Neville sniffed on the other end. “You’d better hope she’s not as good at her job as I am. Of course, she couldn’t possibly be.”
Jack grinned at Neville’s pretended effrontery and juggled the cell phone on his shoulder as he shrugged out of his jacket. “No one’s as good at their job as you are—hyperbole or otherwise. What did Ms. Greer want with me and what did you tell her?”
“It was some nonsense about confirming information for Monday’s meeting. I told her you were in a meeting.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“Good. That’s it? Don’t you wonder what she’s up to?”
Neville possessed excellent intuition regarding advertising, but he tended to be a tad dramatic, seeing intrigue where none existed.
Jack shrugged, even though Neville couldn’t see it over the phone. “I’m sure you handled it with your usual aplomb.”
“I did, thank you. Now, what’s on the agenda for tonight?” Neville’s voice carried that let-us-digress-to-sex tone.
“After I hang up with you I’m going to check out the pool.”
“Laps and a Scotch?” Nev asked with a sigh.
Neville sounded as if Jack might break out knitting needles next. It didn’t mean he’d grown boringly predictable, it just meant he’d developed a method that worked. Sipping Scotch after a hard swim sparked his creativity.
“I should be poolside—” he checked his Rolex “—in about ten minutes.”
“Swim your laps and then check out the bar. All work and no play makes Jack a very dull boy. Find yourself a playmate for the weekend.”
“I’m not into—”
“Then you should be,” Neville interrupted. “You’ve been wound up way too tight lately. Think of it as relaxation therapy. You know, all those endorphins released by good sex. Consider it priming the pump for doing your best work on Monday.” Neville was nothing if not tenacious. Arguing with him was a waste of breath.
“Sure, Nev,” Jack said.
“You’re humoring me.” Jack should’ve gone for a more convincing tone. “I’m dead serious about those endorphins.”
“I’ve been busy.” And bored. All the women he met seemed the same.
“Nobody should be that busy. Speaking of bitches, when’s the Evil Eve blowing in on her broom?”
They’d been speaking of bitches? Not in his conversation. Jack shook his head. “You supplied the itinerary forwarded by the travel agent. She’s expected the same time I was supposed to be here, Monday morning.”
“I’ll want a full report on the Avenger.”
Eve the Avenger. Or simply, Evil Eve as Neville preferred. She had a hell of a buzz going, not only in the company but in the industry. He’d studied her most recent projects. She was good, borderline brilliant.
“I’m looking forward to meeting her. I admire her work and respect her reputation.” He’d even pictured her a couple of times in his head. Tall, thin, distant, cool. Okay, maybe he even had a bit of a fantasy thing going for her.
“Courting the enemy. That is so Machiavellian,” Neville said.
“Not particularly. It’s just good business. And I wasn’t planning to court her, simply meet her. When I get the new position, she’ll be an asset to the team.”
When he moved into the vice presidency, he’d welcome her talent. And he would win that promotion. He knew he was damn good at what he did. And a vice presidency was the kind of success a man like his father recognized.
Henri LaRoux, with icy disdain, had predicted Jack would fall flat on his face when he left the family business to make his way in the advertising world. Henri hadn’t understood Jack’s driving need to excel outside of the commercial real estate industry and his family’s considerable influence. Jack could hardly wait to throw his visible success in his father’s face.
Not only did he want the vice presidency for himself, he wanted it for Neville, also. Neville had worked long and hard, giving up the security at his old firm to follow Jack to Hendley and Wells. It was nearly seven on a Friday night and Nev was still at the office.
“She’s good, Jack. I’m not so sure about this one.” Nev always got this way on a project, antsy and uncertain. But that was okay. Jack was sure enough for both of them. Nothing, or in this case, no one, was going to stand in the way of that promotion.
“Don’t worry, Neville. Beating Eve Carmichael is going to be like taking candy from a baby.”
EVE DROPPED her towel onto a lounge chair and walked to the edge of the nearly deserted rooftop pool. A couple sat in the hot tub perched a few steps above the pool. Well, they weren’t exactly sitting—it was more as if they were devouring each other. Low lighting cast the tables scattered around the stone patio into shadowed intimacy.
To the left, a small bar stood empty except for the bartender and a cocktail waitress chatting at the counter. The waitress looked at Eve to make sure she was okay. Eve signaled with a small wave. She’d swim first, drink later. Smooth jazz floated from hidden speakers. Despite the glass walls and roof, Eve could almost feel the caress of the night air.
She curled her toes over the cool edge of the tiled pool. Underwater lights illuminated the water. Odd how pools looked different at night.
And thank God, this one was practically deserted. She tucked her hair into a swim cap, a carryover from her high-school swim-team days. She’d rather look funky now than have the chlorine wreck her foil job. Green highlights weren’t in vogue, and she was going to be at her absolute mental and physical best come Monday morning.
Leaning forward, she sliced into the warm water. Ah, heavenly. She flutter-kicked to the surface and rolled to her back. Mmm, she could easily stay this way, buoyed by the water, watching the night sky beyond the glass ceiling, lulled by the sultry saxophone solo.
But that wasn’t doing squat for the extra five pounds of Godiva residing on her thighs. Unfortunately, the women in her family not only shared lousy judgment in men, but also had a tendency to carry a few extra pounds. Equally unfortunate, they also tended to eat their way through an emotional crisis—and they weren’t stuffing themselves with fresh fruit. No, they preferred rich, dark, fattening chocolate. Aunt Nelda’s backside, jiggling in sweatpants, flashed through her head.
Ugh. Atonement time. Resigned, she rolled to her stomach and struck out with a breast stroke. After the first couple of laps, the rhythm took over and her mind wandered, thinking of nothing, thinking of everything. Some people sat cross-legged on the floor to reach a meditative state. Eve swam.
Stroke, kick, breathe.
Stroke, kick, breathe.
Pool wall, flip.
Thirty laps later, Eve climbed out of the pool. The hot-tub pair were still going at it—she didn’t want to know what was going on beneath the swirling water—while
