Not Quite as Advertised

The streamlined Visions Media Group might not produce glamorous spots for national television, but some of advertising’s most memorable campaigns, such as the milk mustache, had been print. And for all that Hugh liked to needle her, he oversaw his share of regional work. To hear him tell it, you’d think he was single-handedly responsible for the ads played during the Super Bowl.

She scoffed. “You’re not up against me because of national commercials.”

He swept his gaze over her. “I miss being up against you.”

His words caught her off guard, and a pang of desire tightened her midsection. Should she glare, which he fully deserved, or look away in case she blushed tellingly? Not an oh-I’m-embarrassed-by-your-sexual-references girlish blush. An oooh-that-sounds-good-to-me-too flush of color. She might have a great bluffing expression, but there wasn’t much she could do about her fair skin.

“So…” Hugh glanced around. “Donald’s not with you tonight?”

She didn’t bother correcting him since he knew perfectly well her ex-boyfriend’s name was David. There had been an uncomfortable encounter at a convention in Houston over the summer, and Hugh had childishly insisted on calling David “Dale” all night.

“We’re not seeing each other anymore,” she said.

He shook his head. “Broke his heart, too, huh?”

Please. As if she were the one who’d hurt him? “At least he had one.”

Instead of arguing, he brought out the big guns—the seductive smile that lit his eyes and managed to be both boyish and enticingly adult. “You look fantastic, Joss.”

So did he. “I certainly think so.”

He chuckled at her cool response, and the low, rich laugh turned her insides to traitorous goo.

“What about you, no date tonight?” Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have shown the slightest interest in his love life, but she was willing to make an exception since he’d broached the topic.

“Of course not.” He feigned shock. “What woman could compare to you?”

Infuriating man. Which, come to think of it, was redundant.

“I forgot how full of it you are,” she said.

“Really?” His smile vanished, and he brushed a finger across her cheek. “I haven’t been able to forget a thing about you.”

It was a pitch, she reminded herself, a sale. Hugh was an ad man who went with what he thought the target audience wanted to hear. She should end this exchange, but she didn’t want to be the one to walk away. If only Nick would come in, she could excuse herself gracefully.

Since it didn’t look as if anyone was bringing her a file in a cake, she’d have to spring her own escape. “We shouldn’t stand in the doorway like this.”

“True. Buy you a drink?”

“Very generous…considering it’s an open bar.”

“It sounded more gallant than, wanna go get a free watered-down cocktail with me?”

“Since when do you care about being gallant?” The old pain was numbed but still there, like emotional scar tissue. “I had you pegged more as opportunistic.”

His jaw clenched, but then he shrugged. “Have it your way. I just thought maybe you could use a drink before you take second to my first. Again.”

Not if there was any justice in the world.

Her nomination this year was a first for Visions Media Group, and though Wyatt was ecstatic about the added credibility it lent his small company, she wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less than victory. Somewhere deep down, she questioned how healthy her desire to win was, but her mom had taught her that “also-ran” meant nothing. Besides, knocking Hugh down a peg would be a favor to the universe, benefiting all mankind.

Womankind, at the very least.

And it’s not like I’ve taken ambition to an unwholesome level. She wasn’t some unscrupulous nut who’d smear her opponent’s reputation, or bribe judges or throw virgin sacrifices into volcanoes to appease deities. Good thing, since the Dallas-Fort Worth area was as lacking in volcanoes as her social circle was in virgins.

Inching away, she went with a more direct brush-off this time. “You’ll have to excuse me, Hugh. I see my boss over there, and he wanted a preview of my acceptance speech.”

“By all means.” He didn’t reiterate his prediction of winning, but his smirk conveyed the message all the same.

She ground her back teeth together as she walked away. Tuxedo, eight hundred and fifteen dollars. Cost of admission to ADster Awards Dinner, ninety dollars. Hugh Brannon’s ego, limitless.

“AND THE GOLD ADSTER goes to…” Tessa St. Martin, a curvy woman in a short sequined dress, opened the envelope.

Hugh waited along with everyone else for the winner’s name.

“Kimmerman and Kimmerman’s Life in Motion campaign for ATC Tires! Hugh Brannon, account supervisor.”

