It Takes a Rebel (3 page)

She had spunk, he conceded. And a decent telephone voice.

"The overdue invoice for Lamberly Printing?" She glanced at him, and he shook his head in a definite "no." The company

simply didn't have the money. "A check will be cut this afternoon," she sang.

Incredulous, Jack could only stare when she hung up the phone. Then he spat out, "We can't afford to pay that invoice!"

"I said a check will be cut, I didn't say for how much."

Jack pursed his mouth—not bad.

She picked up the greasy bag of food and shoved it into his hand. "Looks like you're having a working lunch." Dismissing

him, she turned back to the mound of mail and began to toss junk letters into the trash.

He gaped. "Wait a minute. Who the devil
are
you?"

Without glancing up, she said, "Tuesday Humphrey, your new office manager."

He wondered if the woman was unstable, but her eyes were intelligent, and her hands efficient. Exasperated, Jack lifted his

arms. "But we're not hiring an office manager!"

"I know," she said calmly. "Because the position has been filled."

The phone rang again, and she snapped it up. "Stillman and Sons, how can I help you?" Her voice smiled. "Mr. Stillman is in

a client meeting, but just a moment, and I'll check." She covered the mouthpiece. "Alexandria Tremont's secretary confirming

your appointment at the Tremont headquarters at ten in the morning."

Jack squinted. "But she just
canceled
the appointment."

Tuesday uncovered the mouthpiece. "It was Mr. Stillman's understanding that the appointment was canceled. No? Hold,

please, while I see if his schedule will still allow him to attend."

She covered the phone. "It's back on—are you in?"

He nodded, his shoulders sagging in relief.

Tuesday uncovered the mouthpiece. "Yes, ma'am, please tell Ms. Tremont that Mr. Stillman is looking forward to a

productive meeting. Thank you for calling." She hung up the phone and returned to her sorting task. "Guess you still have a

chance to impress the Tremonts."

"Guess so," he said, his mind racing.

"Well, get moving." She snapped her fingers twice. "We both have a heap of work to do."

Jack hesitated. "An IRS agent is supposed to come by."

"You already told me, remember?" She flung a water sports equipment catalogue into the trash.

His hand shot out in a futile attempt to retrieve the catalogue—he could use a new water ski vest. But at the challenging

expression on Tuesday's face, he emitted a resigned sigh. The crazy woman couldn't do more damage to their business or

reputation than he had. They had no money to steal, no trade secrets to pilfer, no client list to filch. And at least he wouldn't

have to answer the damn phone. "Knock yourself out," he said, splaying his hands. "But I can't pay you."

He stepped into the hall and closed the front door behind him to tackle the lopsided sign first. Within a few moments he'd

rehung the smooth plaque of walnut upon which their father had painstakingly lettered and gilded the words "Stillman & Sons

Advertising Agency" nearly twenty-five years ago. Without warning, grief billowed in his chest as his father's easy grin rose in

his mind.

At his wife's encouragement, Paul Stillman had abandoned his modest home studio to become an entrepreneur when the boys

were preteens. Jack had viewed the move as an act of treason against his father's natural calling. He'd admired his father's

independence, his ability to adequately, if not luxuriously, provide for the family with the lively paintings he sold to local

designers and businesses. He hadn't wanted to see his father saddled with overhead and commuting and sixty-hour work weeks,

but his father said the earning potential was better, and he owed their mother a retirement fund.

Indeed, his father had set aside a nice nest egg doing graphic artwork and ad plans for small-to medium-size businesses in

Lexington, and later, mail order catalogs. Stillman & Sons had been a true family business—their mother ran the office, Derek

had cut his accounting teeth on the books. Even Jack had pitched in on occasion, brainstorming with his father on the more

creative projects, although the business itself had held—and still held—an unpleasant association for him. He banged down the

hammer, connecting with his thumb instead of the nail head, then cursed and sucked away some of the pain.

He'd watched the stress of the agency take its toll on his otherwise carefree father. His hair had seemed to gray overnight,

and worry lines had plowed deep into his forehead. His paintbrush and easel had languished, and little by little, Paul Stillman's

zest for root beer and whistling and people-watching had drained away.

Oh, his father had remained easygoing enough, but his good cheer seemed forced, and he'd stopped visiting the local art

galleries, once a favorite getaway for him and his younger, more creative son. Jack missed those outings and he blamed the

family business for taking his father away from him. At thirty-four, he recognized those feelings as childish, but he stubbornly

clung to them nonetheless. From his perspective, responsibility sucked the life out of a man and left him with less to offer the

very people he was trying to provide for.

Jack pulled a bandanna handkerchief from his back pocket and slowly wiped dust from the plaque. Frowning wryly, he

scrubbed especially hard on the ending
s
in "Sons," half hoping the letter would disappear. If truth be known, Derek was the

son who deserved the agency—Jack wasn't sure why his brother vehemently insisted he remain a partner.

Predictably, Derek had joined the agency full time when he graduated college, and the family expected nothing less of Jack.

Instead, two years later he'd skipped his own graduation ceremony and hitchhiked to New Orleans where he'd put his two

degrees—art and international business—to use by becoming the premiere artisan in Blue Willie's infamous tattoo parlor just

off Bourbon Street. By some stroke of divine luck, Jack had decided to return to Kentucky two years ago only weeks before a

heart attack had claimed his father.

And except for a few "sabbaticals" here and there, he'd remained in Kentucky to help Derek run the agency, which had

lapsed into a slow decline after their father had died. Their mother had turned to traveling with her sister, and Derek … well,

Derek had turned into a tyrant—although, Jack conceded, he himself hadn't been the model business partner. An unpleasant

feeling ballooned in his chest, but he'd always refused to waste time on useless emotions like guilt, remorse, love, or hate.

