his future in her prim little hands. Will Jack change his roguish ways for the love of a woman? Settle back to laugh, cry and root for Jack and Alex as they discover that the things in life they rebel against most are the very things they need to be happy.

I’d love to hear from you. Write to me at P.O. Box 2395, Alpharetta, GA 30023 and let me know if I’m keeping you entertained. Please watch for my next book, Too Hot To Sleep, a Temptation Blaze title available in June 2000. And don’t miss my Christmas 2000 Temptation novel featuring a spin-off character from It Takes a Rebel.

Thanks for supporting the wonderful world of romance—please tell a friend about the powerful love stories you find within the pages of Harlequin Temptation.

Much love and laughter,

Stephanie Bond

It Takes a Rebel
Stephanie Bond

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to my editor, Brenda Chin,

who “gets it” and challenges me to be a better writer.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

1

“JACK, ARE YOU LISTENING?”

Jack Stillman jerked his attention back to his brother’s voice on the phone. “Hmm? Sure, bro.”

“I’m counting on you,” Derek said in that patronizing big-brother tone that Jack hated.

He rolled his eyes, leaned back in his desk chair, and propped his feet on the corner of the desk. “Stop worrying, I can handle things until you get back.”

“I’m not worried about your ability,” Derek said dryly. “It’s your dedication that keeps me up at night.”

Jack frowned. “Your new bride should be the only thing keeping you up at night.”

Derek chuckled in a way that told Jack he hadn’t spent every minute of his honeymoon worrying about the ad agency. “Just remember—”

“I know, bro, I know. The gal from the IRS office will be by this afternoon, the phone bill needs to be paid, and I have an appointment with Al Tremont tomorrow morning at ten. I have everything under control.”

“Since we need to make a good impression on this IRS agent, you might not want to call her ‘gal.’”

He sighed, loath to spend the afternoon with some dried-up hag who wanted to scrutinize his W-4’s.

“Is the office straightened up?” Derek asked.

Jack glanced at the pizza box sitting on his desk from yesterday, and the cartons of leftover Chinese from the day before. On the other side of the room that housed both his and Derek’s desks, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf had collapsed, the timing of the mishap probably hastened by his overuse of the mini-basketball hoop on the side, he conceded. Twice he’d thought about straightening the mountain of reference books and papers on the floor, then changed his mind. And he hadn’t gotten around to sorting the mail in the two weeks since Derek had left. He raised the lid on the pizza box and lifted the remaining stone-cold slice to his mouth for a bite. “The place looks peachy,” he said through a mouthful of rubbery cheese.

“Good. Then tell me you dressed up.”

Jack looked down at one of the short sleeve floral shirts he’d acquired during his extended vacation in Florida, then opened his top drawer and withdrew a black and white striped tie from the wad of spares he kept there for emergencies. “Tie and everything,” he said, flipping up the collar of his shirt and fashioning a loose Windsor knot.

“And you got a haircut?”

He ran his hand through his dark shaggy hair and grunted what he hoped passed for affirmation.

Derek sighed in relief, so he must have sounded convincing. “And you have ideas drawn up for Tremont?”

Jack shot a look in the direction of his sketch pad, then flicked a chunk of pepperoni from the blank top sheet. “Some of my best work ever.”

“Great. What did you come up with?”

“Uh, I’ll call you and go over the presentation when I get everything back from the printer.”

“You’re the artist,” Derek said with a little laugh. “I’m nervous about you meeting with the IRS woman, but I have to admit, I’m sure you’ll do a good job with Tremont. This account could put us in the big league, you know.”

Jack winced and rubbed his stomach. Guilt and cold pizza did not mix. “I know, Derek, I won’t let you down.” He checked the clock on Derek’s desk—he’d lost his own watch in a poker game in Kissimmee—and straightened. The IRS gal would arrive in another hour. “Listen, bro, gotta run.”

“Call me on my cell phone if the agent has questions you can’t answer.”

“Sure thing. Give Janine a kiss for me, and make it French, okay?” He hung up before Derek could reprimand him, bit off another chunk of pizza, then winged it toward the overflowing trash can. After wiping his hands on his cut-off denim shorts, he pushed himself to his feet with an aggrieved sigh. Might as well get the darn bookshelf fixed.

He stretched tall into a mighty yawn, then padded barefoot to the closet they used as a supply room. He’d have time to slide into his deck shoes before the broad got there. Jack shook his head at the neat shelves, the bins of miscellaneous office supplies and the various tools. His brother had inherited their mother’s penchant for order, while he had inherited their father’s tendency toward turmoil.

God rest his father’s sweet soul, the old man was still doing them favors. Paul Stillman, ever the generous spirit, had once stopped on New Circle Road to assist a motorist, only to discover the man was none other than Alexander Tremont, owner of the Tremont department store chain. Tremont had been on his way to a meeting at his flagship store in Lexington, Kentucky, and their father had given him a lift. When the two men hit it off, Tremont had promised the Stillman & Sons agency a chance at his business once his contract with a high-powered agency had run its course.

Last week, Al Tremont’s secretary had phoned to keep his promise. Saddened to learn of their father’s passing, Tremont nonetheless set an appointment to discuss ideas for a new ad campaign. Derek had been ecstatic when Jack told him, and considered cutting short his honeymoon, but Jack had assured him he could handle the presentation.

And he could handle the presentation, he told himself. He’d already performed some rudimentary research by calling acquaintances to ask what the hell the store sold. He still had nearly twenty-four hours until the Tremont appointment, and he always did his best work under pressure. If history repeated itself, his most creative ideas would strike him around three o’clock tomorrow morning.

He pulled down a tool belt and strapped it low around his hips. Begrudgingly, he lifted the stepladder to his shoulder—might as well change the two expired overhead lightbulbs while he was at it.

Upon closer inspection, the bookshelf was in worse shape than he’d thought. He ended up reinforcing the brace under each shelf and tightening every screw that held the piece together. Once the unit was stabilized, he positioned it against the wall, then knelt to start replacing the heap of books, binders and periodicals.

Two minutes into the pile, between volumes of advertising trade magazines, he stumbled across an old friend—the 1997 Playboy “Southern College Coeds” issue. A dog-eared page took him directly to the University of Kentucky offerings. Wow, still impressive. And by chance, he’d spotted the blonde in the cropped T-shirt at the next football game he’d attended. What was her name? Jack peered more closely. Oh, yeah—Sissy. He and Sissy had shared some good times.

“Excuse me.”

At the sound of a woman’s voice, Jack jerked his head up and slapped the magazine closed. In the doorway of their disheveled office stood the most drop-dead gorgeous woman he’d ever had the pleasure of setting his eyes upon. His body leapt in unadulterated admiration. The woman was…tight. Tight black hair bound away from her face. Tight skin over sharp cheekbones and a perfect nose. Tight set of her mouth and chin. Tight tailored pale blue suit that hugged every curve of her long body. Tight look from her haughty blue eyes. Tight grip on the black briefcase she held.

To say the IRS rep didn’t look anything like what he’d expected was an understatement of laughable proportions. “Yes?” He adopted a charming expression. His mind raced ahead to the drinks, the dinner, the bed they were destined to share.

“I’m looking for Mr. Stillman.”

Oh, and a husky voice, too. He’d surely died and gone to heaven. “You found him,” he said, then tossed the magazine to the floor and walked toward her.

“You’re Derek Stillman?” she asked, not hiding her surprise.

“No, I’m his brother, Jack, the better looking one.” He grinned. “Derek is out of town, but I’ve been expecting you.”

“Oh?” she asked, scanning the contents of the office. “You know who I am?”

“Sure,” he said cheerfully. “Derek and I were just discussing the meeting on the phone.”

Suddenly he realized the unkempt appearance of their office might run in their favor—the woman could certainly see they weren’t hiding income. He laughed and gestured around. “As you can see, we’re not exactly the cream of the advertising agencies.” He made a rueful noise. “A month ago we were on the verge of bankruptcy, and now we’re just hanging on by the skin of our ass—um, teeth, so this shouldn’t take long.”

“Indeed,” she said, her enunciation clipped. “I believe I’ve seen enough.” She turned as if to leave.

He panicked. “Wait—what about our appointment?”

“Consider it canceled.”

Jack nearly whooped with relief—Derek would be ecstatic that the audit had been dismissed, but he wasn’t about to let this creature just walk out of his life.

