Synopsis | Reviews | Excerpt
She never meant to rock the boat or his
world.
When a popular self-improvement program gives Lisa
Reynolds a smoking hot body, she wins an unexpected prize: a Caribbean cruise
as the club’s corporate spokesmodel. Lisa, a hardworking insurance sales rep
who prides herself on her brains, hesitantly accepts the siren call of being
admired for her figure, too.
But suddenly this new glamour
girl faces magnetic CEO Harlan Jameson, whose interest in her matches her
attraction to him, except . . . the "real” Lisa isn’t this workout babe he
created. And old self-doubts about being loved for herself resurface.
Harlan’s not what she thinks. A self-made success, lonely, and
isolated by a busy schedule . . . he’s drawn to Lisa’s honesty and warmth. When
he understands her fears, he sets out to prove there’s only one thing he wants
her to change for him: her last name.
Coming soon!
Chapter One
"YOU DON’T
HAVE the self-confidence it takes to be a super achiever, and quite frankly, it
has to do with your weight.”
The second
that old self-defeating message began to play, Lisa Reynolds stopped it cold.
She was no longer the same woman that devastating comment had been addressed
to. Still, she had to wonder if she’d ever cross the threshold of her boss’s
office without hearing the echo of those words. Maybe it was good that she did.
This morning it seemed a prophetic reminder of how far she’d come. There were
ninety-three and three-quarter pounds less of Lisa standing before Jason
McGuire’s brass-edged desk on this dreary March morning. And she smiled as she
passed a folder across that polished surface.
"Burleigh
Industrial and all eighty-seven employees, signed, sealed, and insured.”
McGuire pushed
up his ever-drooping steel rims to peer at the impressive stack of forms. He
nodded wordlessly. It was the ultimate compliment from the man of sparing
speech.
"Cheryl said
you wanted to see me before I left for the airport.”
He flipped the
folder closed. "Yes. Sit down, Lisa. And don’t worry. I’ll see that you make
your plane. No one deserves this trip more than you do.”
She settled on
one of his rigid chairs, remembering how she’d perched on the edge of that same
seat so many months earlier. She’d had to; back then, she couldn’t sit
comfortably between the unyielding arm supports. That was only one of the
differences between that day and this one. Then, she’d had a small cubicle
surveying a line of clerical desks. Now, she had an office and a shiny company
car parked in back. And Jason McGuire was pouring her coffee.
"All packed
and ready to go?”
"With the
engine running.” She accepted the cup, smiling. "Have I told you how much I
appreciate having the time off?”
"Effusively.”
But he was smiling, too. Theirs had become an easy rapport since he’d brought
her up into the sales force three weeks ago. Her promotion was so new, she’d
felt uncomfortable requesting the vacation days. But the situation was far from
ordinary, and her boss was well aware of it when he’d agreed. It wasn’t a
vacation as much as it was a reward for her perseverance. Turning in a plump
new account made her feel better about leaving. As if she’d proved she could
pull her own weight—no pun intended.
"Lisa, while
you’re gone, I’m going to take the liberty of doing a little redecorating in
your office.” Before she could protest that the accommodations were fine, he
waved a hand toward a four-drawer filing cabinet behind him. "You’ll need room
for this.”
Lisa stared at
the putty-colored metal and blinked, not understanding. Those were Jason
McGuire’s own accounts, the ones he’d built his company upon. The ones any of
his seven salespeople would die for. The renewal commissions alone would
provide a six-figure salary. Rumors had floated about the office even before
she’d taken a job in clerical three years ago that McGuire was planning to set
aside his active role in customer service and pass down the crowning glory of
his achievements. He was approaching his golden years and was just getting out
again after being widowed. He was looking for more free time. There’d been
intricate discussions on how that bulging book of business would divide down
among the six, now seven of them like a bountiful Christmas bonus. Lisa was
afraid to even hope that her Christmas would be coming early this year.
"What’s the
matter? Think it’ll clash with your decor?”
Lisa closed
her sagging mouth with a snap, then stammered, "It... it’s
not that. I... I just thought that Fred or Jeff—”
"You thought
I’d pass my laurels to one of my old war horses,” he concluded for her.
"Well...
yes.”
"For over two
years I’ve been looking forward to getting out of field work, but I couldn’t
give my customers to just anyone. Family, you know. Some of them have been with
me for almost thirty years. Fred has more than he can handle with his own
clients, and Jeff, quite frankly, wasn’t interested in taking on the extra
obligations. Don cares more about his season sports tickets than coming to the
office regularly. Henry is thinking about retirement in a few years, and Bill,
well, you know Bill. No one can get along with him.”
"What about
Chuck?” Even thoughts of the gorgeous Chuck Webb brought a flush to her cheeks.
He may have stepped into the position she’d have sold her soul to get a year
ago, but how could she begrudge a man with such impossibly long eyelashes? And
then, there was his silky voice and that melting smile. She couldn’t deny Chuck
Webb anything.
"Chuck’s a
bright boy, and he’s got a good future in sales, no doubt. I just happen to
think he’d be better off making his own fortune than tending mine. A year ago,
I wouldn’t have believed you could turn things around and take control like you
have, but you did. And I respect that. You’re determined, and you’ll give my
clients the attention they deserve. They won’t be just another renewal check to
you, and that’s why I made this decision. I realize you’re just starting out.”
Those were the
reasons McGuire listed, but not the ones she’d overheard in the break room from
the other salesmen. Chuck’s ambitions stopped at the commission check, they’d
grumbled. Service with a smile extended only to the signing of the application,
then he gave the papers to one of the clerks to file and was off after the next
prospect. He didn’t think of his clients as more than an account folder and a
paycheck. And that went against everything McGuire built his company upon—that more.