He shoots, he scores.

The crowd didn’t exactly go wild, but all around the table, Hugh’s co-workers began congratulating him. Individual awards were given out for specific creative contribution, but recognition for an overall campaign went to the person who’d coordinated the client’s branding with the agency’s work. In this case, Hugh. His friend Mike Denton slapped him on the arm, and Kimmerman Sr. himself reached across the table to shake Hugh’s hand.

Standing, Hugh nodded his thanks, but his mind drifted for a second to a fellow nominee across the room. He knew without seeing her that Jocelyn would be smiling graciously—as if she were actually happy for him—and clapping along with everyone else. He also knew she was crushed by her perceived “failure.”

She’s got to learn not to take these things so seriously, he thought as he walked to the onstage podium.

A competitive man himself, he didn’t mean to be hypocritical about Joss’s drive. He loved to win, and he was glad for the accolades. It wasn’t easy to make all-terrain tires memorable and entertaining, and he’d worked hard to integrate his team’s ideas with the client’s needs. But Joss worked hard at everything. If she kept up her pace and intensity, she’d have an ulcer.

Or worse.

His smile faltered at the dark thought, but he reclaimed it as he took his trophy and kissed Tessa’s cheek. Reciting his speech, he checked his impulse to look for Joss. Seeing her earlier tonight had been as galvanizing as the bell ringing at the opening of a boxing match, except fighting wasn’t what he wanted to do with her.

Not the only thing, anyway. There’d been a time when their verbal sparring had been a prelude to mind-blowing sex.

Despite telling himself he wouldn’t seek Joss out, he continued to subconsciously scan the crowd as he acknowledged the creative team he’d supervised. Ah—there she was, as gorgeous as ever and forcing herself to smile. Looking at her genial expression, no one would ever guess her fondest wish was to see Hugh shish-kebabbed on an open flame.

Last year, she’d shocked him by walking over from Mitman’s second reserved table to congratulate him. It had been the only time she’d voluntarily spoken to him between his landing the Stefan’s Salons account and their parting of ways during the investigation of Mitman.

He and Joss had worked in client recruitment, in no way associated with the departments accused of selling falsely manufactured data and using exaggerated focus-group numbers to cut costs and research time. But in spite of her blamelessness, after the industry scandal broke, Joss had become even more determined to prove herself than before—which he hadn’t realized was possible.

Knowing there were other awards still to be presented, Hugh wrapped up his remarks. “There are doubtless others I could thank, but you all don’t want to listen to me drone on when there are more important people in the room.” He winked at Tessa, who stood stage left.

Tessa was attractive, but she was no Joss McBride.

He returned to his seat, managing not to look in Joss’s direction again, but her features were already etched on his memory. She was wearing her hair back tonight, but he preferred it down, softly framing an oval face with a stubborn chin. Her slim nose and high forehead added classic elegance, but her smoky jade eyes and full mouth promised untamed sensuality.

If her face had left an indelible print on his mind, it was nothing compared to the impression her body had left on his. Joss could be as cool and tart as iced lemonade when she wanted to be, but he knew from the three glorious weeks he’d spent in her bed that the woman burned like living flame. Unfortunately for him, her passion also led to grudges, and when he’d won the account she’d been eyeing—and the resulting promotion—she’d refused to forgive him.

Her uncompromising stance was a prime example of her taking something personally. He’d been doing his job! Sure, she’d been interested in the account, but her pitches hadn’t accomplished anything, and rivalry had always been part of their relationship. He certainly wouldn’t have kicked her out of bed if the situation had been reversed. He wouldn’t have kicked her out of bed for selling state secrets to foreign governments.

More recently, Kristine Dillinger, a woman from his neighborhood, occasionally shared Hugh’s bed. Athletic and easygoing, Kristine was always up for a great weekend, whether it was going to a bed-and-breakfast in the country with early-morning hiking, or pizza and a leisurely night at his place. As long as they were both single, they got together when they felt like it and owed each other no phone calls or explanations in between. Their friendship was as comfortable as it was casual.

