Книга - Marrying the Manhattan Millionaire

Marrying the Manhattan Millionaire
Jackie Braun


Executive Engagement!Successful executive Samantha Bradford never underestimates the opposition. Especially if she was once engaged to him. So when her ex-fiancé and business rival Michael Lewis comes back to town, she thinks she’s ready for all his tricks. The confident swagger. The devastating smile. The irresistible sex appeal. And the uncompromising determination that pulled them together – and then pushed them apart.Now they both are bidding to land the same huge account the stakes are high…and the buzz of working together is intoxicating. But the real merger on the table is more than strictly business…







“Maybe it isn’t a good idea for you to fraternize with the enemy.”



Michael shook his head. “I have to take issue with that comment.”



“Look, Michael—”



The rest of Sam’s reply never made it past her lips. Michael cut it off when he framed her face in his hands and leaned in to cover her mouth with his. The encounter was infused with all the passion and promise she remembered so vividly, though she’d done everything during the past seven years to forget it. They were both breathing hard and heavily when Michael pulled away. Afterwards, they stared at one another in stunned silence.



“Wow,” Sam murmured.



“Exactly.” Though Michael appeared to be just as dazed as she was, he also looked pleased. He touched her lips with the tip of one finger. “Now, that’s what’s called fraternizing with the enemy.”


Praise for Jackie Braun:



‘Jackie Braun’s MOONLIGHT AND ROSES

spins a familiar premise into a truly special story.

It’s sexy and funny, and the characters are fabulous.’

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews



On EXPECTING A MIRACLE:

‘Jackie Braun has done it again—

penned a heartwarming novel of love and family.

Lauren and Gavin are both characters I made

an emotional connection with and came to care about

like close friends. Lauren is an admirable young

woman, getting out of a bad marriage rather than

give up her gift of a baby. Gavin is an honourable

hero, ignoring his attraction to the single mother until

her divorce is final. I found myself cheering these

two individuals on to make a family together, and

applauded each of their triumphs.’

—Cataromance.com


Jackie Braun is a three-time RITA


finalist, three-time National Readers Choice Award finalist, and past winner of the Rising Star Award. She worked as a copy-editor and editorial writer for a daily newspaper before quitting her day job in 2004 to write fiction full-time. She lives in Michigan with her family. She loves to hear from readers and can be reached through her website at www.jackiebraun.com



Dear Reader



The idea for this book came in the middle of the night. I got out of bed, jotted down some notes, and was pleasantly surprised when they made sense in the morning. Believe me, that’s not always the case.



I imagined an intense rivalry between two advertising executives working in glamorous Manhattan. To complicate matters, I made them former lovers who are trying to land the same huge advertising account. For them, competition winds up being the ultimate aphrodisiac.



I hope you enjoy spending time with Samantha and Michael. As always, I’d love to hear what you think. You can contact me through my website at www.jackiebraun.com



Happy reading



Jackie Braun




MARRYING THE

MANHATTAN

MILLIONAIRE


BY

JACKIE BRAUN




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For my nieces and nephews:

Jason, Michelle, Steve, Stacey, Joanne, Jackie, Abby,

Amy, Mary, Renee, Alex, Yui, Stephanie, Eric, Nicole,

Allison, Meredith, Garrett, Roman, Payton, Sammy,

Connor, Ben, Natalie, Todd and Elizabeth.

Remarkable young people, all.


CHAPTER ONE

“AND the winner is…”

During the infinitesimal pause before the presenter read the Addy Award recipient’s name, Samantha Bradford was sure her heart stopped beating.

This is it, she thought. This is my moment.

“Michael Lewis of the Grafton Surry Agency.”

Or not.

Sam straightened in her seat, pasted a smile on her face and joined in the applause. As her palms slapped together with stinging force, her gaze narrowed on the man who was striding across the stage of the Atlanta Herriman Hotel’s grand ballroom, buttoning the jacket of his superbly tailored suit as he went. She knew him well. He was admittedly handsome, sexy, smart, insightful and charismatic. He also sang off-key in the shower, preferred boxers to briefs, enjoyed watching old war movies, had the annoying habit of leaving the seat up and possessed an untouched trust fund whose worth was on par with the gross national product of some small countries.

Yes, she knew him that well.