Clients at their firm were to be pampered and made to feel important, not as
though they were a nameless file to be pulled once a year for an impersonal
review. That’s all they were to Chuck Webb. And until he learned otherwise, no
matter how much business he brought in, Jason McGuire and his fellow salesmen
could not respect him. But Lisa was different. Lisa, who would send Christmas
cards without fail and remember the names of wives and children. And who would
always have time and always be grateful. She understood the family analogy.
"I want to
know my people are in good hands, the right hands. I think those hands are
yours. If you think it’s going to be too much for you...”
"No! I mean, I
know I can handle it.”
"That’s all I
needed to hear,” McGuire said. "Now, aren’t you supposed to be going on
vacation? Get out of here. We’ll talk when you get back.”
And later,
even at its cruising altitude, her airliner wasn’t flying as high as Lisa
Reynolds.
Once the seat
belt sign turned off and her ears adjusted to cabin pressure, she leaned back
and closed her eyes. In just a couple of hours, she’d be in Miami where,
according to the weather channel and the co-pilot, the skies were cloudless and
the temperatures tropical. A dream come true after a cold, wet Michigan spring.
One of many dreams she’d come to realize in the past month. Even now she felt
overwhelmed by the changes, as if she was trying to catch up with someone
else’s runaway life. Some of the changes had been wrought by sweat and tears
and others, by sheer strokes of fortune. All had started with those fateful words
in Jason McGuire’s office and the long walk from his door back to her
supervisor’s desk.
"You don’t
have the self-confidence it takes...”
Every one of
the five women who worked under Lisa had known she’d failed the second they saw
her face. Each of them had encouraged her to try for the position by taking
night classes and using vacation time as well as her own resources to get her
license at Michigan State. All pretended not to see the disappointment swimming
in her unfocused gaze. She’d managed to hang on until five o’clock. The only
thing Lisa remembered about the drive back to her Westside apartment was a
sight she’d seen daily but had never really noticed before—the bright neon
beacon for Total You. Somehow, the image wouldn’t leave her even as she sat on
her lonely couch sharing half a gallon of Mackinaw Island Fudge frozen yogurt
with her sympathetic gray cat, Chumley. She’d bought the low-cal treat because
it was purported to be 98 percent fat-free. But, she was defeating the purpose
by eating the entire contents down to the waxy bottom in a single sitting.
With Chumley
purring up a six point two on the Richter scale as he lapped the discarded lid,
Lisa had stared into the empty container and into the void in her life. She was
thirty years old and single except for a brief two-week period in the fourth
grade when she had been engaged to George Minor. That had lasted until she
found out he was only courting her because of her deft right foot in kickball.
There had been no one else since George had broken her heart on the playground.
She’d been soothing that ache ever since behind a padding of increasing
poundage. "Eat, you’ll feel better,” her mother had said when she’d come home
in tears. Mother was always right.
Lisa continued
to take her advice right up to the point when the bathroom scales groaned their
way past two hundred. By the time she’d realized in some surprise that her
womanly figure could no longer be coerced into a regular Misses size, change
seemed all but impossible. Unable to control the yo-yoing twenty pounds that
she lost with every diet she tried but then quickly regained the minute she
bought a size smaller wardrobe, Lisa gave up the battle and concentrated
instead upon the one facet of her life she could control—her career. She’d
vowed not to mind her weight until her goals collapsed under it. Until Chuck
Webb came in that same afternoon to apply for and obtain the job she’d wanted.
Chuck Webb with his to-die-for smile and GQ looks. When they were
introduced, he shook her hand and stared right through her the way handsome men
regarded sexually unappealing women—as though she was inanimate. It had been a
one-two punch—McGuire’s words and Chuck’s uninterested glance.
Feeling
dejected as she looked down into the bottom of her frozen yogurt carton and
realized how many calories she had consumed, Lisa recalled that provoking Total
You sign and its bold promise, "The best you can be from the inside out.”
Wasn’t that what the Army promised? Maybe that’s what she needed. The Army. The
Marines. A regimented boot camp to haul her off her feel-sorry-for-yourself
sofa. Jason McGuire’s words hurt cruelly. Knowing that they were spoken in
quiet honesty had sparked a deep, driving anger within her. Not toward her
employer or the handsome and aggressively confident Chuck who filled the job in
sales, but toward the one person who was at fault and the only one who could
make a difference. It was time for Lisa Reynolds to take action, starting with
the obvious. While Chumley washed the last of the low-cal treat from his
whiskers, she’d reached for the phone book and began thumbing through the Ts.
She went in
for a consultation the very next day, and the battle was on. After the first
twenty-five pounds disappeared, McGuire asked if she’d changed her hairstyle.
He liked it. At the benchmark fifty, her coworkers sprang for a beauty
makeover. At seventy-five, Chuck Webb began to lean back in his chair to watch
her walk by his office door. At ninety down, the old one-two struck again;
McGuire promoted Lisa into sales, and her office friends gleefully moved her
belongings from her cubicle to a real room with its own door. And Chuck took
her out to dinner to celebrate, squiring his tall, trim colleague with
undeniable pleasure. Lisa was sure things just couldn’t get any better.
But they did
the minute she stepped off the scales at a trim one hundred and eighteen
pounds. Julie, the brash brunette nutrition counselor who’d been there to cheer
the demise of every inch of unwanted Lisa, grabbed onto her, bubbling
excitedly.
"You’re not
going to believe this! He picked you! Harlan Jameson picked you!”
Harlan
Jameson, founder of Total You and owner of the sultry, drawling voice on her
motivational tapes. She knew who he was but...