No where-did-he-see-himself-in-five-years, what-kind-of-provider-would-he-be analysis. He hated dates that felt like job interviews. Maybe she didn’t set off the internal bells and whistles that Joss had, but time spent with Kristine was a helluva lot more relaxing. He would have invited her tonight, but she would have been bored. He was bored by now, and he was one of the evening’s honorees.

A few months ago, he might’ve taken tonight more seriously, but he’d learned to loosen up. Unlike some people.

When the awards presentation ended, he found himself trapped in conversation with a gregarious copywriter from WOW Concepts. Hugh nodded at the copywriter’s predictions about the Dallas economy, but his focus was really on Joss as she moved through the throng of well-wishers. She’d taken off the scarlet-and-gold jacket she’d worn earlier, and the smooth curves of her exposed shoulders left him wanting to see more. His body hummed with awareness as she drew closer.

And what’s another word for that awareness? Tension. Joss was often intense, or tense, period. He didn’t need that in his life.

But needing and wanting were different. He knew from firsthand experience that, in the right circumstances, her intense focus was pretty damn hot.

Having abandoned all pretense of being involved in the conversation, Hugh glanced back at the copywriter. “I’m sorry, I just noticed an old friend trying to get my attention. Would you excuse me?”

He freed himself, but hadn’t taken two steps in Joss’s direction before she reached him.

“Hugh.” Her expression, both regal and grimly determined, called to mind heroic martyrs of bygone eras. Joss of Arc. “I just wanted to say congratulations.”

“Thanks.” He spared her the condescending crap about how, win or lose, it was an honor to be nominated and how her campaign had been deserving, too.

“Well.” She shifted her weight. “Guess I’ll see you again next year.”

The Dallas advertising community wasn’t so big that they never ran into each other, but she certainly didn’t seek him out. She was only speaking to him now because she felt obligated, the way football rivals shook hands after the game. Over her shoulder, Hugh noticed her boss, Wyatt Allen, shaking hands with Robert Kimmerman Sr. Graciously accepting second place must be in Vision’s mission statement.

Having fulfilled her obligation, Joss turned to go, but Hugh found he didn’t want to give her up yet. She’d always sparked something inside him, for better or worse, and he’d forgotten just how alive he felt around her.

“Wait…I never did buy you that drink.” Even as the words left his mouth, he wondered what he was doing. The woman detested him.

So you have nothing to lose. Besides, she might surprise him. Nostalgic interludes between ex-lovers happened all the time, and if she recalled their three weeks together with the same—

She narrowed her eyes in a scowl that brought his happy train of thought to a screeching halt. “You have got to be kidding me, Brannon.”

“What? A drink’s harmless.”

“Harmless, my butt.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re getting that look. Don’t even try to deny it.”

It had been worth a shot. “I seem to recall your liking ‘that look,’” he said with an unrepentant grin.

“I was young and stupid.”

“You were twenty-six. You’re barely twenty-eight now. And, Jocelyn, you’ve never been stupid.”

For a fleeting victorious moment, he had her speechless. But nothing good lasted forever.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” she quipped. “You were just an easy way to meet my quota.”

“You wound me.”

“I try.”

Didn’t he know it. Whether it was taking Southwestern cooking classes, futile attempts to train her cat or fleecing everyone else at the table in high-stakes poker, she exerted the same level of effort. Why couldn’t she have unproductive noncompetitive fun once in awhile?

And what degree of control-freak insanity did it take for someone to try to train a cat?

Hugh sighed. It wasn’t that he had no work ethic, it was just that his brother Craig’s heart attack had been a startling wake-up call. “Take care of yourself, J.”

“I…You, too.” She regarded him curiously, then shook her head. Within moments, she’d merged into the crowd, a flash of red among less colorful individuals.

As he drove home later, Hugh told himself it was best Joss hadn’t taken him up on his offer of a nightcap. Given their history, they would have ended up trying to outdrink one another, and alcohol poisoning was not his idea of a good time. Hugh may have gained new perspective since the collapse of his older brother, the attorney, this summer, but he still had a competitive nature thirty years in the making.

Growing up, he and his two brothers had competed over everything from athletics to academics to attention from their parents. There had been some friction—particularly between Hugh, to whom many things came easily, and Craig, who resented “losing” to someone three years his junior—but most of the brothers’ fighting had been of the short-lived let’s-just-deck-each-other-then-go-for-beer variety. Overall, the pressure they put on one another had spurred them to higher achievements. Since college, no one had challenged Hugh quite like that.

