Marrying the Manhattan Millionaire

“Why not?” she replied.

“Ah. There’s a good sport.”

She doubted he would think so when she’d culled half of his accounts. That was her goal. Maybe then he’d leave New York again. In the interim, she could be magnanimous and humor him. “To your win tonight.”

As Sam reached for her wine, Michael had the nerve to tack on, “And the one last month. You haven’t forgotten the Clio, have you?”

“No. It’s fresh in my mind,” she assured him, twirling the thin stem of her glass between her thumb and fingers. Half of his accounts at Grafton Surry? Why stop there? She wanted them all. “To your win, both tonight and last month.” Just before taking a sip of her wine she added, “May they be your last.”

His laughter came as a surprise, erupting as it did just after he managed to choke down a swallow of bourbon. She remembered that laugh. There’d been a time when she’d loved hearing it.

“I thought there were no hard feelings,” he sputtered.

“None whatsoever.” She nodded toward the award. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t plan to be the one holding that thing next year.”

“It sounds as if you’ve got a serious case of trophy envy, Sam.” He picked up the Addy and held it out to her. His tone bordered on seductive when he leaned close and whispered, “Want to touch it?”

His words awakened needs that had nothing to do with advertising or awards, and stirred up memories of quiet mornings, lazy afternoons and late nights when temptation had turned into passion and obliterated all else.

“It’s heavier than it looks,” he went on. “But, damn, it feels so good.”

So good.

The scent of his cologne wrapped around Sam, pulling her in. Sex. She remembered what it had been like with him, how glorious it had felt. She exhaled sharply and pushed both Michael and the award away.

“Thanks, but I’ll wait until I’m alone.” She cleared her throat, felt her face heat at what could only be called a Freudian slip. “I mean, I’ll wait until I have my own.”

He studied her a moment longer than was comfortable for her. Then he shrugged and returned the trophy to the table. “Suit yourself. Of course, that might be a while. The competition in your category has gotten pretty stiff these days.”

“Is that your ego talking?”

He snagged a handful of nuts. “Call it what you will. Results are what matter. And we both know what those have been lately.”

“Awards aren’t everything,” she reminded him.

“No. They’re the icing on the cake. In the end, accounts are what matter.”

“The bigger, the better,” she agreed, her thoughts turning to the hotel chain. If the rumor was true and she could land the account, what a feather in her cap that would be. Even her father would be impressed, and God knew earning Randolph Bradford’s approval had never been easy. If not for her sister’s accident and then… Sam refused to allow the thought to be finished.

“Like Sentinel Timepieces?” Michael asked, referring to the watchmaker she’d tried to entice away.

That hadn’t been what she’d had in mind, but she shrugged. “Perhaps. I go after what I want and I usually get it. Sentinel was an anomaly.”

He looked slightly amused. “Is that your polite way of telling me to watch my back?” He wagged his eyebrows and added, “I’d rather watch yours.”

She rolled her eyes, even as his juvenile comeback had heat curling through her belly. “Suit yourself, but don’t cry foul when your preoccupation with my posterior results in a mass exodus of clients from Grafton Surry.”

“Preoccupied goes a little too far. Your butt, as fondly as I remember it, isn’t going to stop me from spending a little one-on-one time with the folks who are signed with Bradford.”

The gloves were off, which was fine with Sam. She liked this better. Work, rivalry— they were straightforward.

“Unlike your clientele, mine is loyal, which I think you’ve already found out.”

“I’ve only called a couple so far.”

“Then I’ll save you some time. I offer them what they want and I deliver the market. None of them is looking to switch.”

“Sure about that? I can deliver the market, too.” His lips curved. “And I can do an even better job of it than you.”

Sam snorted. “God, you’ve never been short on confidence.”

“Neither have you.” He’d been smiling, but now he sobered. “You know, even more than your butt, I always found that to be an incredible turn-on.”

Sam tucked some hair behind her ears and moistened her lips. Laugh in his face, she ordered herself. At the very least deliver an emasculating comeback. All she came up with was, “Me, too.”