"Picked me for
what?”
"Client of the
Year. Isn’t it great!”
Lisa didn’t
know just how great it would turn out to be. Jameson had a chain of forty Total
You clinics dotting the Midwest, and she learned he was about to go national
after a phenomenally successful first year. He had each of the forty branches
submit a profile of their best success story. In southwest Michigan, it was
ninety pounds less of Lisa Reynolds. Vaguely, she recalled signing a waiver
stating her likeness could be used to promote the Total You program. Never in
her wildest fantasies had she imagined promoting it on an all-expenses-paid
cruise in the Caribbean!
Tickets for
two. Lisa had stared at them somberly. There was no "two” in her life. She
mentioned her predicament jokingly to Chuck on their second date, and he’d
floored her by saying, "I’m up for vacation that week. I could go along as a
chaperone.”
She was sure
all respiratory functions failed completely as he sat grinning at her from
across the table. When she found her voice, she replied impulsively, "Why not?”
She and Chuck
Webb were going to the Caribbean together!
Not exactly
together. He had a brother’s wedding to attend in Virginia. Then he’d meet her
in Miami in time to embark. It would be better that way, he reasoned. They’d
agreed to a no-strings-attached adventure as two consenting adults. They would
have separate staterooms and no obligations. But try to tell that to office
gossips. Since Chuck was flying down ahead of Lisa, wouldn’t it be in their
best interest not to mention their shipboard rendezvous? Lisa was too stunned
that he’d said yes to care. Besides, he was right. It would be better this way.
But when they returned after those seven idyllic days just drenched with the
opportunity for romance, there would be no need for secrecy. She’d be able to
tell everyone that she and Chuck had fallen desperately in love.
That was the
plan.
"We will be
landing in Miami on schedule. Please return your trays to their closed
positions and fasten your seat belts as we begin our final approach. My crew
and I wish you a pleasant stay, and thank you for flying with us,” the pilot
announced.
Lisa took a
quick anticipatory breath as the jet cut downward through the banks of fleecy
clouds. She was approaching paradise. How could her stay be anything but
pleasant?
Things were
looking good. All her luggage arrived. She was able to find a cab, and her
ship, the SS Paradise, was waiting at the end of a crowded
gangway. It was one in a fleet of Norwegian liners, and employees in Dutch
costumes threaded between reggae musicians in loud shirts plunking out exotic
tunes on tortoise-shaped steel drums. Everywhere Lisa looked, she saw family
members locked in last-minute embraces. All she wished to embrace lay up ahead.
Her bags were checked, her ticket taken, and the fact that Chuck Webb was on
board, confirmed. She was practically running up the carpeted ramp.
"Lisa!”
The sight of
him snagged her breath as always, the way it would any woman’s. She’d never
seen him out of his tailored business suit. In the creamy polo shirt and
creased beige slacks, he looked more lean and stunningly handsome than ever.
And he was with her. The reality of that long-sought dream flooded her with a
possessive pride. Finally, she would be on the other side of those envying
stares.
"How was the
wedding?” she asked as soon as her heart stilled its fluttery palpitations.
"Oh, you know
how those things are. Let’s go check out our rooms and the pool.”
But Lisa was
drawn to the rail. "I’d like to stay and watch us put out to sea.”
He shrugged
and leaned up beside her. "If you like.” As she soaked up the excitement, she
missed the way he took in the sight of the other female passengers the way a
gourmet studies a buffet table of sundry dishes meant to be tasted at leisure.
There was a sudden commotion on the gangway as reporters converged into
a seething mass of noise and microphone cables. "Must be our benefactor.”
Lisa strained
for a glimpse of Harlan Jameson, but he was swallowed by the push and shove of
eager bodies that carried him like a tide down the open promenade away from
her. Then she and Chuck were trapped in the crush of passengers. The latter
thronged the rail to toss their colorful streamers and wave to those ashore as
the SS Paradise slowly rocked away from its moorings at the coaxing of
the harbor tugs.
Once the last
bon voyage was shouted and ribbons trailed down to the water like fading
comets, the other travelers trickled away in search of their staterooms. Chuck
took her elbow, and Lisa nearly shivered with the pleasure of it.
"Let’s see if
our luggage found the right rooms,” he suggested as the sleek white side of the
ship increased the gap between them and solid ground. Lisa glanced down and
regretted it. Beneath them, water churned restlessly, and her stomach took up a
like agitation. In all the excitement, she’d never thought about them putting
out to sea. Think of it as a floating hotel, she told herself nervously.
In all those reruns of the Love Boat, not once had they lost a
passenger to rough waters. In fact, she’d never seen one of their dapper
seafarers hanging over the rail. That was television, her roiling insides
prompted with an ominous rumble. Maybe she’d feel better away from the rail and
the frothy reminder that there was nothing holding them up except the lapping
tide.
Their outside
suites were on the Promenade Deck sandwiched in the center of the 138,000 ton
SS Paradise’s fourteen levels. Staring down the plushly
carpeted halls was like looking along several city blocks separated by elevator
banks and flanking stairs. Rooms 6000 and 6200 were at the very end. Lisa
recognized her shabby canvas suitcases across the hall from Chuck’s sleek
leather set. As she was fitting her key, she heard his quick, "See you in a
while,” then the click of his door closing. She gazed at that brass plate
proclaiming room 6000 and smiled to herself. Yes, she would see him. For seven
wonderful days. Then she opened her door and pushed her bags inside.
Lisa stood for
a moment, stunned. She’d been expecting a closet-sized room with a little round
porthole and drop-down bunks like something from an old World War II submarine
movie. This was better than most hotels she’d stayed in. The first thing that
struck her was the vista of slanted windows running the length of the far wall.