Seven years earlier Samantha had been in love with him and blissfully counting down the days until she became his wife. They’d found advertising jobs in Los Angeles, put down a deposit on a town house and made all manner of grand plans for their new life together. Those plans never materialized. The reason no longer mattered as far as she was concerned, though at the time Michael had accused her of choosing her family over him. Sam saw things differently. Everything could have worked out if only the man had been capable of compromise.

They’d gone their separate ways, bitterness burning any bridge that might have remained. She’d been fine with that. Really. She’d patched up her heart, put her life back in order. Michael had moved to Los Angeles without her. Sam had stayed in Manhattan, but she too had moved on.

Then fifteen months ago he’d returned to the city and the advertising scene where she was now at the top of her game. Ever since then, all of the memories, both good and bad, that Sam had safely stored away kept threatening to tumble out. She found that damned irritating. She found the man to be even more so. Michael had taken a job with one of the city’s largest ad agencies and a key rival to the one where Sam worked, which was owned by her father. She and Michael had been in competition ever since, angling for each other’s clients and going head-to-head for the industry’s highest accolades.

Such as the Addy.

The hands that a moment ago had engaged in polite applause balled into fists in her lap. What made tonight’s loss all the more galling was the fact that just the previous month Michael had snatched up the honors she’d been nominated for in the print campaign category of the Clio Awards.

For anyone keeping score, and she knew damned well Michael was, tonight made it two and zip in his favor.

Sure enough, when he reached the podium and took the trophy in his hands, his gaze seemed to search the audience. She swore he was looking straight at her when he brought the Addy to his lips and gave it a lingering kiss. Afterward, he offered a sexy grin that had half the women in the room issuing a sigh and the other half wanting to. Sam’s stomach did a familiar little flip and roll, but she reminded herself that she’d long ago conquered the weakness that would have had her falling into either category.

“Some people might say it’s an honor just to be nominated for this award,” Michael began. “But I’ll let you in on a little secret. I really wanted to win this one. And victory is all the sweeter for having been chosen from a group of such talented people.”

He winked in her direction.

Why you arrogant son of a…

She let the thought go unfinished. Instead, she instructed herself to take a deep breath and hold it before releasing it slowly between her teeth. She knew from past experience that the relaxation technique worked, so she tuned out the rest of Michael’s short acceptance speech and continued, feeling some of her tension ebb away.

Look forward, not back.

That was her motto. The awards would be over soon. The American Advertising Federation’s annual conference had wrapped up that afternoon. Tomorrow she would return to New York, and though it was a Sunday, she would be back at work. Nothing new in that. Sam spent a lot of weekends at the office. But while staying at the Atlanta Herriman she’d heard talk that the luxury chain of hotels might be looking for a new firm to handle its national campaigns. She intended for the Bradford Agency to be first in line should the rumor turn out to be true.

Thundering applause pulled her from her thoughts. Michael was leaving the stage. He held the trophy aloft in one hand as he made a fist of the other and pumped it in the air. It took an effort not to let her lip curl. She hadn’t thought it possible for him to look cockier than he had on his way to receive the award. It just went to show that the man’s potential in that area was limitless.

Three tables over, the people from Grafton Surry were on their feet, giving their golden boy a standing ovation. No doubt they would be toasting him with champagne late into the night. Perhaps one of the pretty, young account executives sitting at his table would offer to celebrate with him in private. Who knew? Who cared? Not Sam. Nope. She planned to go to bed early, rise before the sun and be at her desk in New York by noon. By the time Michael roused from sleep with what she hoped would be one very major hangover, she would have worked up a strategy for landing that big account.



Michael paid tribute to his win with a glass of the hotel’s finest bourbon as he sat by himself in the upscale lounge that overlooked the lobby’s impressive fountain. The trophy was in the center of the table, sharing space with a bowl of mixed nuts. He was pleased to have won it, especially since his success had come at Samantha’s expense. Again. But victory didn’t taste as sweet as he’d hoped it would. Something was missing. Again.

Several of his colleagues had gone to a nightclub outside the Herriman. They’d urged Michael to come along since he was the one they wanted to honor with raised glasses. He’d declined, claiming fatigue, even though he was 180 degrees the opposite of tired, which was why he was in the lounge rather than sitting alone in his room sampling something from the minibar. Wired, that’s how he felt. Primed. Though for what he couldn’t have said.

Until he saw her.