“You don’t have to be so hasty,” he drawled, strolling closer. “There’s a silver lining to every cloud.” When she turned back, he angled his head at her and gave her his most devilish grin. “How about dinner?”

One thin jet eyebrow shot up. “With you?”

He winked. “I grill a mean steak.”

Her smile was, of course, tight. “I’m a vegetarian.”

Jack blanched. He’d heard of vegetarians, but he’d never met one. “Well, I grill a mean…head of cabbage. What do you say?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I say ‘no.’ Goodbye, Mr. Stillman.”

“Wait,” he said, trotting after her into the reception area, where they kept a desk, a phone and an extinct computer for appearances. The two weeks’ worth of mail nearly obscured the top of the dummy desk.

She turned again, her mouth pursed, her gaze chilly.

He spread his hands. “At least give me your card so I can prove to my brother that you were here.” He’d call her and eventually wear her down—he always did.

The black-haired beauty hesitated, then withdrew a gold business card holder, extracted a card, and flicked it down on the corner of the reception desk. She opened the door and exited to the hall. Jack caught the door and stuck out his head to watch her walk away. Head up, her stride was long, and she never looked back as she disappeared around the corner.

Jack whistled low and under his breath. “Tight little behind, too.” Spirits high, he turned back to the door and laughed aloud. The Stillman & Sons Advertising Agency sign on the outside of the door dangled crookedly by a thin chain. He’d been meaning to fix that, too, but the disrepair had undoubtedly been a bonus. He couldn’t wait to call Derek, and he couldn’t wait to call the mystery woman. He loved a gal who played hard to get.

Jack lifted his arm and patted himself heartily on the back. Derek was always complaining that he didn’t pull his weight around the office, but from what he could see, running the place was a pure cinch. The auditor was practically in his pocket; in fact—he cracked his knuckles with one sweeping motion—maybe he’d be able to negotiate some sort of tax-free status between the sheets. He grinned—when he was hot, he was red-hot. Closing his eyes, he could practically feel the imprint of Tremont’s handshake tomorrow as they agreed on a deal even more lucrative than his brother could have imagined. Humming in anticipation, Jack walked back into the messy reception area and picked up the card the smoky siren had left.

Then he nearly swallowed his smooth tongue.

Alexandria Tremont, Director of Marketing & Sales, Tremont Enterprises.

WHEN ALEX REACHED the parking lot, she was still marveling over the sheer audacity of Jack Stillman. She swung into her sedan, banged the door closed, and scoffed as she turned over the key in the ignition. The man was a joke, and a lame one at that. She wheeled out of the parking lot that was as shoddy as the so-called professional office buildings around it, making a wild guess as to the owner of the dusty black motorcycle sitting at a cocky angle.

She hesitated for half a heartbeat, tempted to lower the rag top of her white convertible on this sunny fall day, then decided she didn’t want to have to bother with redoing her hair when she returned to the office. Funny, but she hadn’t driven with the top down nearly as much as she thought she might when she’d bought the car on impulse last spring. Lately she’d been regretting her splurge; what had once sounded fun now seemed rather silly.

Alex dodged a pothole, then eased into side street traffic and headed for the bypass, her foot depressing the gas a little harder as the image of Jack Stillman’s smug face rose in her mind. The nerve of the man, making a pass at her! Her cheeks warmed at the memory of his raking gaze, as if he were entitled or something, the cad.

The bronzed bum hadn’t even bothered to put his best foot forward—or even don shoes for that matter—to impress a potentially huge customer. If there was one thing she resented, it was a man with an attitude who had absolutely nothing to back it up, and Jack Stillman appeared to be the poster boy for arrogance. He’d obviously mistaken her for the kind of woman who would be swayed by his stray-dog good looks. The scoundrel undoubtedly planned to shmooze her and her father with good-old-boy charm—a southern staple she’d come to despise during her rise through the ranks of the family business.

Her father had insisted, and rightfully so, that she start on the sales floor as a teenager and learn the business from the bottom up. Over the past fifteen years, she’d worked doubly hard to overcome the stigma of being the boss’s daughter. Even her own father had resisted moving her into management, even though she knew the business inside out by the time most kids were finishing college. She’d reached the level of director two years ago, and was now in the running for the position of vice president of sales and marketing recently vacated by a retiree. The competition was stiff, but her record had been exemplary, and the new vice president would be announced any day. Her father would be so proud if the board of directors chose her.

Then, perhaps, Al would be forced to recognize her contribution to the company, to stop interfering with her duties and decisions. This situation with the Stillman & Sons agency was a perfect example. The vice presidential duties had been split among the four sales directors for the time being, and though the responsibility of choosing a new advertising agency had been assigned to her, her father seemed determined to give their considerable business to the doubtful Stillman & Sons agency because of a from-the-hip promise he’d made to a Good Samaritan. The man had since passed away, but Al wouldn’t hear of ‘going back on his word.’

And now they were left to deal with a derelict son who read Playboy at the office and fancied himself a ladies’ man. Alex sighed. She really didn’t need the hassle.

She lifted the lid to a compartment on her armrest, removed her cellular phone, and punched in the number for her father’s private line.

Her father answered after a half ring. “This is Al,” he barked.

“It’s Alex,” she said. “Is this a bad time?”

“Never for you, Alex,” he murmured, his voice softening. Despite his flaws, she really loved him. “What’s up, my dear?”

“I just left the Stillman & Sons advertising agency.”

“I thought the agency was sending someone here tomorrow morning.”

The questioning tone in her father’s voice made her squirm. “I, um, had some time and decided to pay them a courtesy visit.”

“And?”

There it was again—that tone. “And they’re not in our league, Dad.” She winced at her slip because she preferred not to address him personally when they discussed business.

“What makes you say that?”

“The place is a mess, and Jack Stillman wasn’t much better—raggedy, unclean, the man even asked me out.” As if she would even consider going out with the buffoon.

“Can’t fault his taste.”

She rolled her eyes at his chuckle. “Stillman & Sons is a low-class operation.”

“Did you see their portfolio?”

Alex balked. “It hardly seemed worth the trouble.”

“Well, I have it on good faith that the agency is small, but good. I want to see what they have to offer. You’re forgetting, Alex, we used to be the underdog.”

Alex bit back her argument, knowing she couldn’t change his mind when he was in such a mood. In fact, she was starting to worry that the reason she’d been chosen for this assignment was so her father could pull the strings without appearing to. “Okay,” she conceded. “The appointment stands. I’ll see you at ten in the morning.”

“Have a nice day, sweetheart. By the way, Gloria wants you to come over for dinner soon.”

She wrinkled her nose at the mention of her father’s wife—the woman was dim and dull—then mouthed some vague response before saying goodbye. Alex disconnected the call, feeling torn, as usual, after talking to her father. Was it so wrong to want his love and his respect?

But as she replaced the phone, she suddenly realized she didn’t have a thing to worry about where the meeting was concerned. Jack Stillman would swagger in tomorrow looking like a wasted tourist and even her honor-bound father would recognize the absurdity of working with the down-and-out agency.

Alex smiled and lifted her chin. With Jack Stillman’s unwitting ‘help’ tomorrow morning, she’d be able to kill two birds with one stone: Her father would be forced to consider the reputable St. Louis advertising firm she was advocating, which also meant he would be forced to admit that she was right. And since the episode would unfold in the presence of various VIP’s, her chance for the vice presidency would undoubtedly improve.

With a new outlook, she laughed aloud, mentally thanking the disreputable-looking advertising man for being in the wrong place at the right time. Her dear mother had once said that every event in this seemingly disjointed world actually happened for a reason. Apparently her mother’s theory even extended to her unpleasant encounter with the repulsive Jack Stillman.

2

“DEREK’S GOING TO KILL ME.” Jack held his head in his hands, fighting some kind of weird swirling sensation in his stomach. And his heart was racing as if he’d just run for a ninety-nine-yard touchdown. “He’s absolutely going to kill me.”

“In that case, I hope you have cash.”

He glanced up to the open doorway. A plump fiftyish black woman stood dressed in white pants and shirt, wearing a lopsided red paper hat that read “Tony’s.” “You the stromboli sandwich with extra cheese?” she asked, her hand on one hip.

Jack nodded miserably, thinking even food wouldn’t help his mood today.

“That’ll be six dollars and forty cents.” She dropped the sack on the desk unceremoniously and wiggled her fingers in his direction. Her fingernails were at least two inches long. And bright yellow.

