Not Quite as Advertised

Dear Reader,

I’ve been living a double life. Oh sure, on the surface, I might seem low-key. The people who’ve seen my office—and weren’t too traumatized to speak afterward—would say I lean more toward chaos theory than perfectionism. But they just don’t know the sleep I’ve lost agonizing over the best way to phrase a single sentence. Or about that one Thanksgiving when, admittedly, I became a tad uptight in my attempts to mash the perfect potatoes. Hey, there is such a thing as smoothing out too many lumps.

I’ve learned the hard way that there’s a fine line between trying your best and trying too hard. But Jocelyn McBride, my alter-ego heroine, was raised to be a perfectionist and is convinced that she can solve all her problems by giving one hundred and ten percent—even when Joss’s newest problem is her ex-lover Hugh Brannon. When Joss and Hugh are made co-workers through an unexpected business merger, her well-choreographed life spins out of control like a drunken dance troupe. But through it all, she and Hugh learn that the secret to life and love, as with mashed potatoes, is balance.

If you enjoy Joss’s story, please check out my Web site at www.tanyamichaels.com for excerpts of upcoming books, reader giveaways and other fun information.

Happy Reading!

Tanya

“Joss, I don’t want anything to drink. I want—”

“There’s no good way to end that sentence, Hugh,” she said softly. “Except possibly ‘the Cowboys to get to the Super Bowl this year.’ But then, I’d probably be offended that you’re thinking about football right now.”

“Trust me, I’m not.”

Trust him? Easier said than done.

“I’ve missed you,” he told her.

“We work together,” Joss reminded him.

“That didn’t stop us before.”

As arguments went, it wasn’t his most convincing. “Yes, and didn’t that turn out swimmingly?”

Hugh wisely dropped the issue, choosing to return his dishes to the kitchen, then hovered in the hallway. “I guess I should go?”

As opposed to stay and have delicious sex? “I’d see you out, but…”

“You need to stay off that ankle.”

True. But what she’d really been thinking was that her knees might still be too weak from his kisses for her to stand.

Not Quite as Advertised

Tanya Michaels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

RITA® Award-nominated author Tanya Michaels has been reading books all her life, and romances have always been her favorite. She is thrilled to be writing for Harlequin—and even more thrilled that the stories she makes up now qualify as “work” and exempt her from doing the dishes after dinner. The 2001 Maggie Award winner lives in Georgia with her two wonderful children and a loving husband whose displays of support include reminding her to quit writing and eat something. Thankfully, between her husband’s thoughtfulness and that stash of chocolate she keeps at her desk, Tanya can continue writing her books in no danger of wasting away.

For more information on Tanya, her upcoming releases and periodic giveaways, please visit her Web site at www.tanyamichaels.com.

Books by Tanya Michaels

HARLEQUIN FLIPSIDE

6—WHO NEEDS DECAF?

HARLEQUIN DUETS

96—THE MAID OF DISHONOR

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

968—HERS FOR THE WEEKEND

986—SHEER DECADENCE

With heartfelt thanks to that loopy group of women who’ve given me unfailing friendship and support, advice on everything from babies to food to grammar, and more laughs than classic SNL and Python combined. Bless you guys for always being there.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

1

JOCELYN MCBRIDE was in hell. Who knew it would look so much like an airport?

In lieu of the more obvious horns and tail, the smug little man at the gate check-in counter was sporting an orange-and-purple vest with the East West Air logo, but, judging by the barely suppressed glee in his expression, he would enjoy the eternal torment of others. “Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am, but the plane has left the gate. Perhaps you were unaware of our company’s policy encouraging passengers to check in at least an hour in advance?”

“My flight out of Detroit was delayed,” Joss explained breathlessly, still winded from sprinting through O’Hare.

After a dismal breakfast meeting that morning, when she’d been told her agency was not getting the account, then being grounded for an hour because of mechanical difficulties, she’d finally arrived here in Chicago. She’d jogged up to the departure gate just in time to see her plane’s backside as it turned on the tarmac. That had been the topper—being mooned by a 717.

