you to attend this year.”
Her eyes rounded, then narrowed. “Why?”
Jeez. “We’ve been nominated for ADDY Awards—what?—ten years now?”
“Eight. The Austin Telco introductory campaign was our first shot at a decent production budget.”
So it had been. “Okay, eight. And I’ve tried to talk you into going to the awards ceremony eight years in a row without—”
“Five.”
At his sharp glance, her chin rose. A tide of pink swept up her pale throat.
“Facts are facts,” she said doggedly. “You asked me five years in a row. I’m sure for the past three years you thought, and rightly so, that I didn’t want to attend.”
In truth, he couldn’t remember thinking about her, period.
His foul mood worsened. “The facts are that I dress in a monkey suit every year, and eat rubber chicken and smile until my face hurts, and accept insincere congratulations that belong as much to you as to me. You should sit beside me for once and share all the fun, damn it.”
“But…what about Carol?”
His mind scrambled for footing.
“You do remember Carol? Tall. Gorgeous. Blond. Laughs at everything you say.”
And annoyed him more with each successive date. Cameron made a quick decision to break off his relationship with the well-connected socialite…uh-oh. He vaguely recalled her giggled yes in response to his woozy invitation last night.
Damn, but he hated champagne!
“Not a problem,” he hedged. “The table is round. Carol can sit on my other side.”
Lizzy’s flush reached high tide. “Look, I appreciate the invitation, but you know I hate those stuffy black-tie affairs. I’d much rather stay at home.”
An odd urgency compelled him to change her mind. “Why don’t you invite your folks to come? They’d enjoy seeing their only daughter pick up a slew of gaudy awards. It’ll be a fun evening out for them, and Dad and Nancy would love their company. Besides, with Jerry and Marian sitting at the table, my brothers might actually behave themselves.”
Her thick short lashes fluttered and dropped. She tweaked the crease of her slacks. “My mother’s name is Muriel.”
Real smooth, Malloy.
She lifted a gaze conspicuously devoid of emotion. “She and Dad are in the middle of ugly divorce proceedings, if you’ll recall. An evening together would most definitely not be fun for them. Or for me.”
“Lizzy…” Any excuse sounded weak.
“Don’t worry about it, Cameron. You have more important things on your mind than my dysfunctional family.”
He frowned at her self-mocking tone. “Anything that upsets you is important to me.”
“Let’s change the subject, shall we?”
“But I—”
“Please.” Settling back in her chair, she duplicated his pose, her thumbs lifting to slowly twirl. “You never answered my original question. What’s an ayala shooter?”
He expelled a resigned breath. “French champagne, served in plastic flutes the size of a shot glass.”
“I thought you hated champagne.”
“I do. But the senator cheaped out and nixed an open bar. No boiled shrimp on ice. No prime rib station. No stuffed mushroom caps.” The injustice still rankled. “Since he couldn’t disguise his daughter’s wedding as a fund-raiser and dip into the campaign till, his guests hacked at cheese balls and drank from plastic glasses. Never mind that their generous donations helped get him elected.”
Her thumbs stilled. “So, to get even, you sucked up as much of his expensive French champagne as you could without losing consciousness?”
Damn straight. “After the commercial I wrote and produced for him gratis, he owed me.”
“Wo-o-ow. You really showed him.” This time, her mockery was directed at Cameron. “For someone so smart, you can be so clueless.”
She didn’t know the half of it.
He tried for a careless shrug. “Hey, I’m the high concept front man. You’re the analytical details person.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m missing crucial facts? What are you hiding from me, Cameron?”
A trill of alarm zinged up his spine. “Excuse me?”
She leaned forward and gripped the edge of his desk, her intelligent eyes far too probing. “You’ve been tense and grouchy for months. You’ve come in with a hangover five out of the last ten workdays. You’re wearing a tie right now with a stain on it.”
His gaze jerked down to the pricey strip of silk bisecting his torso.
“Lift your hands. It’s underneath. See?”
Oh, man. How could he have missed that this morning? “Big deal,” he bluffed, resettling his clasped fingers over the offensive sight. “Stains happen.”
“Not to your ties, they don’t. Or if they do, you don’t wear the evidence. You’re meticulous about your clothes. You send your blue jeans to the dry cleaners, for heaven’s sake!”
He bristled. “Does this vicious attack on my wardrobe have a point?”
“The point is, if you didn’t notice a big ol’ nasty grease spot on your tie when you dressed this morning, something is distracting or bothering you, big time.” She flicked a glance at the newspaper in his lap. “Then there’s that photograph.”
Normally he appreciated her honesty. Champagne hangovers notwithstanding. “I told you, that wasn’t my fault.”
She made a disgusted sound.
“For cripe’s sake, Lizzy, the guy barged in without knocking and started snapping pictures! He caught me by surprise.”
“I’m sure the feeling was mutual. He’d just shot an entire roll of Prince Charming’s irresistible grin. That demon frog in the conference room must’ve freaked him out.”
Cameron sat a bit straighter.
“I can’t believe the newspaper printed that pose,” she muttered. “The first roll of film must’ve gotten messed up somehow. That’s the only explanation…” Trailing off, she eyed him warily. “What?”
“Irresistible, huh?”
For the second time that morning, her cheeks turned conch-shell pink. She flounced back against her chair. “Don’t get cocky, Malloy. I was quoting the article, not my opinion. Fortunately, the reporter was a woman, so the interview is