As soon as the words were out, Sam wanted to throttle herself. Why did she have to go and admit something so potentially volatile? It was bad enough to think it. After all, she’d been trying to sift out all of the softer emotions she had when it came to Michael. Here was a doozy and it was threatening to whisk her back in time.

She blamed the wine, even though more than half a glass remained. Most of all, she blamed Michael. He’d been the one to bring it up. Glancing at him now, she found a modicum of comfort in the fact that he looked as out of sorts as she felt, as if he too were wishing he could snatch back his words.

“I think I should call it a night,” Sam said, reversing her earlier decision to have him leave first. “I have an early flight.”

“Yeah. Same here.”

With her luck they would be on the same plane, seated next to each other and then stuck on the runway during an extended delay.

After the waiter came with their check, Sam paid the bill. Michael insisted on leaving the tip, though she’d told him she had that covered, too. They argued back and forth, neither one backing down. Just like old times. In the end, the waiter wound up with one whopper of a gratuity.

They walked out of the lounge together yet not together. Sam groped for something to say as they stepped into the elevator, and the awkward silence stretched. Even when the bell dinged and the doors slid open on the tenth floor, nothing came to mind.

She chanced a glance in Michael’s direction as he got out. There’d been a time when she could read every one of his expressions. She didn’t recognize this one. His smile was tight as he reached for the doors to prevent them from closing.

“See you back in New York,” he said, which was unlikely. They’d managed to avoid each other for more than a year.

“Sure,” she nodded. “Maybe I’ll bump into you at the office of one of your clients.”

“Now, Sam.” He tipped his head to one side and made a tsking noise. “Be good.”

“Oh, I’m better than good and…” She blinked. The words were a joke, an old and very private one between the pair of them. Her rejoinder usually ended with the sensual promise: “I’ll prove it to you later.”

Michael’s smoky gaze told her he remembered the joke, too. He leaned forward and for one brief moment she thought he was considering kissing her. A bell chimed then and the doors jolted his elbow in their effort to shut. He released them and stepped back. But the last thing Sam saw before they closed completely was Michael reaching out as if to stop them.

CHAPTER TWO

SAMANTHA overslept.

The alarm went off at the appointed time, right after which she received a wakeup call from the hotel’s front desk. She ignored both and burrowed deeper under the covers, eager to go back to sleep. She could catch a later flight.

Now, as she sat in the first-class section of a 747, awaiting the departure of her noon flight, she flipped through a magazine and admitted that missing the red-eye had been no accident. She had not wanted to chance facing Michael again so soon.

She’d dreamed about him. Her face felt warm now as she recalled that in her dream, before the elevator doors closed, he’d kissed her, deeply, passionately. And he hadn’t stopped there. No, he’d stepped back inside, let the doors slide closed behind him and as the lift traveled to the hotel’s highest floor, he’d helped Sam off with her clothes. She’d returned the favor, every bit as eager as he. What would have happened next was obvious. But before their bodies touched, her alarm had gone off.

Sam had woken up panting and so aroused that she’d actually tried to go back to sleep and let Michael finish what he’d started. Of course, that hadn’t happened. But the mere fact that she’d wanted it to, even in a dream, had her reeling. She’d been keyed up ever since, a feeling she attributed to confusion and irritation rather than sexual frustration or a flaring of old feelings. No, no. It wasn’t either of those things. Closing her eyes she exhaled shakily.

“Nervous flyer?” a deep male voice inquired, jolting Sam’s eyes open.

She glanced up to find Michael standing in the narrow aisle, a laptop computer slung over one shoulder and a smile turning up the corners of the mouth that had once trailed its way down her neck.

Glancing away, Sam accused, “I thought you were taking the red-eye back to the city.”

“Looks like we both missed it.” He dumped the laptop onto the roomy leather chair directly across the aisle from hers and shrugged out of his sports coat.

“Looks like,” she managed as he arranged his belongings and took his seat.

“Actually, I turned off my alarm. When it went off, I was in the middle of a really good dream. I wanted to see how it ended.”