Sam stood framed in the lounge’s arched entrance, looking like something straight out of his fantasies. But it wasn’t fantasies that kept Michael awake at night. No. Memories were the culprit. Some were bitter, others sweet. All of them still beckoned him, remaining far too fresh and distracting, given the passage of time. The woman had hurt him. Now she haunted him, which, aside from the excellent job opportunity at Grafton Surry, was why he’d returned to New York. He wanted her exorcised once and for all.

Unfortunately, as he stared at her now, all he really wanted was her.

Sam had always had that effect on him. It wasn’t until she’d essentially put her father’s needs before Michael’s, making her priorities painfully clear, that he’d resented her for it. He swallowed now and swore under his breath. Why did she have to be so beautiful?

Seven years hadn’t changed that fact. If anything, she was lovelier now than she’d been at twenty-five. Her face had lost some of its fullness but none of its impact, dominated as it was by nearly black eyes that were topped off with a lush fringe of lashes and elegantly arched brows. Her hair was a couple of shades lighter than her eyes but just as rich, with a natural wave and sheen. She wore it shorter now. It hung to just below her shoulders, additional layers softening the appearance of her blunt chin and prominent cheekbones.

And then there was that body. Michael shifted uncomfortably in his seat as his gaze slipped south, pulled in that direction despite his best intentions. Soft curves made him want to moan. Sam had never been voluptuous, but nothing about her figure could be considered boyish. The cinnamon-colored halter-style gown she wore made it abundantly clear that every last inch of her was female. The gown dipped low enough in the front to offer a tantalizing peek of cleavage, under which a wide band of fabric highlighted the narrowness of her waist. From there, it flared out subtly at her hips. A slit up from the hem gave him a glimpse of one shapely calf. He remembered how those bare legs felt to his touch. He remembered how they felt wrapped around him.

Michael reached for his drink, finishing off the bourbon in a single gulp. Need began trickling back even before he returned the glass to the table. To counteract it, he reminded himself how ruthless she could be. Once upon a time he’d admired Sam’s go-for-the-jugular approach in business. Now that they were competitors, he found it damned annoying. Last month she’d tried to sweet-talk away one of Grafton Surry’s biggest clients. One of his biggest accounts. Only a sizable cut in his commission and long hours spent on a new campaign had kept the high-end watchmaker from jumping ship. He would be paying her back for that. Soon.

Right now he intended to call it a night. Michael raised his hand to signal the waiter for his check. Unfortunately, it was Samantha’s attention he snagged. He knew the exact moment she spotted him. Her expression tightened, and for just a second he swore she looked…vulnerable. Trick of the lounge’s dim lighting, he decided, and sent her a smile as he gave his Addy award a caressing stroke.

Samantha’s dark gaze followed the motion and she scowled. She turned and took a step toward the exit, but then she was pivoting back and marching to his table on a pair of heels that made her legs look as if they belonged in a chorus line.

“Hello, Michael.”

Her voice was as husky and provocative as he remembered. He ignored the tug of lust and in his most casual tone replied, “Hey, Sam. It’s been a while.”

They had seen each other a few times across crowded rooms at advertising functions, but this marked their first actual conversation since his return to town.

“Yes. It has.”

“How have you been?” he asked.

“Good. Great, in fact. You?”

“The same. How’s your family?”

Michael thought he’d managed to keep the sneer from his tone, but realized he wasn’t successful when she replied, “I might tell you if I thought you really cared. In fact, as I recall, the last time I tried to tell you, you wouldn’t even listen.”

“Ancient history.” He shrugged. But then couldn’t resist adding, “I see you’re still working for Daddy.”

She crossed her arms, leaving the little beaded handbag she carried to swing from one elbow in her agitation. That wasn’t what held his attention, though. The pose did sinful things to her cleavage, which in turn did sinful things to his line of thinking.

“Why wouldn’t I be? The Bradford Agency is the best in town.”

“One of the best,” he corrected. “I guess I thought maybe after all these years you would have finally broken free of him.”

“I don’t need to break free,” she objected. “I’m an account executive and a good one. I’m being primed, I might add, to take over the agency when my father retires in eight years. That means that by the time I’m forty, I’ll be the one calling all the shots at Bradford. I could very well wind up in charge of my own agency before you do. I’m hardly the prisoner you assume me to be.”

“Right.” He nodded solemnly and ignored her jab about his foot-dragging on going into business for himself. “I forgot. You had a choice, Sam. And you made it.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. He barely heard her voice above the din of conversations when she replied, “You made a choice, too.”