With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself to his feet and removed his wallet. He counted eight one dollar bills into her hand, then added another when she lifted a winged eyebrow.

“You the handyman around here?” She nodded toward his tool belt as she stuffed the money into a fanny pack around her waist.

“Sort of,” he mumbled. “This is my company…and my brother’s.”

“The murderer?”

Jack frowned. “Hmm?”

Her head jutted forward. “The man who’s going to kill you—is he your brother?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

Her eyes rolled upward, and she spoke as if to a child. “Why is he going to kill you?”

Irritated by the woman’s nosiness, he scowled. “It’s a long story.”

“Lucky for you,” she said, revealing remarkably white teeth and surprising dimples. “You’re my last delivery.”

She had a pleasant way about her, he conceded, kind of…motherly. The woman was only trying to be nice, and what could it hurt to unload on a stranger? He shrugged, indifferent to her interest. “I’m supposed to be running this place while my brother is gone, but I f—” He swallowed at the disapproving look the woman shot him. “I mean, I messed up royally.”

“How’s that?”

He quirked his mouth from side to side. “A woman IRS agent was supposed to stop by, so when this gal showed up a while ago, I assumed she was here for the review.”

“And?”

“And instead she was here about a huge account I’m supposed to pitch tomorrow—Tremont’s department stores.”

“And?”

“And, let’s just say I downplayed the success of the business a tad—not the impression I was aiming for.”

“So, who was she?” She leaned against the desk and studied her nails, obviously unaware of the significance of doing business with the southern retail chain.

“Alexandria Tremont. She must be related to the man who owns the place—”

“Daughter.”

Jack stopped. “You know her?”

The woman ran a finger along the desk, then blew a quarter-inch of accumulated dust into the air. “I know of her. My son works in menswear at their store on Webster Avenue. Says that Tremont miss is a real go-getter.”

“More like a real ball buster,” he muttered to himself.

“Uh-huh, and not too bad to look at, if I recall.”

“A little too skinny, if you ask me.”

“And single, I think my boy said.”

“No wonder—she’s as cold as a freaking statue.”

Her eyes didn’t miss a thing, bouncing from an unturned calendar to a lopsided lamp shade to the silent computer. “Uh-huh. She’s rich, too, I’ll bet, and re-f-i-i-i-ned, with a royal shine.”

He smirked, remembering that on top of everything else, Princess Tremont had caught him ogling a naughty magazine. “Well, she wasn’t that impressive.”

She glanced at his bare feet and lifted a long yellow nail. “As opposed to you?”

Jack frowned. “I don’t make a habit of trying to impress people.”

The woman crossed her arms over her matronly bosom. “You married?”

“No.”

“Now there’s a surprise.”

“But my brother is,” he added, as if Derek’s goodness could atone for his own sins. “In fact, he’s away on his honeymoon.”

She sniffed. “When’s he due back, your brother?”

“In another two weeks.” Jack rubbed his temples as he picked up his earlier train of thought. “And Derek will kill me when he hears I’ve bungled this opportunity with Tremont.”

The woman leaned over and walked her fingers through the mail pile, then harrumphed. “First, he’d have to find you in all this mess. Where’s your office manager?”

“We don’t have one.”

“I’ll take it,” she said matter-of-factly, plucking her paper hat from her head and dropping it into the trash can.

Jack blinked. “Take what?”

“The job,” she said, her voice indignant. “You get back to whatever it was you were fixing—I hope it was the sign on the door—and I’ll get things organized in here.”

“But there isn’t a position—” The phone rang, cutting him off.

The woman yanked it up. “Stillman and Sons, how can I help you?”

She had spunk, he conceded. And a decent telephone voice.

“The overdue invoice for Lamberly Printing?”

She glanced at him, and he shook his head in a definite “no.” The company simply didn’t have the money.

“A check will be cut this afternoon,” she sang.

Incredulous, Jack could only stare when she hung up the phone. Then he spat out, “We can’t afford to pay that invoice!”

“I said a check will be cut, I didn’t say for how much.”

Jack pursed his mouth—not bad.

She picked up the greasy bag of food and shoved it into his hand. “Looks like you’re having a working lunch.” Dismissing him, she turned back to the mound of mail and began to toss junk letters into the trash.

He gaped. “Wait a minute. Who the devil are you?”

Without glancing up, she said, “Tuesday Humphrey, your new office manager.”

He wondered if the woman was unstable, but her eyes were intelligent, and her hands efficient. Exasperated, Jack lifted his arms. “But we’re not hiring an office manager!”

“I know,” she said calmly. “Because the position has been filled.”

The phone rang again, and she snapped it up. “Stillman and Sons, how can I help you?” Her voice smiled. “Mr. Stillman is in a client meeting, but just a moment, and I’ll check.” She covered the mouthpiece. “Alexandria Tremont’s secretary confirming your appointment at the Tremont headquarters at ten in the morning.”

Jack squinted. “But she just canceled the appointment.”

Tuesday uncovered the mouthpiece. “It was Mr. Stillman’s understanding that the appointment was canceled. No? Hold, please, while I see if his schedule will still allow him to attend.”

She covered the phone. “It’s back on—are you in?”

He nodded, his shoulders sagging in relief.

Tuesday uncovered the mouthpiece. “Yes, ma’am, please tell Ms. Tremont that Mr. Stillman is looking forward to a productive meeting. Thank you for calling.” She hung up the phone and returned to her sorting task. “Guess you still have a chance to impress the Tremonts.”

“Guess so,” he said, his mind racing.

“Well, get moving.” She snapped her fingers twice. “We both have a heap of work to do.”

Jack hesitated. “An IRS agent is supposed to come by.”

“You already told me, remember?” She flung a water sports equipment catalogue into the trash.

His hand shot out in a futile attempt to retrieve the catalogue—he could use a new water ski vest. But at the challenging expression on Tuesday’s face, he emitted a resigned sigh. The crazy woman couldn’t do more damage to their business or reputation than he had. They had no money to steal, no trade secrets to pilfer, no client list to filch. And at least he wouldn’t have to answer the damn phone. “Knock yourself out,” he said, splaying his hands. “But I can’t pay you.”

He stepped into the hall and closed the front door behind him to tackle the lopsided sign first. Within a few moments he’d rehung the smooth plaque of walnut upon which their father had painstakingly lettered and gilded the words “Stillman & Sons Advertising Agency” nearly twenty-five years ago. Without warning, grief billowed in his chest as his father’s easy grin rose in his mind.

At his wife’s encouragement, Paul Stillman had abandoned his modest home studio to become an entrepreneur when the boys were pre-teens. Jack had viewed the move as an act of treason against his father’s natural calling. He’d admired his father’s independence, his ability to adequately, if not luxuriously, provide for the family with the lively paintings he sold to local designers and businesses. He hadn’t wanted to see his father saddled with overhead and commuting and sixty-hour work weeks, but his father said the earning potential was better, and he owed their mother a retirement fund.

Indeed, his father had set aside a nice nest egg doing graphic artwork and ad plans for small-to medium-size businesses in Lexington, and later, mail order catalogs. Stillman & Sons had been a true family business—their mother ran the office, Derek had cut his accounting teeth on the books. Even Jack had pitched in on occasion, brainstorming with his father on the more creative projects, although the business itself had held—and still held—an unpleasant association for him. He banged down the hammer, connecting with his thumb instead of the nail head, then cursed and sucked away some of the pain.

He’d watched the stress of the agency take its toll on his otherwise carefree father. His hair had seemed to gray overnight, and worry lines had plowed deep into his forehead. His paintbrush and easel had languished, and little by little, Paul Stillman’s zest for root beer and whistling and people-watching had drained away.

Oh, his father had remained easygoing enough, but his good cheer seemed forced, and he’d stopped visiting the local art galleries, once a favorite getaway for him and his younger, more creative son. Jack missed those outings and he blamed the family business for taking his father away from him. At thirty-four, he recognized those feelings as childish, but he stubbornly clung to them nonetheless. From his perspective, responsibility sucked the life out of a man and left him with less to offer the very people he was trying to provide for.

Jack pulled a bandanna handkerchief from his back pocket and slowly wiped dust from the plaque. Frowning wryly, he scrubbed especially hard on the ending s in “Sons,” half hoping the letter would disappear. If truth be known, Derek was the son who deserved the agency—Jack wasn’t sure why his brother vehemently insisted he remain a partner.