Because she knew exactly what he meant, Sam said nothing. But as Michael fastened his seat belt, she clearly recalled helping him undo the belt on his trousers in her dream. He was a tall man, surpassing the six-foot mark by at least a couple inches. In first class, however, he was able to stretch out his legs, which he did now, looking the picture of relaxation. In contrast, Sam tensed, as if waiting for a trap to spring.

It did a moment later when he asked, “So, what did you dream about last night?”

“I have no idea. I never remember anything after I wake up,” she claimed, even though that highly sensual encounter was burned into her memory.

He tipped his head sideways. “Really? Nothing? That must be a recent development. We used to lie in bed sharing our fantasies all the time.”

He was dead on, but she wasn’t going to go there. “Fantasies aren’t the same as dreams,” Sam told him matter-of-factly.

“I guess you’re right, even though you can act out both.” He smiled wolfishly.

She heaved an exaggerated sigh and reached for the magazine that was open on her lap. The flight to New York would be a very long one if Michael was determined to chat. Maybe if she pretended to read he would take the hint and stop talking to her.

Of course he didn’t. “So, you really don’t remember your dreams?” He didn’t wait for her to answer, not that she planned to. He went on. “That’s a shame. I always remember mine.”

“How nice for you,” she muttered with a definite lack of sincerity.

He wasn’t put off. No. A sideways glance in his direction revealed he was grinning. Then rich laughter rumbled. “And I have a feeling the one from last night is going to stay with me for a long, long time.”

He winked at her, once again leaving Sam with the uncomfortable yet highly erotic impression that she’d played a starring role in his dreams, too.

Thankfully, the flight attendants came through then to ready the cabin for take-off. Once the plane was in the air, Sam reclined her seat and closed her eyes, determined to nap or at least feign sleep to deter further conversation with Michael. The man was getting under her skin. It was just her bad luck that part of her wanted him there.

The captain had just announced their cruising altitude and turned off the seat belt sign when she felt Michael nudge her elbow. “Hey, Sam.”

“I’m trying to sleep here,” she replied, eyes still closed.

“No you’re not. You’re trying to ignore me.”

She turned her head and allowed one

eyelid to open. “Yes, but I was being polite about it.”

“Right.” The magazine in his hand was turned to an inside page, which he held out for her inspection. “What do you think of this?”

She opened both eyes. “The perfume?”

“No, the ad for it.”

She straightened in her seat, reaching for the periodical before she could think better of it.

“The client certainly spared no expense,” she said of the full-page, full-color advertisement that featured a top-name model standing in the middle of a field of flowers and holding out an ornate bottle of perfume as if making a sacrificial offering. “Is this one of yours?”

“Does this look like my work?” He sounded insulted.

In truth, it didn’t. The composition was too stiff and staged, and the accompanying text about letting love bloom sounded sophomoric. But Sam merely shrugged. No need to feed Michael’s massive ego.

“All that money to spend and this is what they came up with. Amazing.” His voice dripped with such disgust that Sam had to chuckle.

“Are you jealous?”

“Hell yes, I’m jealous,” he surprised her by admitting. “In addition to spreads in several national publications, this same ad is appearing on billboards and the sides of buses all over the country. And there’s a corresponding television campaign under way.”

She saw the dollar signs and whistled. “Someone’s dining on steak.”

“Want to know who?”

Curiosity piqued, she nodded.

“Stuart Baker.”

The name rang a bell. “Wiseman Multimedia, right?”

“That’s him. That guy can’t spell innovation, much less employ it.” Michael snorted.

“Yes, but look at it this way. Unlike me, Stuart Baker will never be a threat to you in the Clio or Addy competitions. And the client obviously likes Baker’s work.”

“Right. Want to know what I think?” Michael asked.

“I’m waiting with bated breath,” she replied dryly.

“He’s got something on the person holding the purse strings at the fragrance company. You know, compromising photos or a lurid videotape.”

“You have a vivid imagination. More likely, the client has more money than marketing sense.”

He shrugged. “Maybe, but you have to admit, my theory is more interesting than yours.”

She shrugged and put her head back and closed her eyes, figuring the conversation was over. But a moment later Michael nudged her arm again.

“If this were your client, what would you do differently?”

Sam kept her eyes closed. “I’m either trying to sleep right now or politely ignoring you. Take your pick.”

