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.”
