Simply Sex

The clink of jewelry signaled the arrival of the receptionist—Gail was her name, he thought—and he was relieved by the interruption.

“Sorry, but I have Harold Rheingold from Inside Phoenix on the line, Janie. It’s about the article.”

“Oh. I should take this.” She looked apologetically at him.

“I can do the Close-Up,” Gail said, bustling to the camera, her large bosom jostling for air behind a tight purple blazer.

Jane looked uncertainly at him.

“We’ll be fine,” he said, figuring the woman couldn’t possibly have Jane Fall’s intensity, sense of mission or intuition. He’d get Gail to cut it short.

Once Jane was gone, Gail pushed a pencil into her piled-up red hair and looked at him over half-glasses trimmed in rhinestones. “You’re one lucky man to have Janie Falls on the case. She found my husband for me, you know.”

“You were a client?”

“Nope. I was interviewing for the receptionist job and Wayne, the light of my life, was installing phones. Before he could say ‘Can you hear me now?’ Janie had matched us. And Wayne is the song in my heart, let me tell you. She’ll find you yours.”

“I hope so.” He did. He craved a bond with one special person. Yeah, getting married would help his career, but what he really wanted was someone to grow old with. Someone to stand side by side with, facing life’s challenges, enjoying its triumphs. A soul mate, corny as that sounded, though he’d never say that out loud to anyone.

Gail bent to study him through the viewfinder, making him feel like a bug under a microscope.

“I think I should explain what I’m looking for in a mate,” he said to hurry her along. If they knew what he wanted, the women could self-select. He didn’t want to disappoint anyone.

Gail tapped a finger to her lip. “Not sure that’s compelling, but we can always edit it out. Okay…action!”

Action? They were in Hollywood now? “I’m hoping for someone comfortable enough in her career that she can be flexible about mine. There are social events and charity projects related to the firm, so she should enjoy that. She should also be an independent thinker, a self-starter and a team player.”

“Hon, do you want her to marry you or work for you?”

“Oh. Sounded like a job description?” On the other hand, too many couples got caught up in chemistry and learned later their lives didn’t mesh.

“You’re not putting in an order at the Wife Factory. Try selling her on you.”

“So I should explain that I’m—”

“Not the ‘self-starter, team player’ bit. Give me something tender and sensitive.”

“Yes, but—”

“Even independent, self-starting team players want roses and poetry. I’ll walk you through it, don’t worry.”

Gail swung into action, directing every aspect of his performance, from his body angle, facial expression and vocal quality to the words he used. She yelled “cut” and “action” until he had a headache, before finally declaring it a “wrap,” and offering to show him the “rough cut.”

He didn’t have time. He was hopelessly late for the meeting with Tuttleman and McKay. Besides, he couldn’t bear seeing what she’d gotten him to say. He’d blurted the Sunday-morning-and-the-Times fantasy and confessed his deepest hopes. What sensible woman wanted a sweaty, desperate lawyer blathering on about melding two lives into one?

He’d need a redo. With Jane, this time, not Gail Ford Coppola, who kept saying, “Go deeper, no, deeper, give me the inner Cole.” He hoped to hell his computerized personality inventory netted him Potentials, because all the inner Cole would earn him was therapy.

2

“OF COURSE I’ll come out for the retreat,” Kylie said to Garrett McGrath, her future boss, swerving to miss a minivan. “And the account meetings are no problem.” Her heart pounded high and tight from the near-accident and the stress of easing the impact of her delayed start date in L.A. Plus, if she didn’t get the artwork on her front seat to the printer in ten minutes, her client’s grand opening would be ruined.

“Just think of me as a satellite office for these few extra weeks,” she said, wishing Garrett had waited just an hour to return her call. Who knows what other promises she’d make in her frantic effort to survive the drive and make him happy? She’d already promised two trips to L.A. and an entire weekend for the firm retreat.

“That sounds workable,” Garrett said in the melodic drawl that had been the voice of America’s cushiest toilet paper in the eighties. She’d mollified him, thank God, but how would she manage all he’d asked, along with closing out her own clients and rescuing Janie?

“We need your fresh voice in the room, Kylie.”

Hearing those glorious words from the genius of Simon, McGrath and Bellows, she knew she’d do it if it killed her. She honked at a woman applying mascara at a green light, then barreled after her on the yellow.