Predictably, Derek had joined the agency full time when he graduated college, and the family expected nothing less of Jack. Instead, two years later he’d skipped his own graduation ceremony and hitchhiked to New Orleans where he’d put his two degrees—art and international business—to use by becoming the premiere artisan in Blue Willie’s infamous tattoo parlor just off Bourbon Street. By some stroke of divine luck, Jack had decided to return to Kentucky two years ago only weeks before a heart attack had claimed his father.

And except for a few “sabbaticals” here and there, he’d remained in Kentucky to help Derek run the agency, which had lapsed into a slow decline after their father had died. Their mother had turned to traveling with her sister, and Derek…well, Derek had turned into a tyrant—although, Jack conceded, he himself hadn’t been the model business partner. An unpleasant feeling ballooned in his chest, but he’d always refused to waste time on useless emotions like guilt, remorse, love, or hate. Funny, but all kinds of strange sensations seemed to be rolling around in his empty stomach this morning. It was as if Alexandria Tremont had set the tone for the day. Jack kneaded the tight spot just below his breastbone. The sooner he ate that sandwich, the better.

Swinging open the door, he was startled by a cheerful humming sound. He’d nearly forgotten about the self-proclaimed new office manager. Poor lady—she was probably bored and neglected by her son, looking for some way to kill time. Wonder what Derek would say?

Oh, what the hell, Derek had left him in charge, hadn’t he?

To her credit, Tuesday had performed small miracles in the few minutes he’d been in the hallway—the mail lay in three neat piles, and the desk and bookshelves fairly gleamed. She had found a radio and tuned in a local light-rock station, which provided the background for her spirited humming.

“Two phone messages,” she said, handing him pink slips of paper. “Bill collectors, both of them. I told them our accounting staff was preparing for an audit, and bought you a few days.”

Jack grinned. “Great.”

“Just a few days,” she warned, as she moved around the room, cleaning with what he recognized as his favorite tie-dyed T-shirt, which he’d been looking for. She stopped long enough to shake her finger at him. “So you’d better not blow that meeting tomorrow, young man.”

Properly chastised by a virtual stranger, he lifted his hands and escaped into the back office to finish the bookshelf. He tested the unit’s sturdiness and methodically replaced the books, but his mind wasn’t on the task at hand.

Jack simply couldn’t shake the memory of Alexandria Tremont standing there appraising him with her cool, disapproving eyes, her nose conveniently tweaked upward by nature to spare her the trouble of having to lift it when she spoke. He’d seen that look before, the sneer that branded him a loser by people who didn’t know that he could have been a hotshot executive had he simply chosen to be. At the meeting tomorrow he’d just have to show the uppity woman that he could hold his own among her kind.

Then he was angry at himself for wanting to impress anyone, much less Alexandria Tremont. He smoothed his ruffled pride by reasoning he was doing it for Derek and for the good of the agency, but anger fueled his energy. By the time he’d returned the books to the shelves and replaced the two lightbulbs, Jack felt that strange prickly feeling again, that alien sensation.

Apprehension? Jack inhaled deeply, but the tightness in his chest didn’t diminish. Could be. Derek had certainly complained enough about being apprehensive over one thing or another—perhaps this roiling nausea was why his brother kept a bottle of Pepto-Bismol in his desk and in the glove compartment of his ultraconservative car.

Jack stooped to retrieve a can of beer from his desk drawer, but froze when he heard raised voices from the front office. The IRS agent? He slipped into his shoes, removed the tool belt, and jogged to the front, but his feet faltered when he saw that Tuesday had a suited man pinned facedown on the desk, one arm behind him. The man’s face was a mask of pain.

“Tuesday!” Jack bellowed. “What the devil are you doing?” He reached for her hands and pried them loose from the visitor’s arm, despite her protests.

“I’m trying to help the poor man,” she insisted, resisting Jack. “He said his back was hurting, so I gave him an adjustment.”

“This maniac popped a bone in my neck,” the red-faced man yelped. “She probably crippled me!”

When at last he righted the man to a seated position, Jack shoved his hands on his hips and glared at Tuesday while introducing himself to the stranger. “I’m Jack Stillman, and I apologize, Mr.—?”

“Stripling,” the smallish man chirped, straightening his tie. “Marion Stripling, IRS.”

Jack closed his eyes. Marion—no wonder Derek had told him to expect a female. “I apologize, Mr. Stripling, for this woman’s—” he shot her a lethal look “—complete lapse in judgment. Truthfully, I don’t even know her myself.”

The man looked incredulous. “What, did she just wander in off the street?”

“Something like that,” Jack mumbled.

“What kind of a loony bin operation are you running here?”

“One that’s losing money,” Jack assured him. “Mr. Stripling, this way back to my desk, please. I need to have a word with my office manager.”

The man scowled in Tuesday’s direction, then picked up his briefcase and fled in the direction Jack indicated.

Jack turned back to Tuesday. “Well?”

She maintained a haughty position. “My late husband was a chiropractor. When Mr. Stripling told me he’d been delayed because of back pain, I was simply trying to help.”

His eyes widened. “By holding him down against his will and popping a bone in his neck?”

She wagged a finger in the air, her hip cocked to one side. “You’ll see, he’ll be thanking me.”

“You’ll see, he’ll be suing me!” Jack sputtered, then held his temples, at a loss what to do next.

The phone rang, and she jerked it up. “Stillman and Sons, Lexington’s number one advertising agency. How can I help you? Yes, hold please.” She covered the mouthpiece, then smiled sweetly and held the phone in Jack’s direction. “It’s your brother.”

3

ALEX STRETCHED HIGH to relieve the pressure of bending over the desk in her apartment for the past hour, then reached for the crystal goblet of white wine she’d been nursing since arriving home from her typical twelve-hour day. Using her stockinged foot, she levered the chair around to stare over the lights of downtown Lexington. It was another in a string of unusually warm October evenings. On impulse, she’d opened the sliding glass door leading to her balcony to dilute the stale air in her condo. The fresh breeze and the view revived her.

The University of Kentucky was having some kind of sports function because the streets leading to campus were choked. Not particularly fond of sports, she nonetheless recognized the huge economic advantage of having a popular college athletic program in town: athletics attracted attention for the university, swelling the student population, and college students remained the strongest buying group for the local Tremont department stores.

Alex swallowed a mouthful of chardonnay, thinking she should attend a college game of some sort with her father, a bona fide sports nut, just to see what all the fuss was about. On the other hand, Heath would undoubtedly take her in grand style if she wanted to go, even though he wasn’t much of a sports buff either.

Heath Reddinger had been scrupulously accommodating to both her and her father since joining the senior management of Tremont’s as Chief Financial Officer. She had liked him immediately—he was handsome, intelligent and sensitive. Her father, on the other hand, had never taken to Heath, although Al appreciated his contribution to the company, and had nodded in acquiescence when she and Heath had become engaged two months ago. Alex smiled as she fingered the diamond solitaire he’d given her. Heath was hard-working, predictable and fairly low-maintenance. She appreciated men with nice, neat edges.

Her smile faded when the face of Jack Stillman appeared to taunt her. The unkempt man was a loose cannon. She knew instinctively he was just the kind of man who could stir her father to rebellion. But she was determined to work with the St. Louis ad firm who could put Tremont’s on the same page as Roark’s and Tofelson’s—two southeastern chains with toeholds in Louisville which, according to a survey she’d commissioned in her position as Director of Marketing and Sales, were ranked higher than Tremont’s in perception of quality and style. In layman’s terms, the other stores were deemed more classy than Tremont’s. But the St. Louis ad agency could change all that. Just last year, they’d taken an unknown soft drink into the sales stratosphere with an award-winning campaign.

Her phone rang, rousing her. Heath’s name appeared on the caller ID screen, so she picked up the cordless extension, along with her goblet of wine and headed toward the kitchen. “Hello.”

“Hi, honey.”

She stopped to straighten a pillow on the sofa—living in an open loft apartment meant everything had to be in its place. “Hi. Did you get my message?”

“Yes. Do you want me to come over?”

They hadn’t slept together in weeks, but she simply wasn’t up to his lengthy, methodical foreplay rituals tonight, not with work issues weighing on her mind. “I’m really tired, and my day is packed tomorrow.”

