Hostile Makeover (25 page)

Both women smiled and Miranda Smith invited her to join them.

“Here . . .” Ross pulled out the vacant chair for her.

“Do you know Ross Mo—”

“Yes.” Shelley tried not to let her irritation show. “Ross and I, um, work together,” she said as they took their seats.

She prayed he wasn’t going to point out that she actually worked
for
him now.

“Shelley and I are both with Schwartz and Associates. Her father started the agency.”

“Oh, how interesting.” Selena Moore was looking into Ross’s eyes when she said it.

Shelley’s back went up. Not, she assured herself, because he was leaning forward and staring right back into Selena Moore’s eyes, but because if she wasn’t careful, he was going to steal this account out from under her just like he had the Easy To Be Me account.

Selena Moore looked at him from beneath her lashes. Then she leaned back in her chair and crossed her long legs so that her short black skirt rode up even higher on her thigh. Ross Morgan’s gaze dropped to take in the display.

“So how do you and Ross know each other?” Shelley asked carefully.

“Oh, Ross and I go way back.” Selena’s voice had gone all silky. “Don’t we, sugar?”

Morgan spoke quietly. “You could say that.”

Great. Now she was picturing the two of them tearing up the sheets; silk ones, no doubt. Selena Moore didn’t look like the sort of woman who would let a man drag her into a supply closet.

Shelley reminded herself it didn’t matter if Selena and Morgan had once been joined at the hip—or a more obvious body part; these women were hers, just like their account was going to be.

“Miranda’s leaving on the red-eye in the morning,” Selena said, “but I was hoping to get in some tennis before I have to be at the studio. We’re finishing up a series of national spots.”

“Isn’t that funny,” Shelley said. “We’re here for production, too. We’re shooting a new campaign for an account of mine. Jake Helmsley’s directing.”

Selena and Miranda’s eyes widened at the mention of Helmsley—an acknowledged genius when it came to shooting retail commercials.

“He’s a friend of my father’s,” Shelley offered casually. “I’ve known him since I was a baby.”

Ross turned and looked at her. She wasn’t sure what was going to happen when he figured out what she wanted from Selena Moore.

“You know, if you’d like to get in a few sets early tomorrow morning, I’d be glad to play,” Shelley offered.

Selena turned back to Ross. “Actually, I was thinking mixed doubles. Ross used to play a pretty good game.” The woman’s words and tone were loaded with innuendo. “Why don’t we pick up a fourth and play together.”

Ross shook his head and smiled apologetically. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea.” He looked pointedly at Shelley. “We need to make sure the client gets to location on time tomorrow. In fact, we’re supposed to be meeting them right now for dinner.” He pushed back his chair and prepared to stand.

Shelley didn’t move. “Actually, we have a late start in the morning. If we meet at the courts at seven, we’ll have plenty of time.”

There was a brief silence as Selena Moore smiled and Ross Morgan glowered.

“Great. I’ll see you both then,” Selena said. After signing their check, she and Miranda left.

Shelley and Ross watched them go.

He waited until they were in the car to make his displeasure known.

“We didn’t come all the way out here to PLAY TENNIS.”

“Don’t capitalize at me.”

He muttered something under his breath, but she couldn’t tell what case he was using.

“And it’s not about the tennis anyway,” she said.

“Then you better tell me what the hell it
is
about. Because I’m pretty sure we swore we’d never set foot on a court together again.”

She turned to look at him. She’d hoped to pull this off without him knowing until it was a done deal. She wanted no question as to who was responsible for reeling Selena Moore in. But given the way the woman had looked at Ross, there was little question he was the perfect bait. Shelley wasn’t going to be able to shove him out of the way even if she wanted to.

“Selena Moore is looking for a new agency. And I intend to make sure it’s us.”

He turned to study her then, his expression turning thoughtful as the lights on the L.A. freeway whooshed by. “You’ve stopped dressing up,” he murmured. “I kind of miss Doris and Katharine. And you’re starting to act like a real account executive. It’s a little unnerving.”

His words gave her a nice little buzz; one she definitely didn’t want to acknowledge. “Don’t get all sappy on me now, Morgan. We still have to get through the tennis match.”