Eyebrows raised, the man with the receding hairline and conspicuously absent name badge consulted his computer screen. “This was a connection? I’m not showing any EWA—”

“It was with a different airline.” Joss enjoyed her job with Visions Media, a much smaller advertising agency than the last company she’d worked for, but the much smaller expense budget left something to be desired. Convenient travel plans, for instance.

“Oh, I see.” He smirked. “You chose to go with one of our competitors. How unfortunate they proved unreliable.”

Client-oriented herself, Joss had marveled in the past over the occasional rude waitress, condescending bank teller or postal worker who seemed on the verge of going, well, postal. Today, she should have expected it. The EWA agent was just par for the course here at purgatory’s country club.

“I realize the plane’s taxied away from the gate, but it hasn’t actually left the ground, right?” Hoping to win him over while there was still time, Joss attempted a bright smile. The result felt muddled, like the face-lift her mom’s friend Lacey had had. “Is there any chance we could call it back?”

“Oh, sure. We make it a point to inconvenience hundreds of passengers to accommodate the one who couldn’t be here at final boarding call.” His sarcasm sent her newly risen hopes plummeting like the stock market on Black Thursday.

Fighting the urge to abandon her own people skills and grab Mr. Helpful by his ugly polyester ascot, she reminded herself that any hint of violence would send airport security swarming.

Then again, a flying body tackle by a well-muscled guy would be the most action she’d seen since her breakup last month with David. And let’s face it, David wasn’t anything to write home about. No man had been, not since—

The gate agent heaved an impatient sigh. “There’s another flight in a couple of hours. Do you want me to book you on it, or not? According to the schedule, I should’ve been on my break three and a half minutes ago.”

And she should be en route to Dallas! The ADster awards gala was tonight, and her More Than Common Scents campaign for a local aromatherapist had been nominated.

“Yes.” She spoke through involuntarily clenched teeth. “Please get me on the very next plane.”

Joss had been in the ADster running last year, too, but had placed a frustrating second behind then coworker Hugh Brannon, who’d been nominated for a separate campaign. At the time, she’d been working for the ultraprestigious Mitman Marketing Solutions…and had only recently ended her affair with charming, competitive, sexy-as-sin Hugh. He was an incredible lover, but somehow his stealing a salon account out from under her had quelled her warmer feelings for the man.

Losing a promotion to him prior to the awards had been harsh; taking home a silver certificate in light of his gold trophy had been rock bottom. But, as any good geologist knew, you could get a lot lower than rock—there were whole layers of iron and crust and molten core. Joss probably shouldn’t have been so surprised when, a week later, her mother had called to ask if Joss was watching the news. Mitman Marketing had been charged with fraud. So much for prestige.

Now Joss was with Visions Media Group and back on top of her game, more than ready to face Hugh tonight. One of his print campaigns with the full-service agency Kimmerman and Kimmerman was up against her aromatherapy ads. Her employer was overjoyed just to have a nomination, but Joss wanted to win. She hadn’t been raised to appreciate second place.

Behind the counter, Mr. Helpful stabbed a few computer keys with his index finger. Then he stole a pointed glance at his watch—clearly her cue to genuflect with gratitude for his postponing his break to do her the favor of a seat assignment.

Next time, she was flying the friendly skies.

He handed over the new boarding pass in its orange-and-purple paper jacket. “I suggest you come to the gate early so that we don’t have to do this again.”

Deciding a mumbled thanks was the wisest, if not the most satisfying response, she walked away. As she headed for the lounge on the other side of the corridor, she dug her cell phone out of her purse and hit the preprogrammed button for the office.

“Visions Media Group.” The male voice that answered didn’t belong to receptionist Cherie Adams.

“This is Joss…Nick?”