“Oh, okay.” Agreeable, as always. “By the way, Al asked me to sit in on the morning meeting with the local ad agency. I hope that’s okay with you.”

She’d suspected as much—her father was gathering supporters, and he knew Heath was anxious to gain his favor. Alex pursed her mouth, weighing her response. “That’s why I called, although I personally think the meeting will be a waste of time. I paid the agency a surprise visit today and the owner is a Neanderthal.”

“Hmm. Did you tell your father?”

“Sure, but he insists on going through with this charade because of a promise he made to the former owner of the agency.”

“Well.” Heath hesitated, always a little nervous when she disagreed with her father. “I guess it’ll be a short meeting.”

“Uh-huh,” she agreed as she moved into the tiny blue and chrome kitchen nook situated in a corner. “I’m sure you’ll agree with me wholeheartedly once you meet this character.” She recorked the wine bottle and returned it to a shelf in the refrigerator door. “We’ll have to stick together to convince Daddy that we need to elevate the quality of the firms we do business with. You know—being judged by the company we keep, and all that jazz.”

“Okay,” he agreed, but he sounded as if he were sitting on a fence row, casting glances on either side.

She tore off a paper towel and wiped a ring of moisture gathered on the tile counter where the bottle had sat. “Maybe we can have dinner tomorrow night.”

“Great! I’ll make reservations at Gerrard’s.”

Her favorite—Heath was such a gentleman. For a few seconds, she reconsidered having him come over, then decided guiltily that she needed the sleep more than the physical attention. “Gerrard’s sounds wonderful. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

After disconnecting the call, Alex removed the pins from her hair and sighed, feeling restless and antsy for some reason she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She grabbed a magazine and her half-full glass, then fell into her white over-stuffed chair-and-a-half and propped her feet on the matching ottoman. With the pull of a delicate chain, she turned on a Tiffany-style floor lamp and fingered the large porcelain bead at the end of the chain, studying the intricate design she had memorized long ago.

The lamp had been a moving-in gift from her mother when Alex had first bought the spacious loft condo. She wasn’t sure which one of them was more excited with the find, but then her mother had passed away suddenly, before they’d had a chance to decorate the unique space together. Alex knew it sounded corny, but when she sat under the lamp, she felt as if her mother’s spirit glowed all around her. She sipped from her glass, and idly fingered the pages of the magazine, subconsciously absorbing the latest styles, colors and accessories. The store carried that line of coats…that line of separates…that line of belts.

Jack Stillman…Jack Stillman. Alex laid her head back and frowned at the antique tin ceiling she’d painted a luminous pewter. Why did his name tickle the back of her memory? Perhaps it was just one of those names…

A frenzied knock on her door interrupted her thoughts. She knew who it was even before she pushed herself to her feet and padded across the white wood floor, but she checked the peephole just in case. Lana Martina, friend, fool, and neighbor, peered back at her, her arched white eyebrows high and promising.

Alex’s spirits lifted instantly—Lana was a full-fledged, flat-out, certified nut who just happened to have taken a liking to quiet, scholarly Alex while they were in high school. Within the halls of their private Catholic school, Lana was a walking scandal, her pleated skirt always a little too short, her polished nails always a little too long. But her incredible intellect had kept the nuns at bay. In fact, Alex had met her on the debate team, and while the girls couldn’t have come from more different backgrounds, they had formed a lasting friendship.

Alex swung open the door, smiling when she saw Lana held two pint-sized cartons of ready-to-spread cake frosting. “Mocha cocoa with artificial flavoring?” her friend asked, reading from the labels. “Or fantasy fudge with lots of nasty preservatives?”

“Fantasy fudge,” Alex said, standing aside to allow Lana in. Her friend was as slim as a mannequin, but her personality needed as much room as possible.

“I brought utensils,” Lana said, holding up two silver dessert spoons. “It’s such a pain to get chocolate out from under your fingernails.”

Alex took the proffered spoon and carton of icing, then followed Lana to the sitting area. Having performed this ritual countless times, they assumed their respective corners of the comfy red couch, Alex’s feet curled beneath her, Lana sitting cross-legged.

“Nice silver,” Alex observed, studying the intricate pattern on the end of the heavy spoon.

“It belongs to Vile Vicki.” Lana ripped the foil covering off the top of her carton.

“You stole her silver?”

“Borrowed,” Lana corrected, dipping in her spoon and shoveling in a mound of chocolate big enough to choke two men. “She’s such a witch,” she said thickly.

Alex smiled, then spooned in a less impressive amount of the creamy fudge icing, allowing the sweet, chocolaty flavor to melt over her tongue before she responded. “She can’t be that bad.”

“You don’t live with her,” Lana insisted. “The woman is simply the most self-absorbed, tedious, annoying female I’ve ever met.”

“There’s Gloria the Gold Digger,” Alex said, pointing her spoon.

“At least she was smart enough to marry your father.”

“True,” Alex conceded with a sigh. Hopes that she and her father would become closer after her mother died had been dashed by Gloria Bickum Georgeson Abrams. The woman had brought a disposable pan of the most hideous macaroni salad to their home after her mother’s funeral, and had been underfoot ever since.

“I swear, Alex, I’m going to kill her.”

“Gloria?”

“No, Vicki. Do you know what she did?”

“I can’t guess.”

“Guess.”

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can.”

Alex sighed. “Borrowed your suede coat again?”

“She ruined it. No, worse.”

“Forgot to pay a bill?”

“I had to flash the cable man so he wouldn’t cut us off. But it’s worse.”

“What?”

“Guess.”

“Lana—”

“She’s dating Bill Friar.”

Alex swallowed. “Oh.” Lana was the most popular, outgoing woman she knew, and her looks were extraordinary, if offbeat—classic bone structure and violet-colored eyes allowed her to pull off spiky bleach-white hair. But Lexington men did not stand in line for eccentric-looking women with an I.Q. that put her on the Mensa mailing list. Bill Friar had seemed to be the exception—at first. Then the big phony had broken her friend’s big heart.

“Yeah, ‘oh,’ is right.” Lana shoveled in another huge bite. “She has the nerve to rub it in my face.”

Alex felt a pang for her friend. “Are they getting serious?”

“No, she’s dating a dozen other guys. She only went out with him to get back at me.”

“How did she know you and Bill were once an item?”

Lana stirred the spoon aimlessly, her eyebrows drawn together. “She read my diary.”

Alex sucked on her spoon, her eyes wide. “She didn’t.”

“She did and, just watch, I’m going to get her back.”

“Why don’t you just find another roommate?”

“We both signed the lease, so I’m stuck for another eight months, but after that, I’m outta there. Meanwhile,” Lana said, holding up the ornate spoon, “I’m going to borrow her things for a while. These are her earrings, too.”

Alex leaned forward to get a better look at the copper spheres. “Nice.”

“Aren’t they? So what’s new with you?” Lana asked, fully vented and ready to listen. “I phoned you this morning for lunch, but your secretary said you were out.”

“I was running an errand on the east side.”

“Eww. Why?”

Alex took another slow bite before answering. “Ever hear of a guy named Jack Stillman?”

Her friend blinked. “Sure. Hotshot receiver for UK when we were freshmen. Don’t you remember?”

Alex worked her mouth from side to side. “Maybe, maybe not.”

“Great looking, big man on campus, dated the varsity and the junior varsity cheerleading squads.”

“He sounds pretty forgettable.”

Lana laughed. “He had a perfect record his senior year—never once dropped the ball. Of course I’m not surprised you don’t remember. You practically slept at the store back then to impress Daddy, not that things have changed much in fifteen years.” Her smile was teasing. “You really need to get out more, Alex.”

“Heath and I go out.”

“That tree? Please. My blow up doll Harry is more exciting.”

Alex had heard Lana’s lukewarm opinion on Heath too many times to let the comment bother her. So he wasn’t Mr. Excitement—she didn’t mind. “To each her own.”

Lana put away another glob of empty calories. “I suppose. Why the questions about Jack Stillman?”

“He owns an ad agency in town and he’s pitching to us in the morning.”

“Well, I guess he grew up after all.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Alex said dryly. “This morning I dropped in to check out his operation and had the displeasure of meeting the man.”

Lana leaned forward, poised for gossip. “Is he still gorgeous?”

“I couldn’t tell under that heavy layer of male chauvinism.”

Her friend frowned, then her mouth fell open. “He got under your skin, didn’t he?”