He closed his eyes, shook his head. “Back to that already, are we?”

“What did you expect?”

“More originality on your part, I guess, given some of the advertising campaigns you’ve put together.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m trying to figure out if that was intended as a compliment.”

“Let me know when you decide.” His smile was intentionally ambivalent.

Sam unfolded her arms. “Well, I just came over to offer my congratulations.”

“That’s big of you under the circumstances.”

“Just say ‘you’re welcome,’” she said tightly.

“You’re welcome.” Michael angled sideways in his seat and settled one elbow over the back of the chair. Testing himself, he allowed his gaze to meander to the vee of her décolletage again. Even without her arms crossed, enough gently mounded skin was exposed to ignite his imagination and send his hormones into overdrive. “That dress looks good on you. And I do mean that as a compliment, in case you’re wondering.”

She shrugged dismissively. “It was just something I had hanging in my closet.”

“Ah. I see you still have expensive taste.” When she said nothing, Michael added, “That particular designer’s fashions are very high end. I know because he’s one of my clients.”

“Yes. For now.” She smiled sweetly and he felt a muscle begin to tick in his jaw.

“You work too hard, Sam. It makes me wonder if you’re ever off the clock or if you’re always scheming up ways to grab my accounts.”

“I don’t have to scheme for that, Michael. I just have to do my job well. As for my personal life, it’s none of your business.”

He shrugged. “Still, I’m surprised to see you in here. I figured you’d be tucked in your bed by now, alarm set, bags packed and ready to head to the airport to catch the first flight to LaGuardia.”

This time the muscle that ticked was in her jaw, making him wonder how close he’d come to the truth.

“If you must know, I was supposed to meet someone for drinks.”

Michael glanced around. His amused expression belied his words when he said, “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but it looks as if you’ve been stood up.”

“As amusing as you would find that to be, the truth is I’m the one who’s late. Our meeting time was nearly an hour ago. Unfortunately, it completely slipped my mind.”

“Better things to do, such as go to bed alone?”

Her eyes narrowed, making him wonder if he’d scored another hit. Then he pictured her in that bed, alone…and waiting. And he was the one who took the hit. “Sorry.” Michael waved a hand. “It’s none of my business.”

“Right you are.”

“Forget I said it.”

“I’ve tried to forget everything you’ve ever said to me,” she replied airily.

“Yeah?” He cocked his head to one side. “Had any success?”

“Plenty.” She smiled.

“So, you’re saying the past—our past—is water under the bridge?”

She nodded, looking pleased when she informed him, “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Good. Glad to hear it.” He reached for the chair next to his and pulled it away from the table. “Then it shouldn’t be a problem for you to join me in a drink. You can drown your sorrows.”

He told himself he’d only tendered the invitation to wipe that smug grin off her face. He half hoped she would refuse. His masochistic half, though, knew she would accept. Sam wasn’t one to back down from a challenge or a dare. Essentially, his invitation was both. A chorus of Halleluiah—sung by that masochistic half—broke out in his head as she lowered herself slowly into the chair. He sought to silence it with a sip of bourbon, only to realize a little too late that his glass was empty.

Of course she noticed.

“What are you looking to drown, Michael?” One dark eyebrow arched as she asked the question. Before he could answer she signaled the waiter. “I tell you what. This round is on me.”

Michael tapped the side of the empty glass with his index finger. He meant it when he said, “You’ll get no objection. I’m only too happy to see you pay.”

Sam gritted her teeth. Foolishness, that’s what this was. She couldn’t believe she’d let Michael trick her into having a drink with him, much less buying. She stared at the Addy award that was in the middle of the table and recalled his acceptance speech. She felt her blood pressure rise along with her anger. She should get up and leave. But that would be playing right into his hands. She’d stay. Let him be the first to call it a night. He was stuck with her company now.

When the waiter arrived, she asked for a glass of Chardonnay. Michael ordered bourbon. According to her watch, it took the server eleven minutes and forty-eight seconds to return with their beverages. She and Michael spent the time selecting nuts from the bowl and making inane comments about the conference, which was only marginally better than chatting about the weather.

“A Chardonnay for the lady and your bourbon, sir,” the waiter said as he removed the glasses from his tray and set them on the table.

When he was gone, Sam asked, “What happened to Scotch?”