“Yeah,” he said with a slow smile. “Let’s split up so nobody gets killed.”

chapter
24

W
ell, that was fun.” Ross drove into the roundabout at the hotel and turned off the engine. Slowly he levered his bruised body out of the car and walked gingerly around the front of it to give the keys to the attendant. “Can you keep it out, please? We’ll need it again in about thirty minutes.”

Shelley used her upper body to swing her legs around and scoot toward the door so that she could get out of the front seat without putting weight on her left knee. Which was throbbing painfully.

Together they hobbled toward the front entrance and into the marbled lobby.

“I thought I’d be safer on the opposite side of the net.”

Shelley rolled her eyes. “If you hadn’t been so busy flirting with Selena Moore, you might have gotten out of the way.”

“For your information,
she
was flirting with
me.
And you’re the one who insisted on playing kamikaze tennis.”

Unfortunately he had a point.

“Normally, when you want to win an account, you don’t slam a ball into the potential client’s rear end.”

“I had already started sending the ball over when she turned around. That was
not
my fault.”

It took forever to reach the elevator. She was tired and in pain and she hated that he was right. Her great stab at establishing a rapport with Selena Moore had been a disaster. She was lucky she hadn’t killed the woman.

Until Ross Morgan appeared in her life, she’d never been considered dangerous on a tennis court. She had a decent game; she’d played on numerous Atlanta Lawn and Tennis Association teams. But there was something about him that acted like a magnet for the simplest miss-hit ball. Selena Moore had simply gotten in the way. On more than one occasion.

When they arrived at the soundstage, Charlie Simms was waiting for them, his face wreathed in smiles. “I’m supposed to show you where to sit.”

They followed him past a house exterior, designed in sleek futuristic lines to look like a twenty-second-century home, then past two room interiors filled with the ultracontemporary furniture that would be featured in the commercials. The tag lines would read
Furniture for Your Future.

The exterior was lit and ready. A cameraman and dolly operator were practicing a tracking shot. Actors chosen to portray the home’s space-age “family” were being “touched up” by the makeup and hair people, while a handler put their equally space-age canine through its paces.

“You’ll get to look at each shot through the camera before they shoot it, Uncle Brian,” Charlie explained as he led them to director’s chairs grouped around a television monitor. “And then you watch each take as it happens on this monitor. Is this cool or what?”

He bounded back to the set, and Tracy Evans came over to greet them.

“Hi, everyone,” the producer said. “We’ll be ready to roll film in a few minutes. In the meantime, breakfast’s right over there.” She pointed toward a cloth-covered banquet table piled high with food, then turned to Shelley. “Jake asked me to bring you to him when you got here.”

“Good, excuse me.” Shelley followed the producer to the edge of the lighted set where Luke and the director were locked in an argument.

“We agreed on a Benji type,” the creative director said. “I approved a Benji. That’s a dachshund.”

Jake shrugged. He had a beak of a nose and a mane of salt-and-pepper hair that he wore clubbed back into a ponytail. His sixty-something body was rock hard—a testament to his “Your body is your temple” philosophy and his taste in women. All four of his wives had been starlets and none of them, to Shelley’s knowledge, had pumped him full of matzo ball soup or artery-clogging chopped liver.

“Benji was up all night with a migraine. His trainer assures me he’s not fit to work today.” Jake pointed to the dachshund. “He’s a friend of Benji’s.”

Luke, who was known to dig in his own heels on occasion, shook his head. “You wanted the dachshund all along, but I approved Benji.”

Jake Helmsley was an incredibly gifted and sought-after commercial director, but he was not a schmoozer. In fact, he had a reputation for either terrorizing or ignoring his clients.

“I don’t think Brian Simms really cares what breed of dog we use,” Shelley said.

Jake and Luke looked at her as if she had committed a blasphemy, then went back to arguing, except, of course, all three of them knew that Luke didn’t stand a chance.

“Luke, let’s just live with the dachshund,” she said. “It’s not worth the time we’re wasting.”

The creative director shot her a wounded look.

