It Takes a Rebel

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Half afraid to look in the mirror, Jack did so one eye at a time. Damn. He pursed his mouth and lifted a hand to his sheared head. It was short, but it didn’t look half bad. He turned sideways and ran a hand over the back of his neck. “Long time, no see,” he murmured. He leaned over the sink and wet his short hair, then combed it back. “Hello, ears.”

“Here you go, handsome.”

Tuesday was back, this time holding a vinyl suit bag.

“Suit, shirt, cuff links, tie, socks, belt and shoes, size twelve—your toes’ll be pinched just a mite.”

Jack’s eyes widened. “Where did you get this stuff?”

“My son, Reggie,” she said. “Remember, he works for Tremont’s?”

“Oh, right,” he said. “Menswear?”

She nodded. “Natty dresser, my Reggie.” She handed him the bag. “Clothes make the man, you know.”

Touched, Jack reached for the bag, then stopped and stared at her. “Tuesday, you’re a genius.”

She gave him a dismissive wave. “I know that, son. What took you so long to catch on?”

Jack unzipped the bag, his mind jumping ahead to his blank sketch pad. He had about an hour to get a new idea down on paper.

“Tuesday, I’m going to be cutting it close. Will you call me a taxi?” A trip across town on his motorcycle might compromise the condition of his portfolio, he realized.

“I did. It’ll be here at a quarter to ten,” she said, then turned and closed the door.

Jack grinned at his own reflection, suddenly feeling young again. He was back, and good wasn’t a big enough word to express how he felt. He felt…he felt…energized. And lucky. And teeming with fiery anticipation at the look on the ice princess’s face when he walked through the door.

“Look out, Ms. Alexandria Tremont,” he murmured. “Ready or not, here I come.”

THE FAVORITE PART of Alex’s day was walking through the various departments of Tremont’s before the doors opened to the public. This morning, she acknowledged, the routine also served to soothe her anxiety about the impending advertising meeting. Actually, she felt a little sorry for Jack Stillman—the clueless man was in way over his swollen head. But regardless of her opinion of him and his agency, she honestly didn’t enjoy watching people make fools of themselves. Alex sighed and sipped coffee from a stoneware mug. Hopefully the meeting would be mercifully short.

Her mood considerably lighter this morning than the previous evening, the store seemed exceptionally pleasing: the sweep of formal gowns on so-slim mannequins, the musky blend of popular perfumes, the neat stacks of thick towels on cherry tables, the flash of silver tea sets. In the past decade, Tremont’s had made the subtle move from a discount department store to a more upscale shopping experience for the upper-middle class of Lexington and the surrounding area. Alex liked to believe her sales and marketing policies of pushing retail boundaries had something to do with the transformation.

She stopped to compliment Carla, one of the most senior salesclerks who always arrived at her station in the jewelry department early enough to give the glass counter an extra swipe, then Alex moved toward the stairs by way of menswear. A tall well-dressed youth was tagging slacks for alterations, his hands moving swiftly. Alex’s mind raced as she tried to recall his name—she’d seen it at the top of the commission lists often enough. Ronnie? No, Reggie.

“Good morning, Reggie.”

He jerked up his head and dropped the pants he held. “G-good morning, Ms. Tremont,” he said as he hurriedly knelt to retrieve the clothes. “Sorry, I’m clumsy today.”

Alex dipped to help him. “Nonsense.” But she did squint at his dark head that was tilted down. She’d spoken to the young man several times and she’d never known him to be nervous, yet his hands were practically shaking. “Is everything all right, Reggie?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, ma’am. Just fine.” But he made only fleeting eye contact as he straightened.

“Good.” Alex stood and brushed off the behavior with a smile, then rescued a navy and gray barber-pole striped tie in danger of falling from a display table. “Are the new ties selling well?”

Glancing at the tie she’d smoothed, he swallowed, sending his Adam’s apple dancing. “Yes, ma’am. Especially the C-Coakley line.”

“My personal favorite,” she said, pleased that the line of ties her father had gruffly pronounced as “damnably expensive” were selling well despite the admittedly steep price tags. “Keep up the good work, Reggie.”

Her chunky-heeled black leather pumps felt nice and solid against the polished marble floor as she walked toward the stairs. The stairs themselves, although a mainstay in her casual exercise program, were a bit of a test today in her shorter than usual skirt—black crepe with no slit. She climbed the four flights of stairs slowly to prevent perspiration from gathering on the paper thin indigo blouse beneath the black jacket. Near the top, she checked her watch. Nine-thirty. Just enough time to grab another cup of coffee and sift through the previous week’s sales figures. Might as well head for the conference room early and claim a good vantage point. Things could get interesting, and she wanted a view.

Her secretary Tess, an efficient and animated young woman who studied fashion merchandising at night, was holding out the sales reports before Alex even reached the woman’s desk.

“Thanks, Tess.”

“You look tired.”