Though she’d nixed a suite with a balcony in order to get two separate cabins,
she wasn’t disappointed, certain the view would be breathtaking once they were
out of port. Set on the low bureau beneath the windows was a stunning bouquet
of spring flowers. The girls from the office, she thought with a smile. Maybe
Chuck. That tease of suspense was enough to prompt her across the room to check
for a card.
Bon Voyage,
Harlan.
She studied
the bold script in some surprise. How nice of him. And twined about that
pleasure was the brief tug of disappointment that Chuck hadn’t thought to send
them.
Tenting the
card on the bureau top, Lisa turned to survey her accommodations. They were
lovely, all in pastels of peach and cream and soft green accented with hints of
maroon. Twin beds pushed together to make a massive king faced the angled
windows. The headboard was mirrored, creating an illusion of even greater
spaciousness. As hers was a corner room, more windows ran along the side wall,
and beneath them stood a floral-covered love seat. Elegant and very livable.
As she was
wrestling her bags up onto one of the beds, she heard a crackle of static and
the smoothly foreign voice of their captain in his welcoming speech. He
concluded it by directing passengers out onto the surrounding promenade for a
lifeboat drill before they cleared port. Just the thought of it brought the
achiness back to Lisa’s stomach as she checked the diagram on the back of her
door for the closest emergency station. With a surprisingly heavy lifejacket in
hand, she tapped on Chuck’s door. Perhaps they could make it into an adventure,
their first of many. No answer. She frowned slightly. Maybe he’d gone ahead.
The air on
deck was moist and thickly laced with sea salt. Immediately, the sense of
motion returned, that subtle shifting underfoot. The fact that the tugs and
crowded dockside bobbed in time did nothing to calm her growing case of mal
de mer. She tried to concentrate on what her steward was saying as he ran
through the drill. Where was Chuck? She scanned the line of fellow passengers
wiggling into their vests, but he wasn’t among them. Then the smiling Filipino
steward appeared before her, checking her buckles and nodding. Great. It was
good to know if the ship did decide to sink, she wouldn’t have to go down with
it.
Thinking maybe
she’d feel better if she just stretched out and closed her eyes for a few
minutes, she lugged the jacket back to her room, stowed it properly, then
stepped into the bathroom. Now this was what she expected to find on a ship. Itwas like a closet with a tiny sink next to the toilet. She would have to
climb over the seat to get into the shower, which was little more than a
two-inch buildup of tiles surrounded by a curtain. Nothing fancy, just
functional. She ran water into the small metal bowl and washed her face,
noticing how pale it looked when she straightened. Noticing, too, how the
complimentary terry robe hanging on the back of the door swayed in a very
definite rhythm. Fascinated, she watched it, the way one would a cobra’s dance,
in mesmerized horror. She swallowed hard, then again, but she couldn’t choke
down the reality of swelling sickness.
She reeled out
of the bathroom. This was a ship. They’d be used to green-faced passengers
who’d yet to get their sea legs. Dropping limply into the desk chair, she
fumbled desperately through the cruise information. There it was, her own
personal salvation. Dramamine, available at the purser’s desk on the Main Deck.
She could make it. This was one shipboard excursion she would take on her own.
Something about hurling on Chuck’s Italian loafers would immediately kill all
thoughts of budding romance.
She found the
stairs, forgoing the elevator. Her stomach was wobbling on a high wire; no
sense in giving that fine line a good shake with a dose of extra motion. It was
a short walk from the foot of the steps to the curved, brass-edged counter.
Lisa grabbed onto that cool metal, her situation deteriorating fast. She
couldn’t muster even a passing interest in the Shore Excursion Desk across the
wide hall. Tour guides in pineapple shirts and pictures of palm trees did
absolutely nothing to lessen her distress. But there was no sign of the purser.
Stifling a
groan, she reached out to tap feebly on the bell. It made a sound as painfully
pathetic as her lack of control.
"Here, let me.
You’re not gonna rouse anyone with that little whimper.”
A big hand
stretched out over the bell and, with a few vigorous pumps, produced a
commanding jangle. Lisa looked up at the solid form of her rescuer. He didn’t
fit her image of a luxury cruise-line passenger. He looked like he’d just
finished scrubbing the deck. He wore beat-up cross trainers with laces untied.
His dark blue sweatpants sagged at the ankles and knees and clung suggestively
at the hips. OKLAHOMA STATE was proudly emblazoned upon his powder-blue
T-shirt, which had seen a heroic amount of wash and wear. Some of the iron-on
lettering had crumbled away where it stretched taut over his impossibly wide
chest. A pair of reflective sunglasses dangled from the shapeless neckband of
his T-shirt. To top off the whole overwhelming picture was a black Steelers
baseball cap. Lisa could well imagine this man in pro football. He was as big
as most backfields, tipping at least two twenty and six foot four without the
slightest degree of softness. Despite his intimidating size and latent
strength, Lisa was put instantly at ease the minute he smiled. And behind that
wide disarming grin was a complexion almost as waxen as her own.
"The color
green becomes you, if you don’t mind me saying so,” he told her, all bold white
teeth and devilish blue eyes. There was an innate warmth in his voice, too, and
an accent she couldn’t place. Not exactly southern but with a good ol’ boy
laziness quite appealing to her Midwestern ears. Oklahoma, perhaps, just as his
shirt proclaimed.
"I’m not much
of a sailor,” she confessed. "You’d think I would be growing up on the Great
Lakes.”
"Well, I
haven’t exactly experienced my share of ocean tides out in the Dust Bowl,
either. I’m beginning to think this was not my best idea.”