“Come on, Sam. We’ve got some time to kill before we land in New York. Let’s make the most of it. What would your ad look like?”

It was an old game, one they’d played often when they were fresh out of college and eager to tear up the advertising scene. They would analyze various campaigns, print or television, and decide what they would do to improve them. Sam had no intention of playing along now. But she made the mistake of opening her eyes and glancing at the glossy page Michael held out to her. A statuesque blonde pouted up at her. She couldn’t help herself. Besides, she rationalized, talking shop with Michael was far safer than discussing dreams…or fantasies.

“Well, for one thing, I would have gone with a lesser-known model,” she said.

“Why?”

“Sasha Herman has pitched everything from cow’s milk to men’s undershirts.”

“So she resonates with the public,” he countered, playing devil’s advocate.

“That might be, but she also causes waves. Her increasingly radical political views aren’t winning many fans among women in middle America.”

“Everyone is entitled to an opinion,” Michael retorted. “So Sasha is a little more vocal than most people, so what? Should she be punished for exercising her constitutional right?”

“I’m all for the First Amendment, but the fact remains that she’s used her celebrity as a platform for some pretty extreme views, and it’s costing her. She’s fallen out of favor with a lot of Americans, including the very women who make up the client’s target market.” She sent him a quelling look. “No one ever said free speech was free.”

“Okay. Point taken. So you’d change models and go with a less recognizable face,” he said.

“Actually, I’d go with a complete unknown,” Sam decided as a new ad took shape in her mind. It was black-and-white and far more sensual, fitting with the perfume’s name: Beguile.

“To play up the mystery?” he asked.

“That’s right.” Sam nibbled her lower lip and allowed the vision to expand. “It should be a man wearing a white dress shirt, left unbuttoned to show off his incredible abs. After all, perfume is really just sex in a bottle. Women want to buy it from a good-looking man. It’s part of the fantasy. If I wear this scent I’m desirable. I can entice anyone. I can have anyone. Even this drop-dead gorgeous stud whose eyes are saying, ‘Beguile me.’”

“God, it’s scary how the female mind works,” Michael replied dryly.

“Oh, please,” she huffed. “The female mind is no different from the male mind. We think about sex, too.”

Think about it and dream about it in vivid detail, a small voice whispered.

“Go on,” Michael encouraged with an engaging smile. “I’m all ears.”

Uh-oh. She had wandered into boggy territory. As quickly as she could, Sam retreated. Conjuring up her most-patient and instructive voice, she replied, “Even though we’re rivals, here’s a key trade secret that I’m willing to share with you.” She leaned toward him and whispered, “Sex sells.”

“Gee. It seems to me I’ve heard that somewhere.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Like maybe in the first advertising class I took back in college.”

She lifted her shoulders. “It doesn’t sound like you paid close attention.”

“I did when the curvy blond junior who sat in front of me was absent. Otherwise I found her a bit too distracting, if you know what I mean.”

Sam cast her gaze skyward and settled back in her seat.

“Come on. That was before we met, Sam. There’s no need for you to be jealous.”

“Jealous? I’m not—”

“What about the rest of the ad?” he said with a smile.

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“What other changes would you make? I’m assuming you’d do more than switch the gender of the model.”

Though she wanted to ignore him, Sam straightened in her seat and studied the ad again. It really was hideous. She tapped the bottom of the page. “Well, for sure I’d eighty-six the field of flowers.”

“What’s wrong with flowers? I thought women liked flowers? I send my mother a bouquet for her birthday every year. Daisies. They’re her favorite. And you always liked roses. Long-stemmed red ones.”

He’d surprised her with them often, she recalled now. No special occasion necessary. She’d loved getting them, loved reading the sweet notes on the cards. She still had those cards, wrapped in a ribbon and tucked away in a dresser drawer beneath her unmentionables. Somehow, they’d survived the big purge she’d done of all things Michael after their final blowup. She would burn them when she got home, she decided and concentrated on the ad.

“Women do like flowers, but that’s not the point. The name of the perfume is Beguile. A patch of posies isn’t a fitting image, especially since the perfume isn’t even a floral scent.”