Alex squirmed against the suddenly uncomfortable over-stuffed goose down cushions. “Not in the way you’re implying.”

Lana whooped. “Oh, yeah, under like a syringe.”

She sighed, exasperated. “Lana, believe me, the man is no one I would remotely want to work with.”

“So, who’s talking about work?”

Alex rolled her eyes. “Or anything else. He’s a player if I’ve ever seen one, and the man doesn’t exactly scream success, if you know what I mean.”

Lana made a sympathetic sound. “Too bad. He used to be hot.”

“I believe he still operates under that delusion.”

“So you don’t think he’ll get your business?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Well, let me know how it goes,” Lana said, standing and stretching into a yawn.

Alex frowned. “You have to go already?”

“Four-thirty comes mighty early.”

“When are you going to buy that coffee shop?”

“Maybe when I acquire a taste for the dreadful stuff,” her friend said with a grimace. “I still keep a stash of Earl Grey under the counter. I’m busy tomorrow, but let’s have lunch the day after and you can let me know how it goes with Jack the Attack.”

“Jack the Attack?”

Lana nodded toward the wall of bookshelves. “Check your college yearbook, bookworm. Goodnight.”

“Here’s your spoon.”

Lana grinned. “Keep it.”

Alex was still laughing when the door closed behind her friend, but sobered when Jack Stillman’s face rose in her mind to taunt her. The man was shaping up to be more of a potential threat than she’d imagined. She walked over to a laden bookshelf and removed the yearbook for her freshman year of college. Within seconds, she located the sports section and, as Lana had said, it seemed that Jack Stillman had been the man of the hour. Although UK was renowned for all of its team sports programs, Jack the Attack had been heralded for single-handedly taking his football team to a prestigious post-season bowl game, and winning it.

Page after page showed Jack in various midmotion poses: catching the football, running past opponents, crossing into the end zone. The last page featured Jack in his mud-stained uniform, arm in arm with a casually dressed man who was a taller, wider version of himself, behind whose unsuspecting head Jack was holding up two fingers in the universal “jackass” symbol. Twenty-two-year-old Jack had the same killer grin, the same mischievous eyes, with piles of dark, unruly hair in a hopelessly dated style. Alex smirked as she mentally compared the boy in the picture to the man she’d met this morning. Too bad he was such a cliché—a washed-up jock still chasing pom-poms.

Alex snapped the book closed. The ex-football star angle worried her. Her father was already aware of it, she was sure, and the fact that he hadn’t taken the time to enlighten her probably meant he would bend over backward to work with Stillman just to be able to tell the guys at the club about the man’s athletic accomplishments.

Anger burned the walls of her stomach, anger about the old boy’s network, anger toward men who shirked their duties but advanced to high-ranking corporate positions because they had a low golf handicap and could sweat with male executives in the sauna. Subtle discrimination occurred within Tremont’s, although she was working judiciously to address disparity within the sales and marketing division. And subtle discrimination occurred within her own family. Had she been a son, an athlete, she was certain her father would have showered her with attention, would have fostered her career more aggressively. She ached for the closeness that she’d once shared with her mother, but that seemed so out of reach with her father.

She blinked back tears, feeling very alone in the big, high-ceilinged apartment. Fatigue pulled at her shoulders, but the sugar she’d ingested pumped through her system. She needed sleep, but her bed, custom made of copper tubing and covered with a crisp white duvet, looked sterile and cold in the far corner of the rectangular-shaped loft.

Alex located her glass of wine and finished it while standing at the sink. Knowing the ritual of preparing for bed sometimes helped her insomnia, she moved toward the bedroom corner to undress. After draping the pale blue suit over a chrome valet, she dropped her matching underwear into a lacy laundry bag. From the back of her armoire, she withdrew a nappy, yellow cotton robe of her mother’s and wrapped it around her. After removing her makeup with more vehemence than necessary, she walked past her bed and returned to the comfy chair she’d abandoned when Lana arrived, covering her legs with a lightweight afghan.

But she lay awake long after she’d extinguished her mother’s light, straining with unexplainable loneliness and frustration, stewing over unjust conditions she might never be able to change. Right or wrong, she channeled her hostility toward the one person who, at the moment, best epitomized life’s arbitrary inequities: Jack Stillman. Clodhopping his way through life and having the Tremont business laid at his feet because he was a man and a former sports celebrity simply wasn’t fair.

Remembering Lana’s words, Alex set her jaw in determination. Perfect record be damned. The infamous “Jack the Attack” Stillman had already dropped the ball—he just didn’t know it yet.

4

“DON’T DROP THE BALL, JACK.”

Derek’s words from much earlier in the workday reverberated in his head. In the middle of the crisis with the IRS guy, Jack had somehow explained away Tuesday’s presence—later he’d given her a fifty dollar bill and told her not to come back—and he managed to convince Derek that he had everything under control, including the Tremont’s presentation.

Jack swore, then tore yet another sheet from his newsprint drawing pad, wadded it into a ball, and tossed it over his shoulder with enough force to risk dislocating his elbow. His muse had truly abandoned him this time. Three-thirty in the morning, with no revelation in sight. Forget the printer—this presentation would have to consist of raw drawings and hand-lettering.

If he ever came up with an idea, that is.

“Think, man, think,” he muttered, tapping his charcoal pencil on the end of the desk, conjuring up key words to spark his imagination. Clothes, style, fashion, home decor. He needed a catchy phrase to convince people to shop at Tremont’s.

Shop till you drop at Tremont’s spot.

If you got the money, honey, we got the goods.

Spend a lot of dough at Tremont’s sto’.

Okay, so he was really rusty, but at least it was a start.

He sketched out a few unremarkable ideas, but a heavy stone of dread settled in his stomach—this was not the best stuff that had ever come out of his pencil. The tight little bow of Alexandria Tremont’s disapproving mouth had dogged him all evening. The woman obviously didn’t expect much and, despite his efforts to the contrary, that was exactly what he was going to deliver. Dammit, he hated wanting to impress her…not that it mattered now.

Pouring himself another cup of coffee from a battered thermos, he raked a hand over his stubbly face and leaned back in his chair. Jack winced as the strong, bitter brew hit his taste buds at the same time a bitter truth hit his gut: He was washed up. Being at the top of his game—no matter what the arena—used to come so easily, and now he was struggling for mere mediocrity.

His college football career had been a joyous four-year ride of accolades, trophies and popularity—a young man’s dream that afforded him unbelievable perks, including as many beautiful women as he could handle, and enough good memories to last a lifetime. But for all his local celebrity and natural talent, he hadn’t even considered going pro, partly because he didn’t want to put his body through the paces, and partly because he’d simply wanted to do more with his life, to strike out and experience new settings, new people. And frankly, he’d always hated doing what was expected of him, whether it meant playing pro football or working for the family ad agency. Until now, he hadn’t realized how much he missed striving for something beyond having enough beer to wash down the native food of wherever he happened to be.

But inexplicably, the yearning that had lodged in his stomach the previous day had permeated other vital organs until he could feel it, see it, breathe it—the need to achieve. The need to make something out of nothing. The need to prove to others that he could hack it in any environment. The need to prove to himself that he still had his edge. And, he admitted with the kind of brutal honesty that comes to a man in the wee hours of the morning, Alexandria Tremont played a startling role in his reawakening. Just the thought of the challenge in her ice-blue eyes brought long dormant feelings of aspiration zooming to the surface. He hadn’t felt this alive since he was carried off the football field on the shoulders of his teammates for the last time. He wanted this win so badly, he could taste her—er, it.

The rush of adrenaline continued to feed his brain, which churned until the light of early dawn seeped through the windows. Jack discarded idea after idea, but he refused to give up hope that something fantastic would occur to him.

Around seven, and with little to show for his sleepless night, Jack heard a scratching sound on the front door. He went to investigate, stapler in hand for lack of a better weapon. To his abject consternation, Tuesday opened the door and marched inside, flipping on lights as she went. She wore an attractive flowered skirt and a modest blouse. “Morning,” she sang.

“How’d you get in?” he demanded.

She held up a Tremont’s department store credit card, of all things. “I jiggled the lock—this is no Fort Knox, sonny. You’re here early.”

“I didn’t leave,” he said, scowling. “And I thought I told you not to come back.”

“You were having a bad day,” she said cheerfully. “So I thought I’d give you another chance.” She leaned toward him and grimaced. “Oooh, you don’t look so good.”