She found she
was actually returning his smile, a feat she would have thought impossible a
few minutes ago.
"Can I help
you?”
Lisa turned
from her big companion almost with reluctance. She didn’t need to say anything.
Her coloring spoke volumes.
"A little
under the weather?” the uniformed man asked sympathetically. "Don’t worry.
You’ll be fine once we put out to sea and the stabilizers get to work. The
Caribbean has some of the world’s smoothest sailing waters.”
Lisa managed a
shaky nod, hoping this was true.
"But in the
meantime,” her burly friend interrupted amiably, "how about a hit of what
you’ve got under the counter to keep us from embarrassing ourselves all over
your nice rugs?”
"Of course,
sir.” He produced two packets. "This should relieve any queasiness until you
get accustomed to the ship’s movement.”
"You got a
chaser back there?”
The purser
supplied two paper cups of water from his office, and Lisa was toasted with
that ear-to-ear smile.
"Cheers.”
She swallowed
the Dramamine and sighed.
"Think you’ll
live?”
"’Fraid so,”
she answered, feeling better already from a source that had nothing to do with
the purser’s miracle cure. How could she fail to respond to such intensely
focused charm? What was it about him that put her so completely at ease? It was
more than the smile and the eyes and the gentle drawl. It was all of him. He
made her think of something cozy you wrapped yourself up in on a cold Michigan
winter night. That notion startled her, but she didn’t feel a bit like
blushing. That, too, was unusual, since all her emotions seemed to register in
a colorful barometer within her cheeks.
"You’re a real
trooper,” he praised, then his voice lowered a notch until it rippled like aged
bourbon whiskey. "That’s good because I’d miss seeing you at dinner.” His
forefinger touched under her chin. It wasn’t a particularly intimate gesture,
but her system reacted with a jolt. She was staring up at him in wide-eyed
vulnerability when he added, "Take care, Lisa.”
She watched
him stride away. He walked the way a farmer would plot out his fields, with
great, measured steps. It wasn’t until the elevator doors closed off the sight
of his smile that it hit her. And hit hard.
Of course
she’d feel comfortable with him. His was the compelling voice that had kept her
spirits up and her mind focused for eleven long months via her headset.
She’d just met
Harlan Jameson.
Chapter Two
THE RED OR the
blue?
Lisa looked at
the two dresses and gnawed her lower lip. Both were sleek and meant to show a
slender form to perfection. Shopping for them in the junior department had
filled her with a girlish excitement. She hadn’t worn a junior size since she
was a mature twelve years old. Inspecting her reflection in the anonymity of a
store dressing room wasn’t the same as parading about for public display. While
going down seven and a half sizes, she’d kept her evolving shape concealed in
business suits for the office. No great risk there. She had the security of a
tailored jacket to cling to. With these dresses, the cling would be a lot more
personal.
Growing
annoyed with her own indecision, she opted for the blue and dressed quickly,
not wanting to be late for the second seating of dinner at 8:15. She was
putting the finishing touches on her lips when the knock came at her door. With
a last big breath, she went to answer it.
One sweep of
Chuck’s dark eyes told Lisa how she looked and that the knee-length blue dress
with its soft drape was a good choice. He was wearing one of his business
suits, and somehow the familiarity was comforting.
"How’s your
room?” she asked a bit nervously, realizing all at once that it was just the
two of them for seven days in almost intimate proximity. The thought was as
intimidating as it was exciting. A social setting was not the same as the
secure boundaries of the office.
"All right,”
he remarked with the off-handedness of one used to expecting luxury as the
norm. "A bathroom you could turn around in would have been nice.”
She was caught
between the need to apologize and the practical side of her that chided
silently, Don’t complain about something when it’s free. Instead, she
said neutrally, "I don’t think you’re supposed to spend much time in your
cabin, anyway.”
"I know I
don’t plan to.” He took her arm with a practiced gallantry. "Let’s eat. I want
to check out the casinos afterward. We should be in international waters by
then.”
Gamely, Lisa
hung onto her smile. She’d had visions of a moon-washed stroll on deck, not
standing elbow to elbow in a crowded room cramming coins into greedy slots. She
reminded herself to be patient. First one, then the other.
Lisa got her
first glimpse at how many people were on the ship when they waited to be seated
in the spacious dining room. They were packed in tight between couples and
groups all elegantly garbed and talking at once until one of the small
Indonesian stewards led them to their assigned chairs. It was a long walk, all
the way through the room to the cluster of tables formally dressed for eight in
starched linen, Rosenthal china, and fine silver set against a wall of glass.
Beyond, there was only water.
Harlan Jameson
rose to greet them. The owner of Total You was garbed in satin-lapelled evening
wear, but the sophisticated lines of his tux jacket couldn’t confine the raw
energy of the man. Lisa was aware of an immediate warmth radiating from the
flash of his smile as it touched on Chuck, then enveloped her with an even
wider spread of welcome. He wasn’t a truly handsome man. He wouldn’t stun the
visual senses the way Chuck did, nor would he make a woman look a second time.
His features were too unexceptional—broad and pleasantly average. His dark
sandy blond hair was cut conservatively close and hinted that it was starting
to recede. He was someone who would go unnoticed in a crowd until he moved or
spoke or fixed the arresting blue of his eyes. Then the power of the man simply
crackled.
Charisma was
not a word Lisa applied easily. It made her think of politicians and
insincerity, but Harlan Jameson had charisma to spare, and with it came a pull
so strong, it spoke loud and sure of confidence and control. It said, Follow
me, trust me. And you wanted to without question. As his hand extended to
Chuck, she noticed that beneath his dinner jacket and pin tucked white shirt,
he was wearing a pair of black denim jeans. And Lisa began to smile, wondering
if on the bottom, he still had on his unlaced gym shoes.
