no reason to worry, since McAllister would be picking up the check. She’d offer again anyway. Mr. Clintock had informed her when he’d given her the account that he wanted the Ranchers Association to be extremely happy with both the treatment they received from all employees of the agency and the quality of the finished product.
The waiter stopped at her elbow and asked for their drink order. Jim Bob ordered a vodka martini. She ordered a glass of sparkling water with a twist of lime.
“Nonsense. You need a real drink,” the rancher insisted. “Something to help you relax, so that we can get to know each other better.”
“I never drink when I’m on the job.”
“Then let’s just call this a get-acquainted night. I always work better when I feel I’m in tune with the person I’m working with.”
She cringed at the intimacy that had crept into his tone. It would never have been there if he was talking to Mr. Clintock or any of the other men connected with the firm. It was more of the “little lady” mentality that she hated. Or else Mr. McAllister was not as harmless as she’d assumed.
“What I’m most interested in are your ideas about the ad campaign,” she said, making sure he realized she was here only for business purposes. “I know the Ranchers Association is eager to modernize their image.”
“And Mr. Clintock assured me that you’re the woman who can do that for us.”
She centered her attention on the menu. By the time the waiter returned with their drinks, she’d decided on a green salad and a broiled trout filet. Jim Bob went for the steak, the largest and most expensive cut they offered, with a loaded baked potato and a side order of sautéed mushrooms. He ordered an appetizer of oysters Bienville for the two of them to share and a bottle of cabernet sauvignon with two glasses.
She waited until he’d gulped down half his martini, the time span of about four seconds, before she went back to the subject they had supposedly come to discuss. “Why don’t we start with the ideas you’ve come up with since our meeting this morning? That will give me more insight as to how you see this working.”
His mouth stretched into a smile. “I hate to talk business on an empty stomach. Why don’t you tell me something about yourself? And, by the way, the color of that suit really brings out the green of your eyes.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now tell me, what does an attractive little filly like you do for fun?”
“I work.”
“That sounds much too boring, and I have a feeling you’re not a boring lady.”
“Actually, I am.” She sipped her water. “But if you want to know about me, I can certainly give you the details that affect my ability to do my job. I have an undergraduate degree in graphic arts and a master’s degree in commercial advertising. I’ve worked for Clintock, Mitchum and O’Connell for almost two years.”
“And I’m sure you’re very good at what you do. But you can’t just work. As pretty as you are, I bet you have dozens of men on the string.”
“Afraid not. I’ve never wanted the kind of man who would settle for dangling from a string.”
“Then you must break a lot of hearts.”
“None that I know of.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.”
He scooted the candle from the center of the table. She met his gaze, hopefully achieving the look she was after. Business or nothing. “I’m sure that you’re far more interested in what I can do for the Ranchers Association than you are in my personal life.”
“Everything has a time and a place. Right now it sounds as if you could use more fun in your life. I know this great little club we could visit after dinner.”
Another dirty old man. She’d have to nip in the bud any ideas he had about including her in his extracurricular activities. But she couldn’t nip so sharply that she drew blood, at least not if she could help it. She wanted to keep this account.
“I don’t dance,” she lied, “and I hate nightclubs. The smoke bothers my contact lenses. So let’s talk about you. Let’s see, you’re married and have four children. Am I correct?”
His glowing ardor cooled as quickly as if she’d dumped her glass of water on his head. He downed the rest of his drink and motioned to the waiter to bring him another. After that, he sat quietly for a moment, his hand wrapped around the base of his empty glass while he stared at her from beneath his bushy, salt-and-pepper brows.
“You’re correct,” he said. “I have a lovely family, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the company of a beautiful woman. But if you’re more comfortable talking strictly about business, I can do that, too.”
“I appreciate that, and I want you to know that I’m committed to giving you and the association the type of modern, progressive image we discussed. I’ll make sure you get what you’re paying for.” And that didn’t include her. “So what are your ideas for the ad campaign?” she asked, determined to salvage something from the meeting besides irritation.
He rolled his fresh drink around in the glass, staring into it as if it were a crystal ball. Finally, he set it on the table and looked at her. “The association wants something bolder than we’ve ever had before, something that says we’re happening and on the technological edge of beef production. But we don’t want to lose our image as ranchers. You know, kind of John Wayne and Bill Gates rolled into one. Does that make sense to you?”
Perfectly. He wanted a miracle. And she darn well planned to give it to him, just as long as she didn’t have to get any closer to him than she was right now in order to deliver.
The rest of the meal passed without incident, though she was certain from some of the looks he gave her that he was still eager to inject her boring life with just about anything she wanted, as long as the facts never got back to his wife.
What she wanted was to go back to her apartment and sink into her nice, comfortable bed. Alone.
* * *
IT WAS NEARLY half-past ten when the elevator stopped at the eighth floor of the Prentiss Apartment Building. The door slid open, but before Ashley stepped out, she noticed a woman rushing toward her, head down, her raven-colored hair pulled back from her face. She looked up for a second as they passed, and Ashley could see that her eyes were swollen as if she’d been crying.
“Is something wrong?” Ashley asked. “Can I help you?”
“No.” Her voice wavered, and her hands were shaking as she put them up to stop the door from closing.
Ashley hesitated, then walked toward her own apartment. If the woman didn’t want her help, she couldn’t force it on her.
Besides, she was exhausted. Of course, she could always knock on Kyle Blackstone’s door and tell him she’d come for the massage.
Or she could jump off the balcony onto the street below. It would be about the same kind of suicide. She had willpower, but not the kind that could survive Kyle Blackstone’s hands roaming over her. Even the