She’d come to Garrett’s attention by winning a national ad award for her campaign for an effective handgun-locking device. He’d searched her out and offered her the chance of a lifetime.

Saying yes had meant closing down her two-year-old agency, but the honor had been too great to reject. The professional validation was enormous and she hoped to learn tricks to compensate for her weaknesses. Besides, she told herself, with the prestige of a few years at S-Mickey-B, as the firm was affectionately known in the marketing world, she’d draw clients like flies when she reopened her practice later on. The month-to-month financial struggle had been more daunting than she’d expected. She wasn’t that sure of herself.

“Just clear your conflict fast,” Garrett said, “so we can have you all to ourselves.” His words made her heart swell with pride and squeeze with pressure. Her already-knotted stomach turned inside out with all she had to do.

At least she’d made progress promoting Personal Touch over the past week, including scoring a profile at a trendy rag with the right demographic, but neither she nor Janie had yet gotten the suit-happy client on the phone. Soon she’d have to look at hiring an attorney. Big bucks they didn’t have, dammit.

She shifted her gaze from the traffic to her dashboard clock. Seven minutes before Sun Print closed and her client, Dagwood Donuts, was out of luck.

“I’d like your thoughts on a campaign for Home Town Suites,” Garrett continued at the leisurely pace of someone not braving murderous traffic with a cell phone pressed to her ear and a client’s future on her passenger seat. “Maybe you can sketch some ideas when you have time.”

Time? Time? She had no time. A Crystal Water truck screeched to a stop in front of her. “Damn!” She slammed on her brakes.

“Excuse me? Is that a problem?” Garrett said.

“I was swearing at traffic, not you, Mr. McGrath.” A collision with the mountain of water before her seemed welcome at the moment. It was October, but the desert heat hung on like desperate fingertips on a ledge. Her suit was lightweight, but dark blue—chosen to reinforce her authority—and it was baking her alive.

She let Garrett rattle on about branding and niche marketing, while she wove through traffic like James Bond, praying any passing police would be too awed by her technique to ticket her. Wrapping up the conversation at last, leaving Garrett content and her overloaded, she scored a neighborhood shortcut and roared into a Sun Print parking spot just in time. She grabbed the artwork CD and raced inside.

Twenty minutes later, she exited, mission accomplished. Shaky with relief, she smiled at the dropping sun and slid behind the wheel, noticing she’d gotten ink on her fingers from admiring some freshly printed flyers—you had to compliment the pressmen. They were where the ink met the paper in her biz.

Glancing in the mirror, she saw her blouse collar had black fingerprints, too. Ruined. Along with the pricey panty hose she’d snagged along the way. Collateral damage was inevitable when you worked as hard as she did.

She was on the street headed home when her cell emitted the music she’d assigned Janie’s calls. Unwilling to risk another accident, she zipped into the closest parking lot to call her back. Fleetingly, she noticed the marquee above her head: Totally Nude. All You Can Eat Businessman’s Buffet. She’d parked at a strip club. Yuck. Middle-aged salesmen ogling boob jobs while they inhaled ambrosia salad and bean dip. Strip clubs seemed so desperate.

Of course, sexual frustration made her do strange things, too—pant over Cosmo’s naked chefs issue, devour erotic romance novels and think wicked thoughts about cucumbers. Masturbation was a pale second to the joys of a warm and willing man. Where was one when she needed him?

“I need your help ASAP,” Janie said when she answered, her voice thin with tension.

“Take a slow breath, Janie Marie.”

“I’m okay,” she said, but she sounded like someone had wrapped a rubber band around her vocal cords.

“Breathe, Janie. Consider it a personal favor.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake.” She huffed in a couple of irritated breaths. “There. Are you happy?”

“Yes, I am. Now what’s up?”

“I need you to fill in on a date.” Over the past few weeks, as problems mounted, Kylie had stood in for missing matches a number of times. There’d been a mistake on the Web site which had married couples appearing as available and Gail had double-booked a few people. Kylie’s job was to be polite and genial and noncommittal and keep the client around until the right match could be made.

“What happened this time?”

“Gail got overly enthusiastic. Turns out the client’s match is in London right now.”

“I love Gail, but she’s not much of a receptionist. She’s never at her desk, for one thing.”

