Hostile Makeover (21 page)

Morgan danced to the side, and the ball smacked harmlessly at his feet.

“Jesus!”

“That’s game!” Aunt Sonya and Horace leapt into the air, their fists pumping. The crowd in the bleachers went wild. “Whoo-whooo-whooo-whooo!”

“
This
is humiliating,” Shelley said as they walked around the net to the other side. She couldn’t bring herself to watch as Aunt Sonya and Horace helped each other jump the net.

“Tell me about it,” Ross replied. “I was the captain of the Dartmouth tennis team. If this ever gets out, I’ll never live it down.”

Shelley took a long swig of water. Aunt Sonya and Horace were already in position, ready to grind them into dust. “Well, it’s clear we need a strategy of some kind,” she said. “Do you want me to distract them? Maybe we should shout ‘Fire.’ Or fake a Wayne Newton sighting.”

Horace did a little running in place. His knees practically touched his chest.

“I hope I look that good at his age,” Ross said.

“I’d like to look that good now,” Shelley said. “Did you see that topspin lob?”

“Maybe if we look really pathetic, they’ll give us a few points.”

They looked at each other and laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of it. “I wouldn’t count on it,” Shelley said.

“Come on, you two. Let’s play,” Aunt Sonya yelled.

“OK.” Ross gritted his teeth. “They got the first one through the element of surprise. I say we give them maybe one more and that’s it.” He looked at her, his blue eyes lit with humor. “Are we together on this?”

“Aye, aye, Captain. But how do you suggest we accomplish that?”

He turned and studied their opponents. “You take the net, and I’ll hang back. If you can get to the ball, go for it. Don’t worry about poaching. It’s going to take both of us to tame these unruly heathens.”

Shelley laughed. The sun caressed her bare shoulders and there was a light breeze. Ross Morgan was a good sport and, it turned out, he had a sense of humor. Who would have guessed it?

“All right, let’s go for it,” she said. “We have some old folks to trample.”

“Don’t feel badly, darling. You made a valiant effort.” Great-aunt Sonya’s tone was soothing, but there was a disturbing glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes.

“Right.” Shelley had an arm around Ross’s shoulder and was leaning against him so as not to put any weight on the ankle she’d twisted. Ross limped beside her. He had a gash on his knee from the racquet she’d accidentally whacked him with and a black eye from the ball she’d miss-hit in her rush to the net.

“I’ll get you two whippersnappers some ice for your wounds,” Aunt Sonya offered.

“Tennis is not supposed to be a contact sport,” Ross pointed out as they hobbled off the court together. His shirt was covered with clay from the spill they’d taken when their feet got tangled up with each other’s. Blood still dripped down his shin. “It felt like World War Three out there.”

Horace came up to join them, and the audience fell in behind them.

“Most entertaining match I’ve seen in years,” one of them said.

“Reminded me a little bit of Laurel and Hardy,” said another.

“You got two games off them,” someone else said. “Their last opponents didn’t even get one.”

“Well, at least we put on a good show.” Ross stopped, which brought her to a halt as well.

“They’ll be talking about us for weeks.” She looked up into his face. It was covered with scrapes and bits of clay from the court. She wanted to laugh, but she was too tired. And way too battered.

“I think it goes without saying we won’t be mentioning this at work,” Ross said.

“Agreed.”

“And I don’t think we should be allowed on a court together again for any reason,” he added.

“Absolutely not.”

He smiled and reached over to wipe something off her cheek. “I have this weird sense that we’re lucky to be alive.”

“Yeah, I’m sure I’ll feel more thankful later.”

They hobbled toward the parking lot. “Right now I just want to get home and soak my bruised and battered body.” Something slightly wicked flashed across his face. “You want to join me? My Jacuzzi’s big enough for two.”

She studied his face, trying to read the expression on it and failing completely. Although she questioned his motive, the idea was strangely appealing. They’d been horrible on the court together, completely out of sync and unable to make anything happen. But she’d actually enjoyed being enmeshed in the disaster with him. Despite the punishment they’d taken physically, despite the humiliation of being beaten by a couple who didn’t even have their own teeth, he’d kept his sense of humor right up to the final point.