“I know.”

“Did you finish the presentation?”

“Yes.”

“Is it good?”

“No.”

She sighed, a sorrowful noise. “Well, you’ll have to wow them with charm, I suppose.” She squinted, angling her head. “What were you planning to wear?”

He looked down at his disheveled beach clothes and shrugged. “I hadn’t thought about it, but I’m sure I can rustle up a sport coat.”

Tuesday grunted and picked up the phone. “What are you, about a forty-four long?”

He shrugged again, then nodded. “As best as I can remember.”

She looked him up and down. “Six-three?”

Again, he nodded.

“Size twelve shoe?”

“Thirteen if I can get them. Why?”

Tuesday waved her hand in a shooing motion. “Go take a shower and shave that hairy face. Hurry, and yell for me when you’re finished.”

Jack wasn’t sure if he was simply too tired to argue, or just glad to have someone tell him what to do. The Tremont’s account was lost now anyway—he would merely go through the motions for Derek’s sake.

He retreated to the bathroom in the back, grateful for the shower the landlord had thought to build. Shaving had never been a favorite chore, and it took some time to clear the dark scruff from his jaw. He checked in the cabinet on the wall, and sure enough, Derek had left a couple pairs of underwear, along with a pair of faded jeans and a few T-shirts. Derek was more thick-bodied than he, but the underwear would work. Jack had barely snapped the waistband in place when an impatient knock sounded at the door.

“You through in there?”

“Give me a second,” he called, then wrapped a towel around his waist before opening the door.

Tuesday strode in, carrying a comb and a pair of scissors.

“Oh, no,” Jack said, shaking his head. “You’re not cutting my hair.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, motioning for him to sit on the commode lid. “That wooliness has to come off. Come on, now, don’t argue.”

He stubbornly crossed his arms and remained standing.

She pointed the scissors at him. “Don’t make me climb up there. Do you want to blow this chance completely?”

Jack sighed and shook his head.

“Then sit.”

He sat. And she cut. And cut and cut and cut.

Cringing at the mounds of dark hair accumulating on the floor around him, Jack pleaded, “Gee, at least leave me enough to comb.”

She stepped back, made a few final snips, then nodded and whipped off the towel protecting his shoulders. “There, you look human again.” Tuesday exited the bathroom with purpose.

Half afraid to look in the mirror, Jack did so one eye at a time. Damn. He pursed his mouth and lifted a hand to his sheared head. It was short, but it didn’t look half bad. He turned sideways and ran a hand over the back of his neck. “Long time, no see,” he murmured. He leaned over the sink and wet his short hair, then combed it back. “Hello, ears.”

“Here you go, handsome.”

Tuesday was back, this time holding a vinyl suit bag.

“Suit, shirt, cuff links, tie, socks, belt and shoes, size twelve—your toes’ll be pinched just a mite.”

Jack’s eyes widened. “Where did you get this stuff?”

“My son, Reggie,” she said. “Remember, he works for Tremont’s?”

“Oh, right,” he said. “Menswear?”

She nodded. “Natty dresser, my Reggie.” She handed him the bag. “Clothes make the man, you know.”

Touched, Jack reached for the bag, then stopped and stared at her. “Tuesday, you’re a genius.”

She gave him a dismissive wave. “I know that, son. What took you so long to catch on?”

Jack unzipped the bag, his mind jumping ahead to his blank sketch pad. He had about an hour to get a new idea down on paper.

“Tuesday, I’m going to be cutting it close. Will you call me a taxi?” A trip across town on his motorcycle might compromise the condition of his portfolio, he realized.

“I did. It’ll be here at a quarter to ten,” she said, then turned and closed the door.

Jack grinned at his own reflection, suddenly feeling young again. He was back, and good wasn’t a big enough word to express how he felt. He felt…he felt…energized. And lucky. And teeming with fiery anticipation at the look on the ice princess’s face when he walked through the door.

“Look out, Ms. Alexandria Tremont,” he murmured. “Ready or not, here I come.”

THE FAVORITE PART of Alex’s day was walking through the various departments of Tremont’s before the doors opened to the public. This morning, she acknowledged, the routine also served to soothe her anxiety about the impending advertising meeting. Actually, she felt a little sorry for Jack Stillman—the clueless man was in way over his swollen head. But regardless of her opinion of him and his agency, she honestly didn’t enjoy watching people make fools of themselves. Alex sighed and sipped coffee from a stoneware mug. Hopefully the meeting would be mercifully short.

Her mood considerably lighter this morning than the previous evening, the store seemed exceptionally pleasing: the sweep of formal gowns on so-slim mannequins, the musky blend of popular perfumes, the neat stacks of thick towels on cherry tables, the flash of silver tea sets. In the past decade, Tremont’s had made the subtle move from a discount department store to a more upscale shopping experience for the upper-middle class of Lexington and the surrounding area. Alex liked to believe her sales and marketing policies of pushing retail boundaries had something to do with the transformation.

She stopped to compliment Carla, one of the most senior salesclerks who always arrived at her station in the jewelry department early enough to give the glass counter an extra swipe, then Alex moved toward the stairs by way of menswear. A tall well-dressed youth was tagging slacks for alterations, his hands moving swiftly. Alex’s mind raced as she tried to recall his name—she’d seen it at the top of the commission lists often enough. Ronnie? No, Reggie.

“Good morning, Reggie.”

He jerked up his head and dropped the pants he held. “G-good morning, Ms. Tremont,” he said as he hurriedly knelt to retrieve the clothes. “Sorry, I’m clumsy today.”

Alex dipped to help him. “Nonsense.” But she did squint at his dark head that was tilted down. She’d spoken to the young man several times and she’d never known him to be nervous, yet his hands were practically shaking. “Is everything all right, Reggie?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, ma’am. Just fine.” But he made only fleeting eye contact as he straightened.

“Good.” Alex stood and brushed off the behavior with a smile, then rescued a navy and gray barber-pole striped tie in danger of falling from a display table. “Are the new ties selling well?”

Glancing at the tie she’d smoothed, he swallowed, sending his Adam’s apple dancing. “Yes, ma’am. Especially the C-Coakley line.”

“My personal favorite,” she said, pleased that the line of ties her father had gruffly pronounced as “damnably expensive” were selling well despite the admittedly steep price tags. “Keep up the good work, Reggie.”

Her chunky-heeled black leather pumps felt nice and solid against the polished marble floor as she walked toward the stairs. The stairs themselves, although a mainstay in her casual exercise program, were a bit of a test today in her shorter than usual skirt—black crepe with no slit. She climbed the four flights of stairs slowly to prevent perspiration from gathering on the paper thin indigo blouse beneath the black jacket. Near the top, she checked her watch. Nine-thirty. Just enough time to grab another cup of coffee and sift through the previous week’s sales figures. Might as well head for the conference room early and claim a good vantage point. Things could get interesting, and she wanted a view.

Her secretary Tess, an efficient and animated young woman who studied fashion merchandising at night, was holding out the sales reports before Alex even reached the woman’s desk.

“Thanks, Tess.”

“You look tired.”

So much for her new under-eye concealer. “I guess I need more caffeine.”

“Let me get your coffee, Ms. Tremont.” Despite Alex’s numerous requests for Tess to call her by her first name, her secretary insisted on addressing her formally. Before Alex could protest, Tess had relieved her of the stoneware mug and refilled it with black Irish roast from a coffeemaker on a credenza. “Do you have anything for me to add to your agenda today?”

“No,” Alex said, inclining her head in thanks as she took the mug. “Just be on the lookout for a Mr. Jack Stillman for the ten o’clock meeting, and show him to the boardroom, please.”

“How will I know him?” Tess asked, her green eyes wide and interested.

Alex bit back a smirk. Her pretty secretary was a bit of a flirt, and always perked up when a man came around. Shaggy Jack Stillman was probably right up her alley, too. “Believe me, you can’t miss him.” She shook her head good-naturedly as she walked down the hall to the executive conference room, nodding good morning to a half-dozen peers and subordinates as she went. Tess ran through men like most women ran through panty hose.

Alex frowned down at her own durable black hose. Funny, she hadn’t bought a new pair in ages.