That had always been his drink of choice. He’d preferred it neat as opposed to on the rocks.

He shrugged. “Tastes change.”

“Yes, they do.” Samantha picked up her drink. “Here’s to change.”

“Are we drinking to any change in particular?”

She watched his fingers curl around his glass. They were long and, she recalled, exceptionally skilled. Sam chased away the memory with a sip of wine and lifted her shoulders in a negligent shrug. “I’ll leave that to you to decide.”

His eyebrows shot up. “I don’t remember you being so accommodating in the past, Sam. I like it. A lot.” He winked then and raised his own glass. “To change.”

She intended to let his remark pass without comment, even though Michael was dead wrong: he’d been the one with issues when it came to accommodation, to compromise, not her. Sam took another sip of her wine before setting the glass back on the table. Then she took a deep calming breath and offered him a bland smile. It promptly turned into a sneer. So much for biting her tongue, she thought as she launched into her attack.

“God, that’s so like you to manipulate the truth. I’m not the one who issued the damned ultimatum that killed our relationship.”

“No? Are you sure about that?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re the one who took a stand, Sam.”

“Me? ‘Come to California now or it’s over.’ Do those words ring a bell? If not, maybe you should go see a doctor. It appears your memory is failing.” She reached over and tapped his temple where a few fine threads of silver shot through his otherwise sandy-brown hair. When had he acquired those? And why did they have to look so damned good on him?

Michael captured her fingers in his. “I postponed our wedding, moved to California without you and waited for you to come, only to have you call to say you were staying in Manhattan. So, it’s your memory that could use a little improvement. Mine is just fine, sweetheart.”

The endearment, issued as it was in such an insulting manner, rubbed roughly across her nerves. It didn’t help that he was still holding her hand. She tugged free of his grasp. “Don’t call me that. You lost the right a long time ago.”

He made a scoffing sound. “I didn’t lose it. I gave it up gladly when you sent back my ring. Daddy—you know, the same guy who spent your entire adolescence kicking your self-esteem to the curb—needed you.”

“You still don’t get it.” Sam shook her head in frustration and even as she called herself a fool all these years later, she wanted him to understand. “After Sonya’s accident—”

Just as he had seven years ago, though, he blocked her attempt to explain. “Don’t. Let’s not talk about your sister or your father or anything else to do with the past.” Before she could object—and, boy, did she plan to give him an earful—he abruptly changed the subject. “How about another toast?”

“I can’t imagine what else we have to drink to.” She meant it. After all, almost everything between them was past tense.

Michael, of course, found the one thing that wasn’t. “How about my win tonight. You know, just to show that you harbor no hard feelings.”

He offered the same grin that he had from the podium. It was a challenge, a dare, and as such she found herself helpless to say no.

“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.”

“Yes, but only because he wouldn’t listen when I tried to tell him. He jumped to the conclusion that I was staying in Manhattan and taking the job at Bradford to please Dad and gain his favor. Is it my fault that he got it wrong?”

“Did he?” Joy asked.

They talked about other things then, the dress Sam had worn to the awards dinner and the style she’d gone with for her hair. Hours after they hung up, though, Joy’s words had memories churning.

I need you, Samantha.

Both Michael and Randolph had said so. In her father’s case, though, it was the first time he’d used that exact combination of words. As Sam stalked about the quiet apartment that should have been Sonya’s, she remembered the occasion quite clearly.

One month prior to her wedding to Michael and three months to the day after Sonya’s car accident, he’d called Sam at the apartment she shared with Michael to ask her to meet him for lunch at Tavern on the Green. The invitation itself was unusual and should have given her an inkling that something unprecedented was about to take place. Still, the conversation that occurred in the time between their salads and their entrees had her wishing she’d followed her father’s lead and ordered a vodka martini.

Randolph wanted her to stay in Manhattan and join him at the Bradford Agency. It was the first time he’d voiced any sort of objection to her moving to California. Indeed, it was the first time he’d voiced his desire to have her work with him, though she’d majored in advertising with just that intention. After earning her degree, Sonya had become an account executive at Bradford. As for Sam, even two years after graduating from New York University, her father had claimed that no account executive positions were available. He suggested she continue as an office assistant until something opened up. Michael had been the one to mop up Sam’s tears and suggest not only a clean break from her father but a cross-country move.

“He doesn’t appreciate you, Sam. He doesn’t deserve you.” Michael’s words had been a balm to her wounded spirit.