"I’m Harlan
Jameson,” he drawled out in that honey-thick accent. "An’ you’re Chuck, right?
Glad to have you here. And Lisa, hi.”
She’d almost
expected him to say howdy. Then his big hand scooped hers up, and she was lost
in the huge clasp that was surprisingly gentle. He continued to hold her hand
in his as he turned toward the others at the table.
"Everybody,
this is Lisa Reynolds and her friend, Chuck. Can’t you just tell by lookin’ at
her that she’s gonna make us a fortune?”
Cheeks
reddening at all the attention, Lisa’s smile strained, and she would have
stepped back from sudden focus if Harlan hadn’t tugged her up closer against
his side. It was like moving into the shelter of a mountain, and she drew an
unexpected sense of security there.
"Lisa, you’re
gonna be seeing a lot of these folks in the next few days. Chances are, you’ll
be sick to death of them ’cause they’re gonna work you hard. That’s why I love
’em. They’re from New York City, so they don’t know how to relax. If I was
paying them by the hour, I’d be broke. That there’s Teddy Streeter and Moe
Shannon. They’ll be behind the cameras. Jill McDowell and Steve Diall are in
charge of advertising. If this bunch can package me up and make me look good,
you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
As he said
that, his thumb stroked over the tense row of her knuckles, making her aware
that she was clutching his hand in her nervousness. The gesture, like the quick
smile he aimed down at her, was intrinsically calming.
"Teddy and Moe
can even touch up a green pallor. But it doesn’t look like they’ll have to.
Feeling better?” That was said more softly, just to her. It was as if the rest
of the room, and even Chuck Webb, disappeared. There was just the quiet concern
of his question and the compelling intimacy of his gaze.
"Yes. Thank
you. You seem to have weathered the storm, too.”
He winked.
"It’d take more than a tossing ocean to keep me from the dinner table. You grab
a seat and let’s get to it. No business tonight. This is just for getting to
know everybody.”
Chuck took her
elbow, and for a moment, she was pulled between them until Harlan relinquished
her hand. Then, Lisa followed her dark escort around the table to their two
empty chairs. She was now placed directly across from the dynamic entrepreneur,
a fact Lisa was very conscious of as she slid into her seat beneath the simmer
of his stare.
Immediately,
their small, smiling steward was passing about menus, bowing with unfailing
courtesy. Grateful for the distraction, Lisa opened hers and thought she’d gone
to gastronomical heaven. Her eyes grew ever larger as they ascended the
right-hand column. Appetizers of smoked salmon and Russian-style eggs and a
fruit cup in maraschino liqueur, chilled strawberry broth, entrées of broiled
prime sirloin steak with sautéed mushrooms, Long Island duckling Bigarade, and
veal escalope "Fritty Quanty,” an international cheese selection with Holland
rusks, Calimyrna figs, and stem ginger in syrup. And the desserts: baba au
rhum, Bavarian cream puffs, pineapple cheesecake, and ice creams. Her taste
buds came alive with anticipation, but all it took was a reminding glance about
the table to rein them in from a runaway gallop.
"And what will
you have, miss?” the little waiter inquired.
Swallowing the
temptation to say one of each and two from the desserts, Lisa murmured, "The
chilled melon, poached Boston sole, a green salad with French dressing on the
side, and coffee, black, please.”
"And for
dessert?”
She closed the
menu firmly. "Just coffee, thank you.” She reached shakily for her water glass,
feeling as though she’d dodged through a mine field. Across the way, Harlan
Jameson lifted his glass in a silent salute, and her color deepened.
"Don’t get
up,” came a breathy voice, and every man at the table was instantly on his
feet. Lisa glanced up and could immediately see why. The most beautiful woman
she’d ever seen had come to a stop behind the vacant chair on Harlan’s right.
As he pulled the chair out for her, red-tipped fingers curved about his jaw,
turning it for her quick kiss. "I’m sorry I’m late, Harley. I just got through
to Milwaukee.” She reached for one of the linen napkins to scrub the careless
smear of her bright lip rouge from his cheek. "I’ve been waiting for those
sales figures for—”
"Maggie.” He
said her name softly, but it stopped her without further words. She raised one
finely arched brow in question and waited for him to explain. "We agreed to no
business tonight. Think you can manage to come up with something else to say?”
Wide red lips
pursed. "I could try.”
"Lisa, Chuck,
this is Maggie Jameson, my head of marketing and executive vice-president of
Total You. Maggie, Lisa Reynolds and Chuck... I’m sorry?”
"Webb,” Chuck
supplied in a throaty rumble. "A pleasure, Mrs. Jameson.”
"Maggie,” she
corrected, giving him a curious scrutiny. "We’re all family here. And the Mrs.
is past tense.”
Beside her,
Lisa could feel her companion’s interest hone in like a high frequency
vibration.
What man’s
wouldn’t? Maggie Jameson was a tall, cool Scandinavian beauty. She had baby
fine blond hair, which she wore with a sleek side part and pushed back behind
her ears, and her bone structure was chiseled perfection. As if her looks alone
weren’t designed to stop a man cold, her outfit was sure to heat him back up
fast. A white ribbed body suit skimmed her figure. Over that was glistening red
leather. The jacket was cut bolero-style over a snug skirt ending at mid-thigh.
When she eased into her chair, the movement was all supple provocation. Chuck
was the last to resume his seat.