Until he’d met Joss.

Both ambitious junior execs on the fast-track to success, they’d been natural rivals for each other. Everyone said opposites attracted, but he and Joss mirrored each other, and he’d never wanted a woman more. In some ways, he’d been in peak form when working with her, but his time with Joss had also made him more like his workaholic brother Craig.

Hugh had once thought he and Joss brought out the best in each other. It was equally possible they brought out the worst.

DESPITE A BRIGHT NOONDAY SUN, the breeze that carried mist from the fountain in Williams Square was enough to chill Joss’s skin.

Emily, however, didn’t seem to mind. She nudged Joss off the sidewalk, toward the nine bronze mustangs caught in a frozen gallop across the plaza. The fountain sculpture was one of Emily’s favorite places, and they walked by anytime they had lunch in Las Colinas. Today, they’d shared stromboli at an Italian café overlooking Mandalay Canal. Joss had filled her friend in on the details of last night, and Emily had told her about the good book she’d read after Simon blew off their date for a “networking opportunity” with one of the college deans.

“Aren’t you cold?” Joss demanded. She had on a long-sleeved henley, while her brunette friend wore short sleeves.

“No, why?”

Why, indeed. Joss freely admitted that, of the two of them, Emily was warmer—inside and out. Which was why she deserved someone who fully appreciated her.

“Hey, Em…do you ever think about what it would be like to be with someone besides Simon?”

Emily’s eyes widened. “You mean like cheating on him?”

“No, I meant if things didn’t work out. Hypothetically.”

“Why wouldn’t they? Do you think I’m doing something wrong?”

“Of course not! Like I said, it was strictly a hypothetical question. I didn’t mean to alarm you.” Seeking divine assistance, Joss rolled her eyes heavenward. “Simon’s lucky to have you. Don’t let him make you feel inferior.”

“He’s not ‘making’ me feel anything. You know how I am, Joss.” With a sigh, Emily sat on a shadowed ledge near the fountain. “We aren’t all born with your self-confidence.”

Born with confidence…or just born to a very determined mother?

A memory surfaced of an elementary-school choir recital—Joss had loved to sing, despite tentative pitch, and she’d been looking forward to the concert. But when all the parents had filed into the auditorium, her knees had started knocking in time to the pianist’s metronome. Her voice squeaky with nerves, she’d still managed to warble through her stage fright.

She’d been filled with a huge sense of accomplishment and renewed confidence…until her mother announced on the drive home that she wasn’t about to let her daughter make such a public fool of herself again. If Jocelyn wanted to sing, Vivian would help her do it well. A week later, Joss had begun private voice lessons, with her mother’s full support.

The kind of support that ensured job security for therapists.

Giving up the sun that hadn’t been keeping her warm anyway, Joss sat next to her friend in the shade. “Trust me, Em, there are plenty of things I’m bad at. And you’re selling yourself short. Not everyone can teach. Or write.”

“Sure.” Emily pitched a penny into the softly gurgling water, and Joss wondered what today’s wish had been. “Put me on the other side of a piece of paper, or in front of a whole class, I’m fine. It’s one-on-one interactions that make me nervous.”

This came as no surprise to Joss. The two women had met when Mitman did some publicity work for the university, and though they’d hit it off pretty quickly, Emily was shy. The middle child between two boisterous brothers, Em was known for being quiet and accommodating—qualities that had led to her being hurt more than once, but also made her a soothing person to be around. Joss, at the other end of the spectrum, knew she wasn’t exactly lowkey, and appreciated the balance her friend helped provide. When Joss had first met David, she’d hoped he might be the romantic equivalent of a male Emily.

He’d been more the romantic equivalent of a brick.

What business did she really have trying to push Em to the realization that Simon was all wrong for her? Joss hadn’t had any more lasting success in her love life than her friend, whose pre-Simon relationships had included a compulsive liar and a man who waffled weekly between Em and his ex-wife, but was at least honest about it.