“Sorry,” she said. “I have plans.” She and Trey were going to a barbecue at the home of one of his friends; a function at which, he’d been quick to point out, no one would be losing part of his manhood. And the only passing out would be the result of too much alcohol.

They said good-bye to Aunt Sonya and Horace, took some final ribbing from their fans, and then hobbled slowly toward the parking lot.

“I’ll see you at the office on Monday, then,” Ross said as he opened her car door for her and watched her slide carefully into the driver’s seat.

Shelley nodded as he closed her door and moved equally gingerly toward the black Boxster. She watched him stow his tennis bag in the trunk and slide into the Porsche, and was not at all happy to realize she wished she were going home to soak in a Jacuzzi with Ross instead of out with Trey.

chapter
20

S
helley drove to work with trepidation on Monday morning. Almost as confusing as being stomped into the dirt by the Aged Duo was Morgan’s suspicious metamorphosis from company-stealing irritant to upbeat tennis partner.

Ross Morgan’s good sportsmanship and humor had thrown her; she had been a lot more comfortable when the only emotions he was triggering in her were anger and resentment. What in the world was the man up to?

In the lobby she waved hello to Sandra and couldn’t help noticing that the receptionist’s gaze did not stray to the wall clock. A look of amazement did not wash over her face.

Her coworkers’ greetings were equally ordinary—just a wave or a nod or a smile here and there; Shelley couldn’t get over how good their casual acceptance felt.

At her desk, she wasted a few minutes weighing her need for additional caffeine against her desire to avoid Ross Morgan, and finally opted for the smushed Snickers bar she found in the bottom of her purse, reasoning that the chocolate would provide at least as much caffeine as the cup of coffee she was coveting, not to mention a nice little sugar rush to get her day rolling.

Pleased with her decision and the candy bar, she worked her way through her e-mail, then started on a lengthy To Do list.

As she worked, images of Trey Davenport and Ross Morgan flitted through her brain. The pictures of Trey were less than flattering; mostly she saw his eyes roll up in his head and the unexpected crumple to the floor at the Mendelsohn bris. A snapshot of Ross Morgan picking Trey up and tossing him, limp, into the corner of the sofa followed.

The mental images of Ross Morgan were mostly rear-end shots and consisted of that fine posterior moving under tight-fitting tennis shorts. Occasionally her mental camera cut away to the twinkle in his blue eyes as they’d attempted to strategize during their ill-fated tennis match. The images of Ross Morgan brought a reluctant smile to her lips; the images of Trey Davenport did not.

Shelley frowned as she confronted the truth: Seeing Trey faint at the bris, and facing how out of place he’d been there, had underscored all the reservations she’d been burying. Good-looking and attentive no longer felt like . . . enough.

And good-looking and annoying did?

Applying herself to her work, Shelley managed to avoid both Ross and Trey until Wednesday afternoon, when she accidentally picked up the phone without first checking her caller ID.

“You have become scarcer than . . . well, I’m not sure what you’re scarcer than, but I’m starting to think you’re a figment of my imagination.” Trey’s voice was both sexy and chiding.

It took her a few moments to regroup. She used those moments to try to assess the feelings Trey’s voice pulled up in her, but the only feeling she could identify was regret. Trey was so perfect on paper and so unfailingly sweet in person. Why was she having so much trouble whipping up enthusiasm for being with him? “Oh, I’m real, all right,” she said. “Just busy getting ready for the Furniture Forum shoot in L.A.”

As she listened to him talk about his day, she did feel a faint stirring. Encouraged, she focused on the feeling until it developed into an actual gurgle. Shelley smiled in relief, glad that her feelings for Trey were not, in fact, dead but just . . . resting somehow in the pit of her stomach.

“Would you like to go out to lunch?” Trey’s question produced another gurgle, louder this time, and Shelley’s smile faded as she recognized the gurgle for what it was: a hunger pang.

A glance at the clock on her computer screen confirmed that it was lunchtime. She was hungry, all right; she just wished she was hungry for Trey rather than a tuna melt.

“I wish I could,” she lied. “I’ve just got too much to do.”

“You know what they say about all work and no play, Shelley. Wouldn’t want to let life get too dull.”

