Attitude (5 page)

Cal watched him go. Money! It always came down to money.

He leveled his shoulders, committed himself to the equivalent of an hour walking a bed of burning coals. He'd do it. He'd take Hud's advice, tell Cameron to take off her clothes... change her style.

He'd be straightforward, businesslike, and above all, tactful with a capital T. He'd call her tomorrow, set up a meeting.

How bad could it be?

* * *

"Get up, Ginge. It's the phone. And it's him!" Tracy yelled as if she were trying to hurl her words to the third floor instead of the two feet separating her from Ginger's bed.

Ginger blinked, stared at the phone in Tracy's hand, then grabbed for it. "Hello."

"Cameron?"

"Yes."

"Can you stop by this afternoon? Around three?"

Ginger pushed herself to a sitting position and looped the spaghetti strap of her silky night top over her shoulder. "I'll be there," she croaked, her voice heavy with sleep, her brain still unable to accept that Beaumann was on the phone.

"Are you still in bed?" he asked, his tone an octave lower. "Did I wake you?"

"It's okay. I, uh, overindulged a bit last night."

"On something sinful, I hope." There it was again, that edge of hoarseness in his voice.

Ginger's breathing shallowed.
Not sinful enough. Not as sinful as I could be. With you.
"Hot dogs. Chocolate ice cream. And Kool-Aid."

"That's your idea of over indulgence?"

"Not always. Sometimes it's—" she stopped, not sure what she was about to say, but certain it wasn't the new, improved Ginger who was about to say it.

"Don't stop now. You've got my full attention."

"Bananas. I mean splits. Banana splits. I can really go to town on those."

"Ah."

Silence. One of those heavily pregnant ones.

"So... should I bring my presentation?"

"Pardon?"

"My presentation. Should I bring it with me?"

"No, just bring yourself." She heard him exhale. "Today that's all I can handle. See you at three." He hung up.

Ginger clicked off the phone. When her chest relaxed, and her heart found its normal pattern, she smiled so hard her cheeks hurt.

"Well..." Tracy urged, eyes wide. "What did he want?"

Ginger shot to her knees and bounced on the bed. "He wants me, Trace. He wants to see me."

Tracy plunked herself on the edge of the bed. "Hot damn. I'll get to meet this guy, yet."

Ginger stopped bouncing. "I've got to get dressed." She scrambled off the bed.

"You've got hours yet."

"Yeah, well my, uh, look takes some planning."

"Speaking of your 'look,' as you call it—"

"Don't start." Ginger tossed a pillow at her.

"The black suit, at least it fits," Tracy begged, fending off the pillow, then clutching it to her chest.

Ginger rifled her closet. "The tan skirt, I think. The one with the pleats."

"The pregnant hippo look. Sweet." More rolled eyes.

"It's in good taste and it's comfortable."
And it's enough armor to stop a horny man from a mile off.
Now was not the time to drop her guard and let Cal Beaumann slip in, figuratively or literally.

Tracy threw up her hands. "Okay, I know when I'm beat. Wear whatever you want, but don't plan on dandling my grandkids on your knee because you don't have any of your own." She flounced out, leaving Ginger to make the connection between pleated skirts and grandchildren.

In the shower, Ginger was excited—and smug. Maybe Trace didn't like her new image, but it had worked on Cal Beaumann. He'd clearly seen she was the best person for the job, and he didn't give a damn what she looked like.

Chapter 3

Cal, protected behind the fortress of his desk, figured things had gone okay. In retrospect he could have edited out the remark about tweed underwear, because right now she looked like a cornered badger with a toothache.

"Let me make sure I have this right. You want me to buy new clothes?" Ginger said, her voice lethally low.

"That's what I want."

"And getting the job depends on it?"

Cal nodded. He'd said his piece, and at this point the less foot he put in his mouth the better. The honey-haired woman glared at him, looked ready to combust. And while combustible women were sexy as hell, he preferred meltdowns in bed not his office.

Her skirt smacked her mid-calf as she paced in front of his desk. Cal frowned. He figured a woman's skirt should swirl, not smack. He tilted his head to get a better look at her legs. The six inches of them he could see between hem and ankle looked damn good. But an odd color...

"What
are
you looking at?" She sounded mad.

"Your legs." He squinted. "You're not wearing those support things, are you?"

If looks could kill, this would be a bloodbath. "You"—she jabbed a finger in the air in his direction—"are a jerk."

"So I've been told."

"I should walk... straight out that door."

"Is that your final answer?"

"No! But I darn well have to think about it."

"How long will the thinking part take?" He looked at his watch. "Time is something I'm short on. Hud either catches a plane in an hour, or stays. It's up to you."

"You really are a jerk."

He looked at his watch again. "And you're repeating yourself. Do you want the job or not?"

She looked mad and mulish. He sighed, got to his feet, and went to stand in front of her. He lifted her chin with the tips of his fingers.