Once settled,
Maggie drew a slender cigarette from her bag with a pseudo-sincere, "Anyone
mind?” Teddy Streeter, the photographer, instantly produced a light. She was
just bending down toward it when Harlan plucked the cigarette from between her
lips.
"I do.”
Pale blue eyes
grew glacial, then Maggie smiled, and the frost melted. "Really, Harley, if you
weren’t so sweet and making such an obscene amount of money, I would have
murdered you years ago.”
"Maybe we
should stick to talking business.” That was offered up by Jill McDowell, the
myopic head of advertising, and all of the Total You coworkers laughed somewhat
guardedly at the inside joke.
"I’ll be
good,” Maggie promised silkily.
"And when she
was good, she was very, very good,” quoted the dour-faced Moe Shannon. "And
when she was bad...”
Maggie Jameson
turned her lovely head toward him and stuck out her tongue. Just then the
waiter paused at her elbow. She gave the menu a cursory glance and ordered
brusquely, "The salmon, the executive salad, baba au rhum, and a John Collins.
I’d like the Collins, now, please.” The menu snapped closed, and it and the
waiter were dismissed from her attention. Then her gaze centered on the younger
woman across the table. Lisa had the feeling of being measured incrementally by
that cool stare, not as a fellow female but as a marketing tool. Finally, the
blonde head nodded. "Very nice,” she pronounced to no one in particular, then
she focused on Lisa as an individual. "Welcome aboard, Lisa.” That was said
with surprising warmth, and when Lisa nodded, an easy conversation started up
around the table between people who meshed together well, both professionally
and personally. As outsiders, Lisa and Chuck observed the casual banter with
interest and Maggie Jameson, foremost.
Lisa was
puzzled by her reaction to the sleek sophisticate. She had no right to be
jealous of the woman for her poise and confident sexuality, but as the dinner
progressed, she was more and more aware of Chuck’s obvious attraction to the
svelte Mrs. Jameson. Old habits died hard, and at the side of the man she’d
long coveted, Lisa felt the familiar roil of self-doubt take a vicious hold.
That well of uncomfortable misery only deepened when Teddy suggested they move
from the litter of empty plates and discarded napkins to one of the night spots
up on the Atlantic Deck. Work would start in the morning. This night was meant
for fun. Chuck was all for the idea and never noticed her quiet reticence as
they left the dining room for the central bank of elevators.
The Bermuda
Triangle was a fantasy of flashing hot pink floor tiles and strobing lime green
neon tubes. Lisa was struck at once by the loud pulse of danceable pop music
and the haze of smoke layering down from the ceiling. Steve elbowed through to
commandeer two adjoining tables in the hub of confusion. Whether it was
intentional or not, Chuck ended up sitting with Harlan, Maggie, and Steve while
Lisa joined the two photographers and Jill. When Maggie drew out her long
filter tips, her ex-husband made no objection. There was enough secondhand
smoke already floating in the air of the designated smoking zone to put the
carbon monoxide fog of a traffic jam to shame. As the music jumped and the
noise began to pound behind Lisa’s brow, she watched Chuck lean close to say
something to Maggie. He was laying on the charm as thick as a smoker’s cloud,
and the beauteous blonde was responding.
No strings,
she’d told him. Lisa cursed herself for insisting on those conditions. How
could he not feel obligated? After all, he was there as her guest, and he was
all but ignoring her to schmooze up to their benefactor’s ex. What difference
did it make that Maggie Jameson was eye-popping gorgeous? Lisa sighed
unhappily. It made all the difference.
Their drinks
arrived and kept coming. She stuck to designer water and noticed Harlan did the
same, but the mood grew boisterous between the others as the swizzle sticks
mounted. Abruptly, the rather homely Jill McDowell with her thick bifocals and
ample bosom was dragging a sputtering Moe out onto the dance floor to engage in
a suggestive shimmy. Maggie snubbed out her cigarette and signaled for Harlan
to join her in the crowd of gyrating bodies. Laughing, he shook his head. And Chuck
pounced on her availability. She didn’t turn him down. Harlan watched them move
together, his smile small and apparently unconcerned. Lisa couldn’t look at
all. The acrid air burned her eyes. She blamed it for the watery condition of
her eyes.
The music
shifted into a soft, sultry cadence, and for the first time, she was able to
hear the voices of those at her table. And she distinctly heard Harlan, who was
wedged up almost under her elbow at the adjoining table, exclaim, "Now this, I
can handle. How ’bout it, Lisa?” He was extending his hand. After a second of
hesitation, hers nestled into his broad palm.
The song was
"Sailing,” the quiet passion of its lyric meant to invite a gliding closeness.
Harlan held her easily in the curve of his arm. He was a surprisingly good
dancer for such a big man, but Lisa didn’t notice. She was busy checking the
packed dance floor for signs of Chuck and Maggie, achily preparing for the
sight of her hot red leather melting against him. Then, she saw them back at
the table, and Chuck was looking not at his partner but directly at her with a
half frown on his handsome face. A shock of pleasure broke through her
despairing mood. Chuck was jealous of Harlan Jameson? What a wonderful thought!
Well, maybe he was, just a little, but that was more than enough to have her
smiling when she finally lifted her head.
"Hi.”
Lisa flushed
as Harlan’s greeting called her on her rudeness. He didn’t seem annoyed by her
preoccupation, only glad to have her full attention at last. He guided her
through a series of quick steps that took them farther into the cluster of
couples and out of sight of their table.
"You’ve been
quiet.” An observation, not a question as to why. She liked that. No pressure.
"Tired, I
guess. It’s been a long day.”