“She’s my entire sales force. Everywhere she goes she pitches Personal Touch.”

“When the money turns around, hire a real receptionist, okay? Let Gail do what she’s good at full-time.”

“Will you do the date?”

“Just tell the guy there’s been a mistake.”

“He’s a lawyer. Unhappy lawyers file lawsuits. This is his first date with us and he’s barely squeezing in the time. I’m afraid he’ll bail. You’re so good at smoothing. The woman in London is his perfect match.”

Someone honked at her from behind. She looked in her rearview to see the guy motioning her forward. What the…? Then she spotted the low Jack-In-The-Box sign beside his car and realized she wasn’t parked in the strip club lot. She was blocking the fast-food drive-thru lane next door.

“Just a sec,” she said to Janie, then rolled forward to order a mint-chocolate-chip milkshake. Might as well get something out of the mistake, right? “Tell me about this guy,” she said on a sigh.

“Thank you, thank you, Kylie! His name’s Cole Sullivan and he’s smart and serious and handsome. You’ll love him.”

“I’m going to apologize to him, not marry him, Janie,” she said, reaching to take the milkshake from the clerk.

“You have twenty minutes to get there.”

“Twenty minutes? It’s tonight. Now?” In her alarm, she squeezed the cup and icy green sludge slid down her jacket and plopped onto her navy blue lap. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Don’t swear at me. I won’t ask you again. Jeez.”

“I’m not swearing at you, Janie. I’m swearing at the mound of ice cream in my lap.”

“The what?”

“Never mind.” She dabbed at the mess with a wad of napkins and planned out her best route through rush-hour traffic. The things she did for love. Someone else’s love, that is.

DEBORAH RAMSDALE was twenty minutes late, Cole realized, glancing at his watch. Not a good sign on a first date. She was an attorney—international law—so she knew the value of a minute. He couldn’t help wondering if she’d seen his desperate video and changed her mind altogether.

He’d taken Gail’s word that this lawyer was perfect for him, since he’d been unable to check out her video at Personal Touch. Brunette with a breezy cut, medium height, a tad tense, but you’ll fix that, was how Gail had described the woman when she’d called him. Gail was a trip.

But the tense brunette with the breezy cut was getting later by the minute. Cole swallowed his disappointment. At noon he’d zipped out to buy a new casual shirt. The salesgirl at Neiman Marcus had declared it flattering against his skin, letting her fingers linger on his shoulders longer than was strictly necessary to check the fit.

He’d had hopes that Deborah would let her fingers linger, too. He’d cut out of the office an hour early to change into the shirt and black jeans and to do a quick pickup at his apartment, even changing his sheets, just in case they ended up at his place and things…progressed.

If she didn’t show, he’d go home and work, he reasoned. With no date, he’d get more sleep and head into the office early Saturday morning. Larry Langford, the non-golfing partner, was usually there by eight, so he’d score some dedication points. Not so bad, after all.

Except his neighbor Betsy was bringing her dog Radar over in the morning. So, he’d bring the dog to the office with him. Betsy had assured him that Radar was cheerfully self-sufficient, but he didn’t want to leave the poor thing alone in a strange apartment on the first day.

Convinced he’d been stood up, he rose to leave, then noticed a woman had just walked in. She searched the room, taking in each table, rejecting each in turn, until she caught sight of him and their gazes locked. For just a second, he thought he heard bells, but it was only a cash register ringing up a bar bill.

She shot him a relieved and radiant smile and headed his way, weaving quickly among the tables, catching all eyes—especially male—as she went. She looked…famous…important…and very pretty.

So this was Deborah. He hadn’t counted on beauty, but he wasn’t sorry. Wow.

She’d been held up at work, he concluded, since she wore a business suit over a great figure. Or maybe changing a tire, he amended when she got close enough for him to see black smudges on her cheek and collar. Then he noticed blotches of pale green on her jacket and skirt. A food fight perhaps?

“Cole?” Her smile overcame every shred of dishevelment. “So sorry I’m late. Traffic was bad and I was clear across town.” Her eyes, a sparkling green, were the shiniest he’d ever seen, and he thought he saw a flicker of attraction. Jane was good. Talk about “potential.”

“Deborah?” he said.