So much for her new under-eye concealer. “I guess I need more caffeine.”

“Let me get your coffee, Ms. Tremont.” Despite Alex’s numerous requests for Tess to call her by her first name, her secretary insisted on addressing her formally. Before Alex could protest, Tess had relieved her of the stoneware mug and refilled it with black Irish roast from a coffeemaker on a credenza. “Do you have anything for me to add to your agenda today?”

“No,” Alex said, inclining her head in thanks as she took the mug. “Just be on the lookout for a Mr. Jack Stillman for the ten o’clock meeting, and show him to the boardroom, please.”

“How will I know him?” Tess asked, her green eyes wide and interested.

Alex bit back a smirk. Her pretty secretary was a bit of a flirt, and always perked up when a man came around. Shaggy Jack Stillman was probably right up her alley, too. “Believe me, you can’t miss him.” She shook her head good-naturedly as she walked down the hall to the executive conference room, nodding good morning to a half-dozen peers and subordinates as she went. Tess ran through men like most women ran through panty hose.

Alex frowned down at her own durable black hose. Funny, she hadn’t bought a new pair in ages.

At the door to the conference room, she hesitated only a second before stepping inside. In her opinion, these four walls encompassed the most unappealing space in the entire five-story building. Alex had attempted to overhaul the depressing room many times, but she’d finally tired of butting heads with her father, who insisted the conference room be left as is. As is, however, was an oppressive collection of dark, clubby wood bookshelves studded with sports paraphernalia. A thoroughly masculine domain, the three darkly paneled walls adorned with gaping fish frozen into curling leaps, and worse, two antlered deer heads. Alex felt nauseous every time she looked at the poor creatures.

The furniture wasn’t much better, the bulky chairs so unwieldy she could barely move them in and out from the broad-legged table. She chose the chair at the head of the table, farthest from the door. After setting down her coffee cup and the reports, she crossed the gloomy room to open the window blinds on the outside wall. As far as she was concerned, the sole good feature of the room was the view.

Rolling hills of pasture land and forests provided a backdrop for the modest Lexington skyline. The fiery October hues threw the white board fences encircling distant grazing land into stark relief. The flying hooves of two yearlings sprinting across a slanted field reminded her that fall horse racing season at Keeneland started in a couple of days. Alex smiled, momentarily distracted, and experienced a rush of gratitude to be living in such a beautiful area.

Winding, tree-lined roads led residents into the downtown area, a myriad of old tobacco warehouses, new office buildings, slender town houses and fountained courtyards. Brick, stone, metal, concrete, glass, water, one-and two-way streets—all these elements combined to create the casual, eclectic cityscape that embodied Lexington: part urban, part rural, totally accommodating.

Tremont’s flagship store and administrative offices occupied a five-story building on Webster Avenue just a few blocks from the center of downtown, and walking distance from Alex’s loft apartment. They had managed to compete with the malls by building an adjacent parking structure and, at her persistent urging, by developing a food court on the entire first floor of the building, including a sidewalk café that had become very popular with the business lunch crowd and the Junior League. As a result, gift shops and service businesses had popped up all around them.

Alex sipped her coffee, feeling very much like a proud parent admiring her offspring. She had contributed to the growth of Tremont’s, and Tremont’s played a vital role in the downtown economy. Long after she was gone, Tremont’s would be a living, breathing entity, a legacy of her father’s and her own and her children’s impact on the city and the state. The knowledge pleased her immensely.

As she stared down at the street, a red taxicab pulled alongside the opposite sidewalk, and a man alighted. Bound for the financial building two doors down, she suspected, then she squinted to study the man in the distance as he leaned inside to pay the driver. He certainly looked the part of a money man—commanding figure, dark hair, proper suit. Her tongue poked deep into her cheek. And he wasn’t a bad-looking fellow, either.

“What’s so interesting?”

She dropped the blind, turned, and conjured up a smile for Heath Reddinger, who looked fair and fit and smart in his navy pinstripe suit and tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses. “Just people-watching.”

His forehead furrowed. “Alex, you look tired. I thought you were going to bed early last night.”

“I did,” she said, telling herself she should feel flattered by his concern rather than faintly annoyed. “I’m fine, really.”

Heath glanced back toward the door to ensure they were alone. They both agreed not to flaunt their relationship during work hours. “I’m sorry, but I have to cancel dinner tonight,” he said. “I just discovered I’m needed in Cincinnati. I’m leaving this afternoon.”

“For how long?” She’d been looking forward to a relaxing evening together, and to the sea bass at Gerrard’s.

“No more than a couple of days, I think.”

Alex frowned. “A problem with our bank?”

Heath sipped his creamed coffee before he answered. “No problem, just an issue. Can I get a rain check on dinner?”

She nodded, respectful of Heath’s dedication to her father’s company.

Heath reached forward and smoothed a finger back from her temple. “Maybe we should plan a long weekend away when I get back, hmm?”