Funny, but all kinds of strange sensations seemed to be rolling around in his empty stomach this morning. It was as if

Alexandria Tremont had set the tone for the day. Jack kneaded the tight spot just below his breastbone. The sooner he ate that

sandwich, the better. Swinging open the door, he was startled by a cheerful humming sound. He'd nearly forgotten about the

self-proclaimed new office manager. Poor lady—she was probably bored and neglected by her son, looking for some way to

kill time. Wonder what Derek would say?

Oh, what the hell, Derek had left
him
in charge, hadn't he? To her credit, Tuesday had performed small miracles in the few

minutes he'd been in the hallway—the mail lay in three neat piles, and the desk and bookshelves fairly gleamed. She had found

a radio and tuned in a local light-rock station, which provided the background for her spirited humming.

"Two phone messages," she said, handing him pink slips of paper. "Bill collectors, both of them. I told them our accounting

staff was preparing for an audit, and bought you a few days."

Jack grinned. "Great."

"Just a few days," she warned, as she moved around the room, cleaning with what he recognized as his favorite tie-dyed T-

shirt, which he'd been looking for. She stopped long enough to shake her finger at him. "So you'd better not blow that meeting

tomorrow, young man."

Properly chastised by a virtual stranger, he lifted his hands and escaped into the back office to finish the bookshelf. He tested

the unit's sturdiness and methodically replaced the books, but his mind wasn't on the task at hand.

Jack simply couldn't shake the memory of Alexandria Tremont standing there appraising him with her cool, disapproving

eyes, her nose conveniently tweaked upward by nature to spare her the trouble of having to lift it when she spoke. He'd seen

that look before, the sneer that branded him a loser by people who didn't know that he could have been a hotshot executive had

he simply chosen to be. At the meeting tomorrow he'd just have to show the uppity woman that he could hold his own among

her kind.

Then he was angry at himself for wanting to impress anyone, much less Alexandria Tremont. He smoothed his ruffled pride

by reasoning he was doing it for Derek and for the good of the agency, but anger fueled his energy. By the time he'd returned the

books to the shelves and replaced the two lightbulbs, Jack felt that strange prickly feeling again, that alien sensation.

Apprehension? Jack inhaled deeply, but the tightness in his chest didn't diminish. Could be. Derek had certainly complained

enough about being apprehensive over one thing or another—perhaps this roiling nausea was why his brother kept a bottle of

Pepto-Bismol in his desk and in the glove compartment of his ultraconservative car.

Jack stooped to retrieve a can of beer from his desk drawer, but froze when he heard raised voices from the front office. The

IRS agent? He slipped into his shoes, removed the tool belt, and jogged to the front, but his feet faltered when he saw that

Tuesday had a suited man pinned facedown on the desk, one arm behind him. The man's face was a mask of pain.

"Tuesday!" Jack bellowed. "What the devil are you doing?" He reached for her hands and pried them loose from the visitor's

arm, despite her protests.

"I'm trying to help the poor man," she insisted, resisting Jack. "He said his back was hurting, so I gave him an adjustment."

"This maniac popped a bone in my neck," the red-faced man yelped. "She probably crippled me!"

When at last he righted the man to a seated position, Jack shoved his hands on his hips and glared at Tuesday while

introducing himself to the stranger. "I'm Jack Stillman, and I apologize, Mr.—?"

"Stripling," the smallish man chirped, straightening his tie. "Marion Stripling, IRS."

Jack closed his eyes.
Marion
—no wonder Derek had told him to expect a female. "I apologize, Mr. Stripling, for this

woman's—" he shot her a lethal look "—complete lapse in judgment. Truthfully, I don't even know her myself."

The man looked incredulous. "What, did she just wander in off the street?"

"Something like that," Jack mumbled.

"What kind of a loony bin operation are you running here?"

"One that's losing money," Jack assured him. "Mr. Stripling, this way back to my desk, please. I need to have a word with my

office manager
."

The man scowled in Tuesday's direction, then picked up his briefcase and fled in the direction Jack indicated.

Jack turned back to Tuesday. "Well?"

She maintained a haughty position. "My late husband was a chiropractor. When Mr. Stripling told me he'd been delayed

because of back pain, I was simply trying to help."

His eyes widened. "By holding him down against his will and popping a bone in his neck?"

She wagged a finger in the air, her hip cocked to one side. "You'll see, he'll be thanking me."

"
You'll
see, he'll be
suing
me!" Jack sputtered, then held his temples, at a loss what to do next.

The phone rang, and she jerked it up. "Stillman and Sons, Lexington's number one advertising agency. How can I help you?

Yes, hold please." She covered the mouthpiece, then smiled sweetly and held the phone in Jack's direction. "It's your brother."

Chapter 3

« ^ »

A
lex stretched high to relieve the pressure of bending over the desk in her apartment for the past hour, then reached for the

crystal goblet of white wine she'd been nursing since arriving home from her typical twelve-hour day. Using her stockinged

foot, she levered the chair around to stare over the lights of downtown Lexington. It was another in a string of unusually warm

October evenings. On impulse, she'd opened the sliding glass door leading to her balcony to dilute the stale air in her condo.

The fresh breeze and the view revived her.

The University of Kentucky was having some kind of sports function because the streets leading to campus were choked. Not

particularly fond of sports, she nonetheless recognized the huge economic advantage of having a popular college athletic

program in town: athletics attracted attention for the university, swelling the student population, and college students remained

the strongest buying group for the local Tremont department stores.

Alex swallowed a mouthful of chardonnay, thinking she should attend a college game of some sort with her father, a bona

fide sports nut, just to see what all the fuss was about. On the other hand, Heath would undoubtedly take her in grand style if