“No, but I’m here on her behalf.” She made as if to sit, so he pulled out a chair. She scooted in so fast he was left holding thin air. A take-charge woman. He liked that. Except—

“You’re not Deborah?” His soaring hope sank like a stone. He sat across from her.

“Let me explain. I’m Kylie Falls.”

“Falls? Are you related to—?”

“Janie? Yes. We’re sisters.”

“You don’t look alike.” Janie was tall and blond, while this woman was petite with short, dark hair. Not medium, not brunette, and more intense than tense. She seemed to have gathered the loose energy around them, like reining in wild horses, turning them into a team in her hands.

“Deborah was called away to London, Cole. Gail will reschedule when Deborah returns and I just want to apologize on Janie’s behalf for the mix-up and the delay.”

A cell phone tinkled. She lifted a finger, smiled apologetically, then whipped the phone out and to her ear. “Candee?” She turned slightly away for privacy. “I made it, but barely. Watched them load it myself. It’ll make the Sunday circulars and ValuPak drops… Mmm-hmm… That’s why I get the big bucks. Send four-dozen Dagwood glazed for the crew at Sun Print, please. Thanks.”

She smelled good, too, he noticed. Something light, not sweet. Sporty, he thought, was what the magazines called it. No wedding ring. She’s not Deborah, he reminded himself.

“Gotta run. I’m at dinner… No, as a matter of fact, I’m not alone.” She glanced at Cole, then dropped her gaze. “I do too have a life. Say goodbye, or I’ll ruin yours.”

She put the phone away and he couldn’t help watching her breasts move beneath her jacket. “Sorry. My secretary. I had a last-minute thing to take care of.” Catching him mid-ogle, she glanced down at herself. “I’m a mess.”

He cringed at getting caught drooling, though she’d had the grace to pretend he was noting her grooming. Classy lady.

“Never drink and drive. Or at least, not a mint milkshake.”

“You look fine,” he said. Good enough to eat. He changed the subject. “Sounded like your secretary was surprised you weren’t alone.”

“I’m more or less a workaholic and Candee cuts me no slack.”

“Me, too, but all attorneys are workaholics, so no one cuts anyone slack.”

“And we know you carved out time for this date, Cole. Janie deeply regrets the error and we’d like to treat you to dinner.”

“That’s not necessary.” He had a frozen pasta thing in his freezer and the Littlefield work in his briefcase.

“I insist.”

The stubborn flicker in her eyes intrigued him and made him say, “Only if you’ll join me.”

“Of course.” He could tell she’d half hoped he’d let her escape with just the bill. “Janie would never forgive me if I left and some beautiful woman snatched you up before Deborah gets back.”

“That’s not likely.”

“Sure it is. You’re a very attractive man.” Sexual interest flared again in her face, sparking a pointless heat in him that he enjoyed immensely.

She looked at his empty martini glass. “Gin, vodka or something more elaborate?”

“Gin, neat, olives.”

“Ah. A traditionalist.”

The waiter appeared on cue and she ordered another for him and one for her before Cole could object.

Not that he wanted to. He intended to work when he got home, but how could he pass up the sting of gin while looking over a frosted glass into this woman’s shiny eyes? “I’d arm wrestle you for the check, but something tells me I’d lose.”

She jammed her elbow onto the table, braced for forearm battle. “Want to try me?” Her tone held mischief and challenge. Go for it, big guy.

“Too many men watching you. My ego couldn’t take the hit if you beat me.”

“Come on.” She seemed to think he was just flattering her.

“I’m not kidding. Every man in the room is sneaking glances.”

She blushed, which had the effect of making her eyes look greener. “They can’t believe I haven’t been kicked out as a transient.” She brushed at her stained jacket.

“Trust me, that’s no problem. But you do have a little…” He brushed at his cheek to show her where a smudge remained.

She scrubbed the spot. “Gone?”

“Not quite.” He reached out a finger, then thought better of it and dampened his napkin in his water glass to wipe her cheek. Their eyes locked. Energy surged between them.

“Thanks.” She dried what remained of the water with a finger and they both took a shaky breath.

“So, Deborah’s in London,” he said, reminding himself why they were smiling and breathing at each other.

“She’ll be back in four weeks. On the fourth.”

“A month?”

“Sounds long, I know. Maybe Janie could connect you two by phone.”