“Yeah.” Like numerous advertising groups these days, Visions was small, made up of fewer than a dozen people. But they weren’t so tiny that the graphic design/IT guy usually played secretary.

“Where’s Cherie?”

“She had a dental emergency,” he said. “Where are you? Over Indiana?”

“No.” She sat on a padded vinyl stool in the passenger bar and darted a malevolent glance over her shoulder toward the now abandoned gate counter. “I missed my connection out of O’Hare.”

“Missed your connection? Joss, the awards are tonight!”

You don’t say. Nick was a good guy, though, so she spared him her cranky sarcasm.

“I’m on a flight at five,” she said. “My car’s at DFW, and if traffic’s not too bad, I should be able to just make it. I’m going to call Emily now. If she can drop off my dress and shoes, can you meet me in the lobby tonight?”

“Sure…How’d it go with Neely-Richards?”

“The presentation seemed to go well, but then Neely told me over breakfast that they ‘went in another direction.’” The industry lingo for “thanks, but not a chance” stuck uncomfortably in her throat. “They voted last night to name a firm in New York their exclusive agency of record.”

“To handle promotion of stores they’re opening out West? Too bad they didn’t come to this brilliant decision before we ate the expense of the trip.”

“It happens.” She attempted to sound philosophical. Winners did not cultivate bad attitudes. “Don’t worry about it. I have two meetings next week I feel really good about.”

“Right. Sorry things aren’t going better now, though.”

So was she. Her boss, Wyatt Allen, had been a bit preoccupied lately, almost tense, and if he was worried about business, this contract would have really helped.

“See you in a few hours, then,” Nick said. “It would really stink if you didn’t get to accept your aromatherapy trophy in person.”

She groaned. “There’s a reason we hired you to do visual and not copy.” Her friend’s sense of humor was a lot like the common cold—there was no known cure, and you just had to suffer through it. She liked his optimism, though.

Her second call was to her best friend, business-communications professor Emily Gruber. “Hey, Em. It’s me. You have a minute before class?”

“You mean the sixty seconds I’m using to magically finish all the grading I put off?” Emily’s sigh was rueful. “I know, I know—I’m worse than the students. But these mock cover letters and résumés make me fear for the future of the country.”

Joss laughed. “It’s barely October. You have the rest of the semester to whip your students into shape.” Well, not so much “whip,” as gently nudge. Emily’s classes always had high numbers because she was known for being something of a soft touch. “I won’t keep you, but can I ask a quick favor?”

“At least you ask,” her friend said cheerfully. “Simon just lets me know what I can do for him.”

Joss bit back her first instinctive reply. Much as she loved Emily, Joss had never really warmed to Em’s boyfriend—Dr. Simon Lowe, Ph.D. and SOB. The pompous man took Emily for granted. But, since Joss herself was calling to impose, perhaps now wasn’t the optimal time to lecture her friend on telling people no.

“I’m stuck in Chicago,” Joss said, “and have the ADsters tonight. Would it be possible for you to run by my house later, pick up my dress and some essentials and leave them at the office?”

“Sure, no problem. Dulcie will appreciate the extra visit.” Since Joss didn’t know any of her new neighbors very well, Emily had agreed to stop by and feed the chocolate-point Siamese while Joss was gone. “Will you have time to get to the office, or is someone bringing your clothes to the awards?”

“Nick’s taking care of that. You are an absolute lifesaver, Em. The only other person with a key is my mother.”

And, at the moment, Joss would rather lie on the runway and let a plane roll over her than call Vivian McBride. No doubt her mom would have had the forethought to travel with her ensemble for the evening, just to be safe. Plus, if Joss phoned, Vivian would automatically ask about the results of the business trip. Nothing solidified the thrill of failing quite like sharing the failure with her mother.

“Just let me know what to grab,” Emily said. “We want to make sure you look fabulous for your big win.”

As Joss listed everything she needed, she experienced a twinge of anxiety. First, Nick’s remark about Joss taking home the trophy, now Emily’s assurance of a “big win.” Optimism or not, the word jinx came to mind.