"Look, Cameron, you're a pretty woman with a decent body." He hesitated. "I think." He stopped when her weird lavender scent and some kind of lemony smell drifted up from her hair. And while the two scents warred with each other, he breathed them in. Distracted, he went on. "Although it's damn hard to tell from this side of the drapery. And you have great skin, like rich cream." He smoothed a thumb across her cheek. The warmth and heat in it jolted him. Her gaze, hot and bright, collided with his, and his groin tightened. It surprised the hell out of him. He liked smells like vanilla and rose. He liked women in tight jeans or slinky evening dresses. What the hell he was doing soaking up lavender and lemon worn by a woman who probably starched her bras, he couldn't figure. He looked for words and found some. "I'm not asking you to turn yourself inside out. But for the next couple of months you'll be representing my company. Meeting a lot of people. All I'm asking is that you accentuate the positive for the benefit of Cinema Neo and Ginger Ink."

"And if I refuse, I won't get the job?"

"I'm afraid so. This is a sharp, fast-moving, contemporary industry, Cameron. We're not talking
Sound of Music
and
Mary Poppins.
Cinema Neo is edgy, distinctive, and modern. I want that image projected by everyone associated with it. Especially the person in charge of public relations. So what do you say?"

"I say I
should
be judged on my brain not my fashion picks. I
should
be able to wear burlap and safety pins, and you shouldn't have a thing to say about it. But I want the job." She put out her hand. "I'll revisit my closet, that's all I can promise."

Cal took her outstretched hand, wondered how she made a hand, so delicate and butterfly soft, feel like a carpenter's vise. Even so, he wanted to hang on to it. "I'll settle for anything that dispels the idea you've been in cryogenic storage for forty years."

"Ah, not only is he arrogant and heavy-handed, he's a comedian."

"Laugh or cry. Take your pick." He was sure he spotted a brief curve of her full, pale lips.

Then her face went paper blank. "Right now, I don't feel like doing either one. I'd prefer to work. I'll get my presentation folder. It's in the car."

"You brought it?"

"Of course, I brought it. Why wouldn't I?"

Because I told you not to.
"Maybe because we hadn't exactly settled things," he said, suddenly remembering she'd also ignored him when he'd canceled their appointment yesterday.

She waved his comment away as if the settling part had been decided before she'd left home. "Do I get it or not? It wouldn't hurt to go over some preliminary plans."

"Sure, why not? While you're doing that I'll call Hud. Tell him to catch his plane."

Ginger headed for the door.

"Cameron?" he called.

She swiveled. "Yes?"

"We have an understanding, right? You
are
going to power up your wardrobe?"

"I said I would, didn't I?"

He stroked his jaw. "You did."

"Then you have nothing to worry about."

Cal watched her walk out the door. Worried? Cal never worried. The twist in his belly was just leftover tension. It wasn't every day a man told a woman how to dress for the job.

The twist morphed into a tight knot.

And it wasn't every day a man decided to trust a woman who'd already snookered him—twice. But there was something about Ginger...

* * *

It was late afternoon, a few days later, when Ginger passed her hand in front of Cal to reach for a file, and he grabbed her wrist, took a look at her watch, and cursed mildly under his breath.

"I've got to get out of here, Cameron. Sorry. My brother's coming in tonight. We're slated for an early dinner."

"No problem." Ginger herded the paper and drawings littering Cal's desk into containment. She and Cal had made good progress today. "Other than website design ideas, we're pretty much done for now anyway."

It might have been past five and time to quit, but Ginger was so excited she could have worked for hours yet.

After she and Cal had settled the sticky situation of her wardrobe—or so he thought—they'd agreed on just about everything else, the ads, social media, the radio, the TV spots, even the tone and direction of the local interviews. He'd even agreed to Ginger's ideas for opening night: a Hollywood style premiere with limos, searchlights, the town's who's who in attendance, and a gala black tie post-screening dinner.

Cal had loved it.

Too bad his enthusiasm was so sexy. More than once in the time they'd spent together, she'd had to step away from the heat of him. Moments like when he sat on the couch, locked his hands behind his head and stretched out his long legs, seeming totally relaxed. And while he'd talked about crossover advertising all she could think about was crossing the room and straddling him—to give those jeans of his a quality control test.

Goddess, maybe she
was
a sex addict.

Cal stood, flexed and stretched until his chest expanded to fill his cotton shirt. "Good work today." He leveled his gaze on her—warm, unwavering and seductive. "You're damn smart. I like smart women." Something in his eyes shifted, turned silky and dark.

Ginger willed her stomach to quit kicking, was glad when Ellie interrupted with a knock on Cal's door. "Mind if I finish this bit of filing?" She held up a few sheets of paper.

"Give us a another minute, Ellie. We're almost done here." When Ellie left, he turned his attention back to Ginger. "About doing the website. Who do you recommend?"

"I'll do it myself. Work up some ideas tonight."

His head came up. "You know all that tech stuff?"

"Under these clothes lies a frustrated techie."

He gave her a speculative look. "Anything else under there a guy should know about?"

"No." She crammed her papers in her case and put a lid on her simmering hormones. "I think we're done here. You better move if you're going to meet your brother. Me, I'm going home and—" She stopped herself just in time. Given the way he was studying her, it wasn't the time to say you were going home to take off your clothes and sink into a bath, the place where she always did her best thinking.

"And what?" He ran his index finger along the seam from her shoulder to her elbow. His eyes were sultry, teasing. "Get into something not made with metal threads."