A light rapping on the door accompanied by Tess clearing her throat diverted Alex’s attention over Heath’s shoulder. The flash of irritation that her secretary had been privy to the intimate gesture and conversation was quickly replaced by her puzzlement at the tall gentleman standing next to a beaming Tess. A memory cord stirred at the base of Alex’s brain, and she realized the dark-headed visitor was the same man she’d watched climb out of the taxi on the street below. A salesman, of course. What else would a man as handsome as he be doing for a living? Riveting dark eyes, tanned, planed features, immaculate suit. No wonder Tess looked like she’d been plugged into an electrical transformer. Alex grudgingly indulged in a twinge of appreciation of her own—the man was…noteworthy.

Alex stepped around Heath. “Yes, Tess?”

“Mr. Stillman is here.”

Alex blinked, wondering why Tess had announced Stillman’s arrival before introducing the salesman. Her gaze darted to the man, and one side of his mouth curved upward. Confusion flooded her.

“Good morning, Ms. Tremont,” the man said in a hauntingly familiar voice.

5

A FULL FIFTEEN SECONDS passed before Alex made the connection that this…paragon…was the same wild-eyed, bushy-headed, scruffy-faced irreverent vagrant she’d spoken to yesterday. Her jaw loosened a bit, and her mind raced, trying to reconcile the two images.

Meanwhile, Jack Stillman seemed to be enjoying every minute of her discomfort. His dark eyes—brown? green?—alight with the barest hint of amusement, never left her face. Her heart pumped wildly, sending hot apprehension to her limbs while alarms sounded in her ears. His full-fledged grin catapulted his unnerving energy across the space between them to wrap around her. Alex resisted the pull, leaning into the conference room table until the hard edge bit into the front of her thighs. This man was dangerous, and she would do well to keep her distance, and to keep her wits about her.

“Good morning, Mr. Stillman,” she replied coolly, then gestured toward the opposite end of the table. “Won’t you have a seat?” Getting the man off his feet would give her the slightest advantage.

Instead of answering, he strode toward Heath and extended his hand. “Jack Stillman of the Stillman & Sons Agency.”

Heath introduced himself, and Alex could have kicked herself for her gaffe. The men shook hands, although the set of Heath’s chin emanated a certain wariness. Bobby Warner, a fellow sales director and her prime competition for the vice presidency walked in with his signature swagger, then gaped at Jack.

“You’re not the Jack Stillman who played for UK in the early eighties?”

Jack dimpled. “Guilty.”

Behind them, Alex rolled her eyes.

“I’ll never forget that sixty-six-yard touchdown against Tennessee in eighty-four,” Bobby said, stepping back to feign a catch while Alex stared. She could count on her colleagues to overlook Jack Stillman’s exaggerated celebrity and do what was best for the company…couldn’t she?

To her relief, several other associates entered the room—the public relations director, another sales director, two vice presidents and a couple of marketing assistants—chatting among themselves. She left the introductions to Bobby, who seemed disturbingly chummy with Jack Stillman after only three and a half minutes. The group body language concerned her. The men leaned toward him, hands in pockets, athletically wide-legged—even Rudy Claven, who hadn’t missed being a woman by much, and was teased mercifully by the company softball team for “throwing like a girl.” And the four women in the room seemed to hang on to every detail as Bobby ingratiatingly expanded on Jack’s scoffing I’m-not-a-legend preamble.

Ugh.

Alex pretended to mingle as they waited for her father, but instead studied Jack from beneath her lashes, part of her marveling over his physical transformation, all of her wary to the point of nervous tension. He panned his audience to include everyone in a glory-days anecdote he’d probably recounted a thousand times, and his gaze seemed to linger on her longer than necessary.

Men were like cats, she observed, pretending to study her watch. The more you ignored them, the more they wanted your attention. She forced herself not to listen to Jack Stillman’s words, although his baritone was impossible to shut out. Someone had found a photo of the ’85 UK football team among the cluttered bookshelves, and there he was, Jack pointed out as everyone crowded around, then launched into a story about the fellow who sat next to him. Within seconds, everyone was laughing.

Oh, brother. Alex took a deep gulp of coffee and scalded her tongue. “Dammit!”

Her expletive coincided with a lull in the laughter and seemed to reverberate from the dark walls. Everyone turned to stare, including Jack, whose eyes danced with amusement as she ran her tender tongue against the roof of her mouth. She had the strongest urge to stick it out at him.

“Problem, my dear?” her father asked, strolling into the room with all the casual ease of a man who owned the floors, walls and ceilings. At last everyone fell away from Jack Stillman and headed toward the table, scrupulously avoiding the chair opposite Alex, reserved for her father, of course.

“No,” she said somewhat thickly, walking around the table. “Allow me to introduce Mr. St—”

“Jack Stillman,” her father cut in, pumping the visitor’s hand, his broad face creasing in a grin reserved only for the most privileged. “Jack the Attack.”