She was proud of her work—you didn’t succeed in advertising by feigning modesty—but underestimating the opposition would be a mistake. Hugh Brannon could charm his way into a nunnery, and he often produced campaigns as slick as he was…even if some of his accounts with Kimmerman and Kimmerman did rely heavily on the marketing equivalent of name-dropping, substituting celebrities for creativity.

“Joss? You still there?”

“Yeah. I was just trying to think if there was anything else I need. Thanks again, I really appreciate this.”

“You’re welcome. And good luck tonight!”

She needed it, Joss thought as she punched in her home number to check her machine. Two messages, both for Bob—the apparent former owner of her new phone number. She tried not to think about the fact that he got more calls than she did, but her mind just wandered back to her nervousness about tonight.

Hugh Brannon had already beat her once, and even if he didn’t pull it off a second time, there were four other deserving nominees in the regional print-campaign category. Her stomach knotted. Where’s your winning attitude, Jocelyn?

Maybe it had taken the flight to Dallas without her.

SINCE HER PLANE from Chicago left on schedule and she hadn’t checked any luggage for the airline to lose, Joss arrived at the downtown awards site with eight and a half minutes to spare. And here I thought I’d be pressed for time to get ready. Despite knowing she didn’t have to be inside the ballroom at the exact time printed on her invitation, years of hearing “Perfection begins with punctuality, Jocelyn” rang in her head.

Ask not for whom the annoying voice tolls…

As promised, Nick Sheperd stood in the hotel lobby, shifting his weight and looking uncomfortable.

“Thanks so much,” she greeted him breathlessly. “I couldn’t very well wear this to the awards.” “This” was a utilitarian navy pantsuit perfect for business travel, over a crisp white blouse that had been rendered considerably less so when a fellow passenger dumped his soft drink on her midturbulence.

“I’m just glad you’re finally here,” Nick said, a relieved expression on his lean, unshaven face. “I was beginning to feel stupid standing with a dress and a bunch of flowers.”

“Flowers?” She’d noticed her garment bag draped over a nearby powder-blue love seat. Taking a second look, she saw the vase of red roses on the tiled floor, and sighed. “David, I presume?”

It was identical to the arrangement she’d received from her ex-boyfriend on Valentine’s Day, her birthday and their six-month anniversary. They hadn’t made it to seven.

Nick nodded, the overhead light reflecting off the mousse he’d used to carefully spike his hair tonight. “He sent them to the office, and I brought them with me so they wouldn’t wilt over the weekend.”

She studied the flowers. When you care enough to send the very cliché. Maybe she should be touched that David remembered her big night, but it was hard to work up any real emotion now when he hadn’t shown any throughout their relationship. While she’d given the relationship her customary one hundred and ten percent, David fell back on pat gestures.

He was the type of person who preferred the ease of gift certificates to actually picking out something personal and would buy ten copies of the same generic birthday card to send to friends and family. She, on the other hand, had already started looking for the perfect Christmas present for Emily, even though it was only October. Joss was in the habit of finishing her holiday shopping before Thanksgiving.

In all fairness to David, he’d never made an effort to hide his minimalist approach to relationships. One of the things she’d found attractive about him in the beginning was how different he’d been from charming ubersalesman Hugh, who gave women the same full-court press he gave prospective clients. Joss should have ended things with David sooner, but breakups were failures, and she’d been loath to admit another romantic defeat.

She scooped up her garment bag, needing to correct her soda-stained clothes and limp travel hair before anyone else saw her. “I’m going to dash into the ladies’ room and change. See you inside?”

“Or…I could wait here if you want. Then I can run your stuff out to your car while you go in and mingle with more important people.” His hazel eyes twinkled. “I know it’ll cause you actual physical pain if you’re late.”

