stall.
Whoops.
“Sorry!” Joss called. “Didn’t realize anyone else was in here.” With the way her day was going, the person she’d offended was tonight’s awards presenter. Joss had a brief, painful picture of going up on stage in shredded hose to accept an award from a woman glaring at her.
Joss glanced hopefully at the bottom of the bag.
Nestled beneath the hem of her strapless muted red dress, with her shoes and travel jewelry case, was the wished-for extra pair. Bless you, Em. The slit in her calf-length skirt was meant to reveal a little leg, and Joss would have worried all night that the run was visible.
One shimmy, zip and shrugged-into bolero jacket later, she was fully dressed. She hung her discarded suit in the garment bag and opened the door, glancing sheepishly at the pinch-faced woman washing her hands.
What Joss would’ve liked was time to completely redo her makeup and put curlers in her shoulder-length layered blond hair. What she settled for was a loose chignon and fresh lipstick. She exchanged her small gold hoop earrings for a pair of elongated ruby teardrops, then returned to the lobby, where she found Nick pacing and jostling his car keys.
He stopped long enough to grin in approval. “You did that in five minutes? If you ever decide to have a meaningless affair with a much younger guy, let me know.”
Four years was not much younger. “I can’t think about you that way, Nicky. You’re like the annoying little brother I never had.”
He laughed and held out his hand for her stuff. “Keys? Wyatt and Penelope just went inside.”
Wyatt Allen, a grizzled veteran of the advertising world, ran Visions Media Group. His wife, Penelope, had made participating in various charities her full-time occupation, but she chipped in from time to time at Visions, helping with paperwork and receptionist duties.
Joss handed Nick her key ring, and he pivoted to go, pausing at the last second with an expression of endearing uncertainty shadowing his face. “How do I look?”
She smiled inwardly. Ad execs stuck to a professional dress code, but people who were strictly on the creative end were allowed, even encouraged, to project a less orthodox image. Everyone at Visions knew Nick aspired to a wardrobe that would help keep Ralph Lauren in business, but in an underdressed attempt to look the part, he now wore an iridescent unstructured blazer with a striped shirt and dark funky jeans.
“Like the opening act at a rock concert,” she told him.
“Thanks.” Nick turned toward the revolving doors. “I think.”
Joss went to the ballroom, pausing just inside the doorway to let her eyes adjust to the dimmed chandeliers and flickering candles on the white linen tablecloths. Bland jazz played through speakers in the back of the room, but it was mostly drowned out by the hum of conversation. Maybe being late was no longer fashionable—the impressive crush of people made it difficult to find the round table reserved for Visions Media Group.
“Quite a crowd tonight,” a man said near her ear.
She almost jumped. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself against Hugh Brannon’s husky bedroom voice and the bubbles of nervous anticipation fizzing through her system. Obviously the crowd wasn’t big enough.
2
“HUGH.” JOSS TURNED, confident in her composed expression. She’d won plenty of poker games, this one was just played without cards. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”
Viscerally speaking, her words were true. What woman wouldn’t be pleased to see a tall tuxedoed man who looked like Hugh? With his thick black hair, short in the back but longer and sexily disheveled around his face, his laser-blue eyes and finely chiseled flawless features, he was hot without even trying. But then he’d smile.
Hugh Brannon’s teasing grin and accompanying dimples could convince female Eskimos to line up to buy ice.
“A pleasure?” he echoed. “My, how we in marketing do bend the truth.”
“Speak for yourself.” Joss smiled sweetly. “My ads use honesty and ingenuity.”
“And mine use…?”
“Overpaid celebrities, mostly.”
“Well, I do work for a large agency with the budget for network commercials and well-known stars.” His tone was annoyingly indulgent. “I guess you’re in a different position.”
The streamlined Visions Media Group might not produce glamorous spots for national television, but some of advertising’s most memorable campaigns, such as the milk mustache, had been print. And for all that Hugh liked to needle her, he oversaw his share of regional work. To hear him tell it, you’d think he was single-handedly responsible for the ads played during the Super Bowl.
She scoffed. “You’re not up against me because of national commercials.”
He swept his gaze over her. “I miss being up against you.”
His words caught her off guard, and a pang of desire tightened her midsection. Should she glare, which he fully deserved, or look away in case she blushed tellingly? Not an oh-I’m-embarrassed-by-your-sexual-references girlish blush. An oooh-that-sounds-good-to-me-too flush of color. She might have a great bluffing expression, but there wasn’t much she could do about her fair skin.
“So…” Hugh glanced around. “Donald’s not with you tonight?”
She didn’t bother correcting him since he knew perfectly well her ex-boyfriend’s name was David. There had been an uncomfortable encounter at a convention in Houston over the summer, and Hugh had childishly insisted on calling David “Dale” all night.
“We’re not seeing each other anymore,” she said.
He shook his head. “Broke his heart, too, huh?”
Please. As if she were the one who’d hurt him? “At least he had one.”
Instead of arguing, he brought out the big guns—the seductive smile that lit his eyes and managed to be both boyish and enticingly adult. “You look fantastic, Joss.”
So did he. “I certainly think so.”
He chuckled at her cool response, and the low, rich laugh turned her insides to traitorous goo.
“What about you, no date tonight?” Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have shown the slightest interest in his love life, but she was willing to make an exception since he’d broached the topic.
“Of course not.” He feigned shock. “What woman could compare to you?”
Infuriating man. Which, come to think of it, was redundant.
“I forgot how full of it you are,” she said.
“Really?” His smile vanished, and he brushed a finger across her cheek. “I haven’t been able to forget a thing about you.”
It was a pitch, she reminded