"Jus’ lay your
head down and take a little nap then. I don’t mind. I’ve been told I’m as
comfortable as an old couch.” And with that, his arm cinched tight, pulling her
up to meet the huge, hard line of his body. When she would hesitate, his hand
cupped the back of her head to direct her cheek against one satiny lapel. It
took a few awkward steps to adjust to the proximity, then they were moving
together, touching from head to toe. Her arms stole about his middle, forming a
tentative circle. There was a solid feel to him that comforted all her senses.
It was easy to close her eyes and trust him to lead for the remaining verses of
the song.
And when the
music changed back to its bebop-ping beat, he continued to lead her in those
slow swaying steps. Harlan Jameson was apparently a man who moved to his own
rhythm, unbothered by what went on around him. Surrounded by his embrace, Lisa
followed, drifting with that inner tempo she alone could hear. It was the
compelling drum of his heartbeats, the soothing seduction of his even breaths,
and the charmed repetitions of the big hand rubbing along the base of her neck.
All the rest ceased to exist for that short space of time when reality was
suspended. And Lisa Reynolds was sailing.
"Hey,” came
the rumble of his voice beneath her cheek. "I think we’re out of sync with
everyone else.”
Lisa smiled
without opening her eyes. "Maybe they’re out of sync with us.”
His chuckle
made a stirring vibration. Lisa lifted her head to look up at him. The piercing
blue of his eyes surpassed the flashing neons overhead for intensity. He was
smiling, just a slight curve of his lips. He had a nice mouth, shaped by
sensual sweeps and an invitingly full contour. Lost in the controlling
brilliance of his gaze, she wondered if his kiss would taste as luxurious as
those lips suggested. Unbidden, her eyes began to slip shut, beckoning that
moment of discovery. His movements slowed, then stopped. Vaguely, Lisa was
aware of how they must look, pressed together in a loverlike embrace in the
midst of the energetic dancers, of the enticing tip of her face toward his, of
his sudden complete stillness. And then the awareness of one thing intruded,
seeping to the surface of her almost dreamy reverie: Chuck was watching.
Lisa’s eyes
snapped open, surprise registering in them like a sleepwalker shaken to
wakefulness. As her partner regarded her, his expression carefully contained,
she stepped back, severing the physical connection between her and Harlan,
breaking from the unexpected emotional tie. Seeing her confusion, Harlan led
her wordlessly back to their tables where Chuck was standing behind her chair
with a proprietary scowl. Before he could speak, she reached down for her
purse.
"I’m going to
call it a night,” she announced with a forced smile.
"Oh, come on, Lisa,”
Jill chided good-naturedly. "Don’t be a party pooper.”
"I’m afraid
I’m just plain pooped.”
"I’ll walk
with you.”
Chuck’s
possessive statement would have pleased her to no end any other time. But
tonight, she was too flustered to be more than simply grateful for the escort.
The quiet of
the hall was blissful. It was a single flight up to their deck and just a short
walk to her suite. As she fit her key, Chuck angled between her and the door
with his most beguiling smile.
"Are you sure
you’re ready for the evening to be over so soon?”
Then he was
kissing her.
Lisa stood
still, stunned. Not because the wet stroke of his tongue devastated her
will... but because it didn’t. Oh, she was certain Chuck Webb
could melt the most hardened heart with his charm and his practiced lips. If
she was more herself, she probably would have succumbed along with the majority
of those before her. But suddenly she was impatient for his embrace to end. It
felt uncomfortable, not a genuine overture for their relationship to progress
but as an appeal to join her in her bed. That, she wasn’t ready for. Her hands
braced upon his chest, pushing, levering for distance. He gave with reluctance.
"What’s
wrong?” he demanded rather breathlessly.
"Nothing.
I’m... I’m just tired. I’ll see you in the morning.”
"Lisa—”
But she had
her door open and was closing it before he could get the rest of his sentence
out. She leaned there against that guarded portal, safe in the surrounding
darkness of her cabin. Alone and unsettled. Not because of Chuck’s kiss or his
push to gain entry to her room... and other things. That’s
not what had her so disturbed. It was because she’d wanted to experience that
same searing union with Harlan Jameson.
She drew a
slow, shuddering breath and let it out in a cleansing gust. What was wrong with
her? Wasn’t her whole intention behind this trip to get Chuck into that exact
position outside her door? And what did she do when she had him there? Run.
Like a scared teenager. It was the excitement, the stress of new surroundings
and new people. That was it. What she needed was time alone with Chuck, so they
could talk, so they could get to know one another. That wouldn’t happen if she
hid in her room. She straightened and stiffened her resolve. Before she could
talk herself out of it, she was back in the hall, tapping on his door. She’d
invite him for a nightcap, not in her cabin but in one of the downstairs
lounges. She was smiling, feeling better about her decision. Until the
unanswered silence stretched out, and it grew obvious that Chuck was not in his
room.
Resolutely,
Lisa returned to the stairs. One deck down, the swell of noise and blending
strains of music greeted her. Thinking he might have returned to the Bermuda
Triangle, she glanced in there but their tables were empty. Her departure had
apparently broken up the party. Remembering that Chuck had wanted to try his
luck at the gambling tables, she headed for Black Jack’s, the ship’s floating
casino. There, the din of voices was even louder, punctuated by the dings and
whirring clicks of the devices of chance lining every available mirrored
surface. She pushed her way inside the double doors, scanning the sea of jovial
faces. Then she saw him standing at the roulette table. She looked toward him,
but as her lips began to move in a smile of greeting, the gesture froze.
He wasn’t
alone.
It hadn’t
taken Chuck any time at all to replace her with a slinky brunette in a halter
dress. And from the way the woman was rubbing herself against him, Lisa was
certain their evening together wouldn’t end outside her door.