“I can wait. This was a dry run on making time for a social life and it hasn’t exactly been easy.” He regretted leaving work to buy a new shirt and changing sheets for Deborah. Though he wasn’t quite sorry about meeting Kylie, even if it was a waste of time.

When their drinks arrived a second later, he raised his glass. “Here’s to a happy mistake.”

“Absolutely.” Her eyes gleamed more richly. She seemed relieved he wasn’t angry about the mix-up, but there was delight there, too. She wasn’t sorry, either.

He took a sip of the drink, relishing the chill, the burn, the smell of juniper and Kylie’s eyes. “So,” he said, setting down his glass, embarrassed that he couldn’t take his eyes off her. “You work for Personal Touch?”

“Oh, no.” She almost shuddered. “I have a PR and marketing business. I’m just helping Janie out with some promotions. And I want you to know this mistake is not typical.”

“No need to apologize again. I’m paid up through the year.” He touched her hand. The contact was electric and his entire being lit up. Ridiculous. He’d just met the woman. But he’d been celibate for a long time.

She took a harsh breath, so he knew the reaction had at least been mutual. “So, you enjoy the law?” she asked, clearly changing the subject.

“Very much. I’m in corporate law. Benjamin, Langford and Tuttleman. Mostly mergers and acquisitions.” Then he caught himself, remembering his video ordeal. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear about my work.”

“Oh, yes I do. Talk to me about it.” She wiggled into her chair, resituating herself as if she anticipated some thrilling tale of due-diligence derring-do.

Her breasts swelled under the ice cream–stained jacket, reminding him how hot she was, but he forced himself to talk about the all-important Littlefield case and was soon engrossed in the topic. She asked good questions and he found himself jotting down an idea or two she sparked in him.

Somewhere in there the waiter took their orders of steak and the restaurant’s signature Caesar salad. Kylie selected a terrific pinot noir—a prime selection in Wine Spectator, he recalled—proving she had taste as well as intelligence and beauty.

He hoped Deborah Ramsdale was like her. He’d love evenings spent this way, with time zipping by, words flying, warmth and connection growing. Maybe his time would have been better spent working at home, but he didn’t give a damn. It was more than the loosening effect of the second martini. He plain liked Kylie.

“So, you have your own PR firm,” he said. “How did that happen?” He settled in to listen to her describe with animation and energy how she’d come to start K. Falls PR, who her clients were, what campaigns she’d created.

Then she told him she was closing it down and moving to L.A. in a month. He felt a punch of regret. As though he’d caught the tail end of something wonderful about to tear out of his world. The woman was a stand-in, here to apologize and buy his dinner. They would never see each other again.

“What’s wrong?” Kylie stopped herself in the middle of gushing over the S-Mickey-B offer. Cole Sullivan was looking at her as if he’d lost his best friend all of a sudden.

“It’s stupid,” he said. “Just that you’re leaving town. And I’m enjoying this…the dinner…and you.”

He blushed the most adorable pink. The guy was a hottie, with a sturdy and graceful face, warm brown eyes ready to sparkle at the slightest pleasure and her favorite mouth—sensuous, but masculine. Lucky Deborah Ramsdale.

“Me, too,” she said, flattered by his reaction. “I’m enjoying you, too.” The thrill of attraction had every nerve tight and she liked the guy, felt as if she knew him far better than she actually did. He was a workaholic and a good listener, just like her. If she weren’t leaving town, she’d want more dinners like this. Hell, she’d want more than that. She wanted him. That sexy mouth, those strong hands, those amused eyes drinking in her naked body.

Stop, stop. She was simply crazed with sexual frustration. The first attractive man she’d met in a while had her wiggling in her chair ready to meet him under the table for some mad groping.

“Tell me about this award you won,” he said, sounding embarrassed by his admission. So, she told him about Lock-It and its success and how Garrett McGrath had searched her out and about why it made sense to put her company on hold while she built her success. She almost admitted her doubts about making it on her own, her sense that she lacked the brilliance required to really succeed.

He seemed deeply interested in her ideas. His comments were pertinent and insightful. He wasn’t just waiting for a chance to talk again. And he kept smiling as if she delighted him.

And that turned her on. In a way, her reaction was odd. She deliberately hooked up with guys who were different from her—laid-back, easygoing, with jobs, not careers. Cole was very much like her—ambitious and driven—so she would expect to feel kinship, not passion.