At the door to the conference room, she hesitated only a second before stepping inside. In her opinion, these four walls encompassed the most unappealing space in the entire five-story building. Alex had attempted to overhaul the depressing room many times, but she’d finally tired of butting heads with her father, who insisted the conference room be left as is. As is, however, was an oppressive collection of dark, clubby wood bookshelves studded with sports paraphernalia. A thoroughly masculine domain, the three darkly paneled walls adorned with gaping fish frozen into curling leaps, and worse, two antlered deer heads. Alex felt nauseous every time she looked at the poor creatures.

The furniture wasn’t much better, the bulky chairs so unwieldy she could barely move them in and out from the broad-legged table. She chose the chair at the head of the table, farthest from the door. After setting down her coffee cup and the reports, she crossed the gloomy room to open the window blinds on the outside wall. As far as she was concerned, the sole good feature of the room was the view.

Rolling hills of pasture land and forests provided a backdrop for the modest Lexington skyline. The fiery October hues threw the white board fences encircling distant grazing land into stark relief. The flying hooves of two yearlings sprinting across a slanted field reminded her that fall horse racing season at Keeneland started in a couple of days. Alex smiled, momentarily distracted, and experienced a rush of gratitude to be living in such a beautiful area.

Winding, tree-lined roads led residents into the downtown area, a myriad of old tobacco warehouses, new office buildings, slender town houses and fountained courtyards. Brick, stone, metal, concrete, glass, water, one-and two-way streets—all these elements combined to create the casual, eclectic cityscape that embodied Lexington: part urban, part rural, totally accommodating.

Tremont’s flagship store and administrative offices occupied a five-story building on Webster Avenue just a few blocks from the center of downtown, and walking distance from Alex’s loft apartment. They had managed to compete with the malls by building an adjacent parking structure and, at her persistent urging, by developing a food court on the entire first floor of the building, including a sidewalk café that had become very popular with the business lunch crowd and the Junior League. As a result, gift shops and service businesses had popped up all around them.

Alex sipped her coffee, feeling very much like a proud parent admiring her offspring. She had contributed to the growth of Tremont’s, and Tremont’s played a vital role in the downtown economy. Long after she was gone, Tremont’s would be a living, breathing entity, a legacy of her father’s and her own and her children’s impact on the city and the state. The knowledge pleased her immensely.

As she stared down at the street, a red taxicab pulled alongside the opposite sidewalk, and a man alighted. Bound for the financial building two doors down, she suspected, then she squinted to study the man in the distance as he leaned inside to pay the driver. He certainly looked the part of a money man—commanding figure, dark hair, proper suit. Her tongue poked deep into her cheek. And he wasn’t a bad-looking fellow, either.

“What’s so interesting?”

She dropped the blind, turned, and conjured up a smile for Heath Reddinger, who looked fair and fit and smart in his navy pinstripe suit and tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses. “Just people-watching.”

His forehead furrowed. “Alex, you look tired. I thought you were going to bed early last night.”

“I did,” she said, telling herself she should feel flattered by his concern rather than faintly annoyed. “I’m fine, really.”

Heath glanced back toward the door to ensure they were alone. They both agreed not to flaunt their relationship during work hours. “I’m sorry, but I have to cancel dinner tonight,” he said. “I just discovered I’m needed in Cincinnati. I’m leaving this afternoon.”

“For how long?” She’d been looking forward to a relaxing evening together, and to the sea bass at Gerrard’s.

“No more than a couple of days, I think.”

Alex frowned. “A problem with our bank?”

Heath sipped his creamed coffee before he answered. “No problem, just an issue. Can I get a rain check on dinner?”

She nodded, respectful of Heath’s dedication to her father’s company.

Heath reached forward and smoothed a finger back from her temple. “Maybe we should plan a long weekend away when I get back, hmm?”

A light rapping on the door accompanied by Tess clearing her throat diverted Alex’s attention over Heath’s shoulder. The flash of irritation that her secretary had been privy to the intimate gesture and conversation was quickly replaced by her puzzlement at the tall gentleman standing next to a beaming Tess. A memory cord stirred at the base of Alex’s brain, and she realized the dark-headed visitor was the same man she’d watched climb out of the taxi on the street below. A salesman, of course. What else would a man as handsome as he be doing for a living? Riveting dark eyes, tanned, planed features, immaculate suit. No wonder Tess looked like she’d been plugged into an electrical transformer. Alex grudgingly indulged in a twinge of appreciation of her own—the man was…noteworthy.

Alex stepped around Heath. “Yes, Tess?”

“Mr. Stillman is here.”

Alex blinked, wondering why Tess had announced Stillman’s arrival before introducing the salesman. Her gaze darted to the man, and one side of his mouth curved upward. Confusion flooded her.

“Good morning, Ms. Tremont,” the man said in a hauntingly familiar voice.

5

A FULL FIFTEEN SECONDS passed before Alex made the connection that this…paragon…was the same wild-eyed, bushy-headed, scruffy-faced irreverent vagrant she’d spoken to yesterday. Her jaw loosened a bit, and her mind raced, trying to reconcile the two images.

Meanwhile, Jack Stillman seemed to be enjoying every minute of her discomfort. His dark eyes—brown? green?—alight with the barest hint of amusement, never left her face. Her heart pumped wildly, sending hot apprehension to her limbs while alarms sounded in her ears. His full-fledged grin catapulted his unnerving energy across the space between them to wrap around her. Alex resisted the pull, leaning into the conference room table until the hard edge bit into the front of her thighs. This man was dangerous, and she would do well to keep her distance, and to keep her wits about her.

“Good morning, Mr. Stillman,” she replied coolly, then gestured toward the opposite end of the table. “Won’t you have a seat?” Getting the man off his feet would give her the slightest advantage.

Instead of answering, he strode toward Heath and extended his hand. “Jack Stillman of the Stillman & Sons Agency.”

Heath introduced himself, and Alex could have kicked herself for her gaffe. The men shook hands, although the set of Heath’s chin emanated a certain wariness. Bobby Warner, a fellow sales director and her prime competition for the vice presidency walked in with his signature swagger, then gaped at Jack.

“You’re not the Jack Stillman who played for UK in the early eighties?”

Jack dimpled. “Guilty.”

Behind them, Alex rolled her eyes.

“I’ll never forget that sixty-six-yard touchdown against Tennessee in eighty-four,” Bobby said, stepping back to feign a catch while Alex stared. She could count on her colleagues to overlook Jack Stillman’s exaggerated celebrity and do what was best for the company…couldn’t she?

To her relief, several other associates entered the room—the public relations director, another sales director, two vice presidents and a couple of marketing assistants—chatting among themselves. She left the introductions to Bobby, who seemed disturbingly chummy with Jack Stillman after only three and a half minutes. The group body language concerned her. The men leaned toward him, hands in pockets, athletically wide-legged—even Rudy Claven, who hadn’t missed being a woman by much, and was teased mercifully by the company softball team for “throwing like a girl.” And the four women in the room seemed to hang on to every detail as Bobby ingratiatingly expanded on Jack’s scoffing I’m-not-a-legend preamble.

Ugh.

Alex pretended to mingle as they waited for her father, but instead studied Jack from beneath her lashes, part of her marveling over his physical transformation, all of her wary to the point of nervous tension. He panned his audience to include everyone in a glory-days anecdote he’d probably recounted a thousand times, and his gaze seemed to linger on her longer than necessary.

Men were like cats, she observed, pretending to study her watch. The more you ignored them, the more they wanted your attention. She forced herself not to listen to Jack Stillman’s words, although his baritone was impossible to shut out. Someone had found a photo of the ’85 UK football team among the cluttered bookshelves, and there he was, Jack pointed out as everyone crowded around, then launched into a story about the fellow who sat next to him. Within seconds, everyone was laughing.

Oh, brother. Alex took a deep gulp of coffee and scalded her tongue. “Dammit!”

Her expletive coincided with a lull in the laughter and seemed to reverberate from the dark walls. Everyone turned to stare, including Jack, whose eyes danced with amusement as she ran her tender tongue against the roof of her mouth. She had the strongest urge to stick it out at him.

“Problem, my dear?” her father asked, strolling into the room with all the casual ease of a man who owned the floors, walls and ceilings. At last everyone fell away from Jack Stillman and headed toward the table, scrupulously avoiding the chair opposite Alex, reserved for her father, of course.

“No,” she said somewhat thickly, walking around the table. “Allow me to introduce Mr. St—”

“Jack Stillman,” her father cut in, pumping the visitor’s hand, his broad face creasing in a grin reserved only for the most privileged. “Jack the Attack.”

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