was perfectly willing to be a weapon. As the youngest of four girls, she hadn’t often had her mother’s undivided attention—if ever—and enjoyed talking strategy and letting off steam.
This past week, managers from all the hotels in the eastern quadrant of the United States had been meeting at the flagship Carrington near Times Square. Sam and her two colleagues had been running meetings, preparing theater outings, and getting to know the managers and their hotels. Of course Sam had met some of them before when she’d contracted with groups to hold conventions at their hotels, but as the east coast manager, she’d be expected to become familiar with all the little quirks about their hotels. It wouldn’t hurt to get chummy with them, either, her mother reminded her, but Sam wasn’t a chummy sort of person. Some people just didn’t know the difference between chummy and suggestive. Josh Crandall, for instance.
Or they did and ignored it.
Like Josh Crandall.
The line moved forward and Sam hunched her shoulders, wishing she’d splurged on a massage with the hotel masseuse. Today was judgment day. There was only one meeting—one big, giant, important, possibly life-altering meeting—and Sam and the other candidates weren’t attending. Their convention sales records were being scrutinized. Sam had a spectacular sales record—except for two blotches. Sizable blotches, if she were being truthful. And both were courtesy of Josh Crandall of Meckler Hotels.
Sam closed her eyes. The very thought of him made her stomach queasy, the kind of queasy she got after eating too much chocolate in a short amount of time, which she usually did after going head-to-head with Josh.
Recently he’d been turning up every time she had a presentation. And now she was imagining him. She opened her eyes and checked out the people in line with her, involuntarily looking for his dark, carefully tousled hair and deceptively casual, but well-cut plaid sports coat. Oh, and the smile. That you-want-me-and-we-both-know-it smile.
She hated that smile. And he knew it.
Sam had a sudden craving for M&M’s.
Even now, the Carrington brass were probably dissecting her failed proposals. They’d been perfect, she knew, but still each convention had chosen Josh and the Meckler chain over Carrington. And because her proposals had been perfect, that meant the decisions had been based on intangibles, such as the charm of the representatives. In other words, they’d liked Josh better than Sam, which meant the failure had been hers, personally. Josh had no problem being chummy. Or suggestive, either.
It wasn’t that she’d never bested him before—or after—those incidences, it was that since then, she’d been too quick to make concessions to Carrington’s profit margin in order to ensure she never lost to him again.
The last time…Sam sucked her breath between her teeth—she really needed some chocolate—the last time, she’d cut profit to the bone. But instead of countering, Josh had laughed—his laughs dripped with evil amusement—then admitted he hadn’t wanted the convention anyway because the group in question was known for damaging hotel rooms.
And they had. Sam winced.
So, maybe Josh had won three times.
Stop thinking about him. It would only make her crazy. Sam deliberately wiped Josh and his smile from her mind and concentrated on the people around her. There were a couple of conversations going on—office workers mailing company letters and two good-looking, well-dressed men, well-dressed if she discounted the leather cowboy vest one wore and she was inclined to until she realized it was fake leather. And…and that the green color was not a trick of the light. Still, even with green faux leather with, she swallowed, silver fringe, they compared favorably to Josh and his stupid plaid jackets—if she’d been thinking about Josh, which she wasn’t.
The two men were one loop behind Sam and approached her as the line wound toward the counter windows. One man held a stack of printed postcards and the other man stuck preaddressed labels on them.
“Tavish, every year you go through this,” said the man with titanium glasses. “Stop waiting until the last minute.”
“But I always find a sublet,” replied Tavish, the taller of the two.
Sam liked tall men and it had nothing to do with her own height. Josh was tall—not that it mattered.
“But you don’t even investigate the tenants first!”
Tavish stuck on another label. “I go by instinct.”
“Someday your instincts are going to leave you with a trashed apartment.”
“Then it’ll be time to redecorate.” He looked off into the distance. “I’m growing weary of sage.”
If he’d asked, Sam could have told him what colors were predicted to be popular in the next couple of years. Carrington was building a new hotel in Trenton and she’d seen the reports from the decorating team. Colors were going to be clean and complex, whatever that meant. She made a mental note to find out. It might be important for her to know.
“And you always send these cards. Haven’t you heard of e-mail?”
“Who can keep up with everyone’s e-mail address? All those letters and dots and symbols…” Tavish grimaced.
“Who can keep up with your summer addresses?”
“That’s why I send the cards.”
The men had moved behind her. Sam was now passing by the supply counter and people kept reaching in front of her for forms, labels and envelopes. She was relieved when she moved by it, looped around, and several minutes later faced the two men again. Tavish was still peeling off labels and sticking them on his postcards. He apparently had a large acquaintanceship.
“Didn’t you just go on safari a couple of years ago?”
Tavish laughed, a warm rich chuckle that was oh-so-different from Josh’s predatory cackle—not that she was thinking about Josh Crandall while standing in line at a New York City post office. That would be foolish.
“There are safaris and there are safaris,” Tavish replied.
“An elephant is an elephant is an elephant.”
“But the aptly named Mona Virtue will be a member of the group.”
“Ah.” They both laughed.
Men.
“Some men have all the luck.”
“I make my own luck.” Tavish held out his hand for another postcard.
The other man nodded. “I’ll have to admit that holding a lottery for a Central Park West apartment is genius.”
“Thank you.”
Sam had been idly eavesdropping but hearing about the apartment again made her focus her attention even though Central Park West was so out of her league.
“And you don’t even advertise.”
“I don’t have to.”
The movement of the line brought the men closer to Sam and the supply table. People