“Jake?” she spoke quietly after Luke stormed off. “This shoot is excruciatingly important to me. I need you to make nice with the client. And please don’t shout at”—she located Charlie Simms scurrying around with a great loopy smile plastered on his face—“that one. He’s the client’s nephew and one of the main reasons this shoot is happening.”

“Darling,” Jake said. “When have I ever shouted at a client?”

She gave him a look. “No kidding, Jake. Good behavior. Or I’ll sic my mother on you.”

He pretended to quake. “OK, I’m all smiles today,” he said, though the expression on his face looked more like a grimace. Then he waited semi-patiently while Shelley got Brian Simms and Ross Morgan and brought them over to meet him.

“This is Jake Helmsley,” she said with pride as the men shook hands. “Here, on this set, he’s pretty much GOD,” she teased, though it was, in fact, the truth. “And we don’t question GOD directly. If you have a question or something you want to communicate, you tell me; I tell our creative director, Luke; and Luke communicates with GOD. Sort of like a priest or rabbi, depending on your persuasion. OK?”

Brian Simms nodded. Ross just checked his watch. “GOD’s expensive. Can we get started?”

She smiled apologetically to Jake and shot Ross a cease-and-desist look, which he ignored. Then she led him and Brian Simms back to their director’s chairs and out of the line of fire.

There, Ross pulled her aside. “What the hell are they waiting for? And where’s Benji? I don’t remember seeing a dachshund in the storyboards.”

The tiny French restaurant was crowded with people when Judy arrived for lunch with Brett O’Connor. She stood in the marbled entrance, jostled by the throng around her, and took it all in. This was not your suburban lunch spot peppered with housewives in tennis clothes. This was your upscale, expense-account eatery filled with suited men and women and hostesses dressed in body-molding black. Here in the leather banquettes, deals were struck and alliances formed. The hum of male voices dominated the room.

Judy shifted nervously and waited behind the line at the hostess podium, asking herself for the hundredth time why she had agreed to come.

Someone brushed up behind her and Brett’s voice sounded in her ear. “Sorry I’m late.” He put an arm around her shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. Guiding her forward, he gave the hostess a blinding smile, then kept his hand at Judy’s back as they followed the woman to a dark corner booth.

Judy slid in first and Brett followed. She expected him to stop across from her, but he slid all the way around until they were shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. She could actually feel the heat coming off his body.

“Would you like some wine?” Brett asked.

Wine seemed like a very bad idea, given the heat and all. It was already late March; you’d think they’d turn the AC up in an expensive restaurant like this.

“Maybe a Shiraz?” she heard herself say.

Brett ordered the wine, and moments later a basket of crusty bread and a crock of creamy butter arrived. The wine steward presented Brett’s selection and Brett performed the ritual of tasting and approval; his casual confidence was in stark contrast to her own discomfort.

It was only lunch, she reminded herself yet again, not an act of treason. If she didn’t relax soon she was going to shatter into a million pieces.

She visualized Craig here in the booth beside her. He’d like the place, but he wouldn’t be staring into her eyes like Brett was now. In fact, he’d probably spend half the meal on the phone with a client and the other half quizzing the steward about the wine list, while she worked to make conversation so that no one would suspect they were one of those long-married couples with nothing left to say to each other.

The steward finished pouring and disappeared. Judy sipped her wine and eyed the bread and butter, but couldn’t bring herself to eat it in front of him.

“How’s your project coming?” He smiled one of those really sexy smiles that lifted the corners of his mouth and then went all the way up to darken his eyes. “Do I need security clearance to hear the details?”

Judy checked his face to make sure he was really interested. Craig occasionally asked, but rarely listened.

Judy turned in the banquette to face him more squarely, using the move to put a couple of inches between them. “So you want to hear about Tire World,” she said. “I wish you could have been there yesterday when Siegfried Simone, one of Atlanta’s foremost interior designers, attempted to make Wiley Haynes—he’s the good ol’ boy who owns Tire World—understand why he chose gold lamé wall coverings for the Tire World ladies’ room he’s decorating.”

Brett laughed as she replayed the conversation, imitating both men, trying to do justice to each of their mannerisms and accents. As she warmed to her story, her discomfort began to fade.