Thankfully, Emily changed the subject away from men entirely. “I was impressed with the improvements on the house, by the way. I went over to feed Dulcie, expecting a certified disaster, but it wasn’t as bad as you made it sound. I think maybe you’re just expecting too much too soon.”

“Who, me?”

The new house—rather, the seventy-year-old house she’d recently purchased—was either her pride and joy, or the albatross mortgaged around her neck for the next three decades. Depending on what day you asked.

She’d been en route to a subdivision of shinier modern homes with programmable digital thermostats and updated appliances when she’d driven by the neglected two-story for sale. It hadn’t been what she was looking for, but it had stood out among the houses she’d seen, with their cookie-cutter floor plans and treeless postage-stamp-size yards. Ultimately, the urge to perfect had been irresistible—she could buy the house at a bargain and reshape its raw appeal into her dream home.

Of course, recent business demands had thus far impeded her brilliant renovation schemes. And the “bargain” was costing her a fortune.

Emily’s continued reassurance was cheering. “The refinished dining-room floor looks terrific—I don’t understand why anyone carpeted over that hardwood in the first place!”

“Thanks. I plan to put hardwood in the foyer, too.” It was on her ever-growing to-do list.

“And I was really impressed with the progress on the wraparound porch. I made it all the way to the door without once worrying I was going to crash through rotting steps.”

Progress was being made, but the porch would have been done by now if the man Joss had hired didn’t have all manner of excuses for delaying. Weather, supplies, an emergency across town, his astrologist telling him Jupiter was in the wrong house for him to handle nails that day…Patience, she reminded herself. Rome wasn’t build in a day.

Maybe Caesar couldn’t find a decent contractor, either.

“All right, I suppose I am a little impatient. I just can’t wait to see what everything will look like once it all comes together.” Whatever century that was. “I’ve got to get a new water heater, though. And I still haven’t decided on colors for the downstairs bathroom or my bedroom.”

Emily laughed. “I would’ve decorated the bedroom first and let everything else sit for months.”

“I don’t think ‘sitting’ is an option for the water heater. It’s a disaster waiting to happen, and I haven’t finished my room because I just haven’t seen anything truly perfect yet. And then there’s that hideous kitchen…”

Joss was in the middle of painstakingly stripping the current wallpaper. Current only in the sense that it happened to be on the wall, not that it bore any resemblance to something presently fashionable. She’d been pleased with how easy it was to peel off the busy vertigo-inducing pattern, but then discovered the reason she’d been able to remove the paper so quickly was because it hadn’t actually been attached to the wall. Instead, there was a second print—less busy, just as ugly—beneath.

She’d now uncovered three strata left by previous generations. My kitchen, the suburban archeological dig. Joss was investigating interesting sociological issues, such as how the hell had avocado and gold become so popular in the first place?

Mercifully, the third layer of paper, a lovely shade of bordello red, appeared to be the last. Joss didn’t expect any more prints to pop up like never-ending clowns out of one of those little circus cars. The bad news, however, was that older wallpapers were considerably more difficult to remove than what was being manufactured these days, especially if the paper turned out to be “nonporous,” as her call-girl crimson was.

Now that Joss was back in town after her unsuccessful meeting with Neely-Richards, she needed to buy a puncturing roller and rent a wallpaper steamer. Probably not today, though. She already had a list of errands that might well take her into middle age, including Dulcie’s annual vaccinations this afternoon. The fact that the veterinarian was a great-looking guy helped compensate for the Siamese’s weeklong grudges after clinic visits. Joss glanced at her watch with a sigh.

“Lunch was great,” she said, “but I’m afraid I need to run. I’ve got to take Dulcie to see the cute vet at three, and I should get around to looking at tile samples for that downstairs bathroom. You don’t, by any chance, want to come with me and help narrow down a color scheme, do you?”

“Actually, I have to get going, too.” Emily stood. “I’ve got some work to do before Simon picks me up. We’re having an early dinner and catching a movie at that art house he likes.”

“He likes?”

“I like it, too.” Emily’s mumbled response didn’t change the fact that she went to most of the movies on her “must-see” list with Joss, then reportedly spent her dates with Simon squinting at foreign-film subtitles. “And he’s right about me—my horizons could use some broadening.”