So when Randolph had made his offer, Sam wanted to refuse it as too little too late. Her lips had even begun to form the words when he’d trumped every last one of her objections with his wild card.

I need you, Samantha.

There had been more to his argument than those four words, of course, as potent and ultimately persuasive as Sam found them to be. Actually, he’d laid out his case with surprising emotion for a man who rarely displayed much. He feared it would be months before Sonya was capable of returning to Bradford in any capacity. At that point she wasn’t capable of independent living much less being groomed to take over the agency as he’d long intended.

Absent the heir, he’d turned to the spare.

That had been Michael’s unflattering assessment when she discussed it with him later in the day. Randolph had asked Sam to take Sonya’s place. Temporarily. She’d agreed. She’d already asked Michael to postpone their wedding. She wanted Sonya to be her maid of honor. Despite their father’s obvious favoritism, the two had always been close.

The argument that ensued hadn’t been pleasant. Recalling it now made Sam ache all over again:

Michael had been incredulous at first.

“I’ve given my word to my new employer that I’ll start in six weeks. So have you.”

They’d both landed positions at the same agency, one of the biggest and most respected in Los Angeles.

“I know. You can go ahead without me. I’ll just have to hope that when I make the move, the opening will still be there.”

He had run his hands through his hair. In Michael’s expression she’d seen frustration, anger and, worst of all, hurt. “He’s using you, just like he’s used you as a glorified gopher for the past couple of years. Can’t you see that?”

“He needs me,” she told him.

“I need you, too. Don’t stay, Sam.”

She closed her eyes, holding back tears. Torn. That’s how she felt. She still wanted, needed to believe that her father would someday love her as unconditionally as he did Sonya. “I can’t leave right now. I’m sorry.”

“You can,” Michael insisted. For him, this issue had always been black-and-white. “Randolph doesn’t deserve your loyalty, Sam. He won’t return it.”

She ignored the comment, ignored the little voice that told her Michael was right. “It’s only for a little while, at most six months. The doctors say Sonya is making terrific progress.”

He snorted in disgust. “And once she’s as good as new, then what? He’ll have no need for you and you’ll be broken up into pieces again.”

“It’s not like that.”

Michael’s voice rose. “It’s exactly like that, and you know it.”

“Sonya needs me, too.”

“I like Sonya and I know it’s not her fault that she’s your father’s favorite, but when are you going to step out of her shadow and start living your own life?” he asked. When Sam said nothing, he reminded her unnecessarily, “You’re being naive if you think the job in California is going to wait six months while you work at another firm in New York.”

“I know.” The bigger question was, “Will you wait, Michael?”

He swallowed, looking pained. “That’s unfair.”

“Just answer me, please.”

“Your father has made you jump through hoops your entire life for the scraps of his affection. I thought you were finally finished with that.”

“This is different.” It was. It had to be.

But Michael shook his head. “No, it isn’t, Sam. It’s just a bigger hoop with better scraps. I love you and I want to marry you more than anything in the world. But if you stay here now, I have a bad feeling that isn’t going to happen.”

She hurried to Michael, wrapped her arms around him and held on tightly, maybe because part of her already knew she was losing him. “Don’t say that!”

He sighed and rested his forehead against hers. “Believe me. I don’t want to say it. But I need to be honest.”

She appreciated his honesty, but she also wanted his support. “It’s just till Sonya is on her feet again and able to return to work, I promise.”

She broke that promise, though not intentionally. After Sonya suffered a major setback, she called Michael in tears.

“I have bad news,” she began and started to cry.

“You’re staying in Manhattan, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I have to. Sonya—”

“I knew it, Sam,” Michael said before she could tell him about the unexpected aneurism that had burst in Sonya’s brain and the doctors’ subsequent grim prognosis.

“Please, listen,” she cried. “You don’t understand.”

“I don’t understand what? That you’ve decided our wedding isn’t going to happen after all. I think I figured that out on my own.”

“No. I love you, Michael. I was hoping you would come back to New York,” she said. “You’ll have no trouble finding a job here. We can still get married.”

“Why would I move back, Sam? You’ve made it pretty clear where I fall on your list of priorities. You’ve picked trying to please your father over having a life with me.”

She sank down on the bed they hadn’t shared since his last trip to Manhattan more than a month earlier. Even then, things had been strained. “That isn’t fair.”





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