“You’ve smelled it?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Not on purpose, believe me. One of those paper samples was tucked into last month’s Cosmopolitan. It fell out while I was taking a quiz on…never mind.”

He chuckled softly and raised gooseflesh on her arms when he said, “I remember the quizzes in that magazine. They were very eye-opening and, um, educational.”

And she and Michael had a lot of fun putting into practice what they had learned from them.

Sam cleared her throat. “In case you’re wondering, the perfume smells very musky and heavy.”

“The kind that lingers in elevators long after the wearer is gone?” he asked.

She nearly groaned. He had to go and mention elevators and lingering. The dream was back, popping up in her mind like one of those annoying Internet ads. It chased away all thought of redesigning a perfume ad.

“Sam? You look a little flushed,” he said, bringing her back to the present and making her aware that she’d been staring at him. “Are you okay?”

No, she wasn’t. At the moment, she was the exact opposite of okay, and it was his fault. She handed him the magazine and settled back in her seat. “Will you be going after the account?”

His brow furrowed. “What?”

She nodded toward the magazine. “Beguile perfume. Feel free to use my ideas. I’m sure they’re better than anything you can come up with on your own.”

He shook his head slowly, his gaze disapproving. “That was low, Sam. Even for you.”

She hated that he was right. He might try to steal another advertising executive’s client, but he would never poach an idea. But at least Michael was glaring at her now rather than setting off her pulse with his sexy smile.

They passed the rest of the flight in stony silence, and when the aircraft touched down in New York they each gathered up their belongings and deplaned without exchanging so much as a word.

“So, did you win?” her mother asked.

Joy called as Sam was unpacking her suitcase that evening.

“No. I’m an also-ran once again. And you know how Dad feels about also-rans. No one remembers them,” she said doing a fair impersonation of her father’s resonating alto.

Joy snorted. “No one remembers them except for him. There’s no pleasing that man.” Which was why her mother had called it quits on her marriage the summer Sam turned thirteen.

Sam’s sister Sonya, who was older than Sam by a couple of years, had chosen to live with Randolph. Sam had stayed with Joy. Even before then Randolph had been obvious in his preference for his eldest daughter, who was so like him in both coloring and temperament. Sam, as Randolph had told her often enough, was the spitting image of her mother. Even before her parents’ bitter split, she’d known he hadn’t meant it as a compliment.

“I hope your father was at least supportive at the awards ceremony.”

“Actually, Dad left before then.”

She heard her mother curse. “Figures. I’m sorry, sweetie. I know the Addy was important to you.”

“Thanks, Mom.” She sat on the bed next to the open suitcase and sighed. “Michael won it.”

“Again? I mean—”

“It’s okay. That was my reaction, too, when his name was announced. I ran into him afterward. The man is every bit as arrogant and self-righteous as he was seven years ago,” she muttered.

“And as good-looking?”

“That, too,” Sam admitted sourly.

“You said you saw him. Did you talk?”

“We have nothing to talk about,” Sam said, before adding, “But, yes, we did have a conversation. I bought him a drink, even, to celebrate his win.”

“Big of you,” Joy murmured.

“I thought so. Of course, I also plan to put it on my expense report.”

“Good for you.” Her mother chuckled, but when she spoke again, her tone had turned serious. “But was it all business, Sam?”

“There’s nothing between us but business, unless you count bad blood.” And way too much sexual attraction, she added silently.

“You know, I always liked Michael.”

“Liked him? You were practically the president of his fan club, Mom. It was embarrassing.”

Joy was unfazed. “He was the only young man you ever dated who wasn’t scared witless of your father.”

Okay, she had Sam there. “Well, he was far from perfect.” The toilet seat offenses and off-key singing weren’t the only things that came to mind. “Yet you thought I was making a mistake when I sent him back his ring rather than calling him again or flying out to California to work things out.”

“I still think you made a mistake.”

“How can you say that?” Sam all but shouted into the telephone. “You know why I did that. He wanted me to leave Sonya.”

“Be fair, Sam. What he really wanted was to be sure you left your father. Michael didn’t know that your sister had taken a serious turn for the worse.”