The Playboy's Protegee

Something major from the way everyone was smiling at him. Harry smiled automatically, hiding his lack of a clue.

“Congratulations,” someone said.

“What a great pairing,” the executive to his right said. “You and Megan MacGregor. She’s talent extraordinare. Think of what you two can accomplish.”

“Thank you,” Harry said. He glanced up at his grandfather. Grandpa Joe looked smug and instantly Harry knew what he’d missed. Grandpa Joe had just announced at the meeting that he, Harry, was Megan’s mentor. His beloved grandfather had just caught him in a corner and used it to his advantage. There was no way Harry could retaliate or back out now. He was stuck. Grandpa Joe arched his white eyebrows at Harry, the movement and his twinkling blue eyes saying what words could not.

Harry had been had. He was stuck. He’d have to play along. His sister’s words came into his head. They were the ones she’d often repeated when frustrated during her tenure at Jacobsen’s, “If I didn’t love Grandpa Joe.”

His grandfather came over to his seat and leaned down to speak just so Harry could hear. “It’s for your own good, and that of Jacobsen’s. Keep that in mind. I will expect you to accomplish this with no problems.”

“I understand,” Harry replied. He watched his grandfather leave the conference room. Four years of acting in high school theater allowed Harry to keep his face schooled into a neutral mask that hid all of his raging anger.

His only consolation was that across the table Megan looked shell-shocked. And for once she was speechless as people began leaving the meeting, each telling her congratulations as they walked by.

“HOW’D IT GO?” Cheryl looked up from sorting the mail as Megan returned to her office.

“Great,” Megan lied as she walked toward her cubicle. “Just great.”

Normally she would stop and chat with Cheryl. As a co-worker, she liked Cheryl. Because of poor performance, Megan had needed to fire the previous receptionist.

“I’m glad it went great,” Cheryl called after her.

Yeah, Megan thought. Most of the meeting had gone great.

The meeting had been going well, even after she’d made the major blunder of opening her mouth and blurting out her opinion of Harry’s idea.

After all, the meeting had been a brainstorming and that’s what think-tank brainstorming was, a shouting out of ideas so that people could look at all sides of the issues.

But she’d crossed Harry Sanders, again. Why did she keep doing that? This was the second time her politically incorrect semantics had discredited his ideas.

And then Joe Jacobsen announced to everyone that Harry was her mentor.

“I didn’t accept the job, you know.”

She’d recognize his voice anywhere. Its husky baritone washed over her, and she whirled around in her chair, finding Harry Sanders standing at the entrance to her cubicle, his presence filling the small opening. “So we can find some common ground and manage to work together on this project, know that he poleaxed me too.”

“I see,” Megan said. She bit back her anger. If he’d only backed out when she’d asked. But that didn’t matter now. They were stuck. Fighting like at their last encounter in his office would do both little good.

So instead she took a good look at him. Tiny hints of strain etched lines around his blue eyes. They were Jacobsen blue eyes, just like his grandfather’s. The only thing missing was the warmth Joe Jacobsen always had in his.

But there was no doubt about it, Harry Sanders was a beautiful man. His hair, almost the color of wheat with natural highlights washed through, was short and cropped into the latest fashion. His eyes were set deep—the top lid hidden, sunken into his face like Paul Newman’s or Simon Baker’s. And his lips, Megan didn’t want to think about those, or the number of women they’d kissed. Everyone at Jacobsen knew Harry’s playboy reputation. While he never dated anyone at work, the switchboard fielded enough of his calls, more than triple anyone else’s.

He smiled suddenly, and it lit up his whole face. Laugh lines creased around those generous lips, and Megan sucked in her breath. If he looked like that when he smiled politely, what would he look like when he really smiled, smiled with pleasure or wanting?

That was dangerous ground she didn’t need to tread. Harry Sanders was business, that was all. Averting her gaze from his straight white teeth, she tried to concentrate on what he was saying as he sat in a chair at her small table. Instead she saw paisley socks that perfectly matched both his suit and his shoes. The man knew how to dress. She blinked.

“…so my grandfather again gets what he wants. I’ll expect you to have the full proposal read by tomorrow. Even though Jill is researching your ideas, you need to be certain she gives you a full report before you board the plane. And lastly, buy yourself an updated wardrobe. Those clothes need to go.”

“What?” Had she heard him correctly? Her mouth opened a little in surprise.

“Clothes,” Harry said without missing a beat. She had heard him correctly. “You look like a dowager duchess. Prim. Proper. Not quite the look we want. You’re what, twenty-something?”

“Twenty-seven.” Her voice was indignant.

“Right. Well you should dress sleek. Young. Professional. Not frumpy. We’re going into the fashion capital of America and you aren’t sixty.”

“There is nothing wrong with my clothes,” Megan repeated, reining in her anger. After all, her clothes were designer labels, she’d just found them in an upscale consignment shop.

Harry folded his hands into his lap and leaned forward. The movement allowed her to glimpse the muscles under the suit jacket and her mouth went dry. “I’ve been given the task of being your mentor. Why don’t you assume I do know some things and follow my advice. Since I am your mentor, you are now a reflection of me and my tutelage. Thus, I’d prefer you listen.”

He leaned back and put his hands behind his head. That movement emphasized other muscles. Megan resisted the urge to lick her lips.

What was it about him? Other men had sat in her cubicle, but why was Harry’s presence affecting her like this? Megan attempted to focus, her gaze instead watching Harry as he shrugged, his jaw flexing as he spoke.