Ignoring the teasing dig, she smiled. “That would be great, Nick. I’d love a chance to talk to Wyatt before the dinner presentation starts.” She was hoping she could pick up some clues in casual conversation about what was bothering her employer.

Perhaps she was overreacting to his recently quiet mood and a few frowns, but a little paranoia was understandable after her last employer had been indicted for fraud.

Carrying her dress and purse, Joss hurried toward the bathroom. She hung the garment bag on the inside of a stall door, then quickly stripped. As she wiggled into a pair of panty hose, the nylons snagged on her thumbnail, and the resulting run spread like a jagged fungus of tiny multiplying rectangles. Giving in to a rare impulse, she let loose a satisfying string of obscenities that summed up her day thus far.

“Ahem,” someone said from an adjoining stall.

Whoops.

“Sorry!” Joss called. “Didn’t realize anyone else was in here.” With the way her day was going, the person she’d offended was tonight’s awards presenter. Joss had a brief, painful picture of going up on stage in shredded hose to accept an award from a woman glaring at her.

Joss glanced hopefully at the bottom of the bag.

Nestled beneath the hem of her strapless muted red dress, with her shoes and travel jewelry case, was the wished-for extra pair. Bless you, Em. The slit in her calf-length skirt was meant to reveal a little leg, and Joss would have worried all night that the run was visible.

One shimmy, zip and shrugged-into bolero jacket later, she was fully dressed. She hung her discarded suit in the garment bag and opened the door, glancing sheepishly at the pinch-faced woman washing her hands.

What Joss would’ve liked was time to completely redo her makeup and put curlers in her shoulder-length layered blond hair. What she settled for was a loose chignon and fresh lipstick. She exchanged her small gold hoop earrings for a pair of elongated ruby teardrops, then returned to the lobby, where she found Nick pacing and jostling his car keys.

He stopped long enough to grin in approval. “You did that in five minutes? If you ever decide to have a meaningless affair with a much younger guy, let me know.”

Four years was not much younger. “I can’t think about you that way, Nicky. You’re like the annoying little brother I never had.”

He laughed and held out his hand for her stuff. “Keys? Wyatt and Penelope just went inside.”

Wyatt Allen, a grizzled veteran of the advertising world, ran Visions Media Group. His wife, Penelope, had made participating in various charities her full-time occupation, but she chipped in from time to time at Visions, helping with paperwork and receptionist duties.

Joss handed Nick her key ring, and he pivoted to go, pausing at the last second with an expression of endearing uncertainty shadowing his face. “How do I look?”

She smiled inwardly. Ad execs stuck to a professional dress code, but people who were strictly on the creative end were allowed, even encouraged, to project a less orthodox image. Everyone at Visions knew Nick aspired to a wardrobe that would help keep Ralph Lauren in business, but in an underdressed attempt to look the part, he now wore an iridescent unstructured blazer with a striped shirt and dark funky jeans.

“Like the opening act at a rock concert,” she told him.

“Thanks.” Nick turned toward the revolving doors. “I think.”

Joss went to the ballroom, pausing just inside the doorway to let her eyes adjust to the dimmed chandeliers and flickering candles on the white linen tablecloths. Bland jazz played through speakers in the back of the room, but it was mostly drowned out by the hum of conversation. Maybe being late was no longer fashionable—the impressive crush of people made it difficult to find the round table reserved for Visions Media Group.

“Quite a crowd tonight,” a man said near her ear.

She almost jumped. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself against Hugh Brannon’s husky bedroom voice and the bubbles of nervous anticipation fizzing through her system. Obviously the crowd wasn’t big enough.

2

“HUGH.” JOSS TURNED, confident in her composed expression. She’d won plenty of poker games, this one was just played without cards. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”

Viscerally speaking, her words were true. What woman wouldn’t be pleased to see a tall tuxedoed man who looked like Hugh? With his thick black hair, short in the back but longer and sexily disheveled around his face, his laser-blue eyes and finely chiseled flawless features, he was hot without even trying. But then he’d smile.