“No, we wouldn’t want that.” She looked down at her watch.

“How about dinner tonight, then?” His tone made it clear he was offering more than a meal.

“I’d, uh, love to, Trey, but I can’t. I’ve got a late meeting to go over the storyboards and then we’ve got a conference call with the production people out on the coast. The three-hour time difference really pushes things back.”

There was a silence and Shelley felt a stab of guilt—which she figured was pretty much hard-wired into her DNA. If she was losing interest, she should speak up right now and say so. Wouldn’t she want him to do that if he had lost interest in her?

No, she realized, she would not.

“I’ll give you the week to get organized,” Trey said, “but Friday night’s mine. OK?”

She hesitated longer than she meant to. “Sure. Friday night would be great.” Swallowing, she forced some of the missing enthusiasm into her voice. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

Hanging up, she dropped her head to her desk and groaned in disgust.

She was such a wuss.

Her head was still cradled in her arms when the knock sounded on her office door. Her entire body snapped to attention as Ross Morgan’s voice reached her from the now open doorway. Formerly dormant juices began to stir.

“Sleeping on the job?”

Lowering her brow, she told herself the stirring had been caused by the fight-or-flight instinct that Ross Morgan’s presence produced—a sort of Pavlovian reaction to him over which she had no control. Or maybe it was that hunger pain.

Deep down, though, she was afraid it was something equally elemental, like plain old animal magnetism or . . . lust.

“No, of course not. I was just thinking. With my eyes closed.” She sat very still. “Do you need something?”

“Just an explanation.” He walked to her desk and shook a sheaf of paper at her. “I’d like to know why everyone’s flying first class.”

“Hmmm?”

“Is there ANYONE on this bloody shoot who’s NOT flying first class to L.A.?”

Oh, good, he’d moved right into capitalization. Shelley breathed a sigh of relief as she braced for a fight. What would she do if he ever stopped being annoying? “Only you, if you want to change your reservation.”

The tic appeared in his cheek.

“But I think there’s quite a large fee. For changing a reservation.”

“And of course everyone has their own suite,” he growled.

“That’s right.”

“Because?”

“Because we’re adults and this is not summer camp?” She looked up at him. “I can check with the counselor, though. Who were you hoping to bunk with?”

He gritted his teeth. “It’s not the sleeping arrangements I’m concerned with. It’s the money we’re wasting.”

His eyes were a turbulent blue, and there was that tic in his cheek, the set of his jaw. She scurried into the safety of the anger that crackled between them. And stoked it just a bit.

“Just so you know,” she said sweetly, “I’m not going to be counting pennies while we’re out there. In this case, we’re spending money to make money. I’m thinking of it as a kind of investment strategy.”

“Spoken like someone who’s always had too much of everything and never had to work for it.”

The jab didn’t hurt any less just because it was true.

“Well, then, this is the perfect account for me, isn’t it? The more I spend, the happier Brian Simms seems.”

“Only you could think that made sense. This is a business, not a shopping spree.”

“Obviously you know nothing about retail therapy,” she snapped back. “Believe it or not, there’s comfort to be found in shopping.” She glanced meaningfully at the doorway, willing him away before he saw beneath her anger and irritation to the raw attraction she couldn’t seem to get rid of. “Some of us just need more comfort than others.”

By Friday afternoon there was nothing else to do. Every
t
had been crossed, every
i
dotted—except for her inability to reach Selena Moore to set up an appointment in L.A. The woman was proving surprisingly difficult to get ahold of.

Shelley had just picked up the phone to see if she could get a last-minute manicure and pedicure, when Judy strode into her office and dropped into the chair across from Shelley’s desk. Her body was knotted as tightly as a pretzel.

Shelley lowered the phone and considered her smoldering sister. “Do we have a tahr emergency?”

“Tire World is not a problem.” Judy folded her arms across her chest and became even more pretzel-like. “My husband is a problem.”

This was new territory; territory Shelley had no idea how to traverse. “Craig?”

“That would be him.”

“Was it something he said?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Something bad?”

“Most definitely.”

Shelley tried to picture Craig Blumfeld hurling obscenities and failed miserably. “What did he say?”