having to pay up. Perfect.
“Sure,” said Jordan easily, enjoying the role of customer service white knight. “Anything for customer satisfaction.”
“We give him a haircut,” said Wally into the mike, with a thumbs-up to Jordan. “You tell him exactly what to say. He goes to the meeting, then flies back home.”
“Never in a million years,” said Jeffrey.
“You got a better idea?” asked Wally.
“Fly up here and get me,” said Jeffrey.
“No can do. Tell me, what’s the worst that would happen if Jordan tried and failed?”
“The series is dumped, and my career is ruined.”
“What will happen if you don’t make the meeting?”
“The series gets dumped, and my career is ruined.”
“What are the odds of success?”
“Ten percent.”
“That’s ten percent better than we’ve got going for us now.” Wally pointed to another bullet point on the department’s brochure: Take the customer’s problem on as your own.
Now Wally decided to become Mr. Customer Service Guru. Jordan waited for Jeffrey’s vehement dismissal of the whole idea. Jordan in L.A. trying to pretend he was some hot damn television executive? As if.
“We have pictures of Arctic Luck,” said Wally into the silent radio.
“Good ones?” asked Jeffrey.
“Great ones,” said Wally.
There was a long silence. Jordan blinked in confusion. Where was the supercilious, unreasonable man from yesterday? He should be coming back with an angry retort about fixing the weather, telling Wally what a ridiculous, unworkable—
“First thing he needs to know is the org chart,” said Jeffrey.
Jordan stumbled a step back, his eyes widening.
“There’s a copy of last year’s annual report in the right-hand, top drawer of the desk in my condo. Keys to the condo are in my coat pocket.”
2
THE FIRST PERSON Jordan met in L.A. was Jeffrey’s friend and former co-worker, Rob Emery. Nice guy. A whole lot nicer than Jeffrey seemed, in fact.
Jeffrey had explained the impersonation to Rob, and Rob had offered to help in any way he could.
They’d stayed up all night reviewing the basic makeup of Argonaut Studios and the delivery of a presentation for the television series Jeffrey had planned.
Jordan didn’t get any sleep, but by morning he was armed with sketches, descriptions of scenes, outlines of the series characters and pictures of Arctic Luck for the location—all in living color. Rob, now a documentary filmmaker, definitely seemed to know what he was doing, and Jordan felt confident he could describe Jeffrey’s television series proposal to the Board members.
In fact, he thought it would be a very funny show. Stereotypical Alaska stuff, of course, but exactly what residents of the lower forty-eight would expect in a comedy series from the north.
The grizzly bear sequence in episode two was preposterous. The bears were still in their dens at Easter, and no one could get that close without having their head taken off. But, if the audience was willing to suspend their disbelief, he could see the humor.
He straightened the stack of packages that were ready to be handed out to the Board members. Jeffrey’s efficient secretary, Bonnie Greenbough, had copied and stapled them together over the past hour.
She seemed delighted to have Jeffrey back. She’d probably be even more delighted when the real Jeffrey arrived and didn’t brush off her friendly overtures with excuses about being busy. She seemed like a perfectly nice woman, and Jordan felt guilty avoiding conversations with her.
But he had to keep his head down and his mouth shut, and try not to make any mistakes. There were more people on one floor of the Argonaut office building than in the entire town of Alpine—and they all seemed to know exactly what they were doing. Unlike Jordan, who could barely find the rest room.
He was tiptoeing through a minefield.
His office door opened, and he glanced up, hoping it was Bonnie.
It wasn’t.
A drop-dead gorgeous, nattily dressed, perfectly made-up woman strolled through the doorway and snapped the door shut behind her, pausing to lean against it. “Well, well, well,” she drawled. “The prodigal returns.”
Jordan pushed back in his chair and watched the woman saunter across the large office. “Ashley Baines. In the flesh.”
Jeffrey had mentioned her several times.
And Rob had mentioned her too, while pointing out her picture in the company’s annual report.
Evidently, the “iron maiden” was Jeffrey’s competition for this promotion. Both men had spoken of her with a mixture of awe and fear.
Jordan didn’t think she looked all that scary as she folded herself into one of the guest chairs. She arched a perfect brow over glowing blue eyes and gave him a quick, dispassionate once-over.
Scary, no.
Challenging, definitely.
Her crisp, burgundy jacket and the narrow, matching skirt told him she meant business. But her blond braid was like a flash of sunshine in the dark, ostentatious office, and her trim body was the stuff of Jordan’s favorite fantasies.
“When did you hit town?” She crossed one leg over the other, showing off tanned, toned calves that held Jordan’s attention a little too long.
Maybe that was what scared Jeffrey and Rob so bad. The woman was sexy enough to be lethal.
Good thing Jordan was brave. Good thing he’d taken self-defense training. In fact, he’d be prepared to wrestle her on the carpet if push came to shove.
He’d be prepared to wrestle her at length.
Naked, if necessary.
He dragged his gaze back to her face. “Got in last night,” he answered her question.
She zeroed in on the pile of presentations sitting on the wide desk in front of them. Her eyebrows twitched with interest.
He reached out and flipped the papers facedown.
“Scared?” she asked.
He cocked his head to one side. “Of you?”
She laughed at the tone of incredulity, and the sound trickled through him like clear stream water. That laugh sure didn’t mesh with the personality Jeffrey