“But, if you don’t want to update your wardrobe I suppose that’s fine. When you discover I’m right, it will come at your expense.”

She attempted to regain control of the situation. Harry Sanders, who always looked perfect, was in her cubicle telling her how to dress. The thought rankled, giving her some of the bite she needed. “I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?”

Harry took what seemed like forever to study her. Megan felt her body heat as his blue-eyed gaze roved over her. It took all her mettle not to move a muscle. Whatever this test was, she would pass.

He finally spoke, his voice a bit lower, huskier, than before. “No. There’s nothing else. Everything else, hair, makeup, is fine. Just fine. Make sure you lose the frumpy clothes. My sister usually shops at…”

He rattled off the names of some stores and then he was gone.

Megan stared at the empty chair. Had he really been there at all? She knew he had, but it seemed so improbable. Harry Sanders, extending an olive branch of sorts?

If that’s what it actually was? And if it was an olive branch, it was probably only because he was stuck with her, and her with him. But he was correct about one thing. He did know how to dress, and he always looked impeccable no matter what designer suit he wore

New clothes. Buying clothes would break her tight budget, but as much as she hated to admit it, Harry was right. She needed a young professional wardrobe.

New York, here I come.

Chapter Three

Jacobsen Enterprises Internal Memo

From: Joe Jacobsen, CEO

To: Andrew Sanders, president

Re: Harry/Jacobsen Stars

The meeting went well. Of course, both Harry and Megan looked a little upset that neither got what they wanted, but they covered well. Both have learned that first rule in business, never let them see you cry. Anyhow, I’m sending Megan to New York with Harry. Her ideas in the meeting were fantastic, and a full transcript will be on your desk by tomorrow morning.

J.J.

Jacobsen Enterprises Internal Memo

From: Andrew Sanders, president

To: Joe Jacobsen, CEO

Re: Harry/Jacobsen Stars

You truly are a crazy old coot. Do you really think forcing the two into some unhappy togetherness is going to spark romance? You’ll be lucky you get any type of merger out of this mess you’ve created.

A.S.

Jacobsen Enterprises Internal Memo

From: Joe Jacobsen, CEO

To: Andrew Sanders, president

Re: Harry/Jacobsen Stars

It’s an acquisition, and of course everything will work out. I have a gift, a natural talent, for both business and romance. Want to bet on it? Didn’t we say double or nothing on Harry?

J.J.

Jacobsen Enterprises Internal Memo

From: Andrew Sanders, president

To: Joe Jacobsen, CEO

Re: Harry/Jacobsen Stars

Here we go again.

A.S.

“LAST CALL FOR Flight 690 to LaGuardia.”

“Here,” Megan rushed up to the counter, her new designer blue Italian pumps already rubbing a blister on her heel. She handed the clerk her boarding pass and began digging for her driver’s license.

So much for being on time for her flight. She’d left home late, traffic through the city on Highway 70 had been terrible, and the only long-term parking had been in lot A, the farthest one away.

To make matters worse, her gate in Lambert International’s D-concourse had been all the way at the end, and she’d been practically running the whole way, including on the speed walks. It seemed that everyone had a flight out of the Saint Louis international airport at 8:00 a.m. on a Tuesday morning.

“Has your luggage been with you at all times?” the counter clerk asked.

“What? Oh yes,” Megan said, snapping her attention to the task at hand, getting on the plane. Within moments she was walking down the gangway to the Boeing 757 for the 882 mile flight to New York.

This was her first time flying as a requirement of her job. She’d always known Joe Jacobsen refused to hire charter flights or even purchase his own jet, so it surprised her to discover that instead of coach, her seat was in first class. The few times she’d ever flown before had all been in coach where she was lucky to even get beverage service.

“Welcome,” the flight attendant said as she took Megan’s boarding pass. “Second row, which is actually the first one on your left, the aisle seat. You’ll need to put your carry-on luggage under the seat. The overhead bins are full.”

“Thanks,” Megan said. She walked the few feet toward her seat.

“About time.”

“Oh. You.” Megan’s breath exhaled into a sigh of resignation as she saw Harry. He was already seated by the window, a partially full glass of orange juice in his left hand.

“Hello to you too, seatmate. Let me tell you how delighted and excited I am to share this two-hour flight with you.” His blue eyes narrowed. “But at least you followed my advice. New clothes. Nice.”

Her new V-neck silk blouse gaped open as she attempted to shove her carry-on bag under the seat. She wrestled with keeping her shirt closed while she tried to shove the bag into the small space.

“New underthings too?”

Great. So much for success with her shirt. He’d been staring at her breasts. She covered her mortification by remaining flippant. “You said new clothes. I bought new everything.”

She gave one last irritated shove and the carry-on bag slid into place. Her purse she shoved into the space in front of her. She took her seat and strapped herself in.

“Orange juice or V8?”

“Orange juice,” Megan replied, taking the plastic cup the flight attendant handed her. She let the cold juice roll over her tongue. Just what she needed.

Harry’s voice came out of nowhere. “I would have pegged you for a V8 girl. All those vegetables.”

“You would peg me for a lot of things that I’m not,” Megan said. She looked ahead at the wall in front of her. The fabric was an interesting pattern of blue. Please don’t let him be a chatty seatmate.

“So tell me then about the real Megan MacGregor. You know, the things that aren’t on your résumé.”

“Most of them are none of your business.” To her delight she realized that sitting in first class meant having an extra-wide armrest. At least she wouldn’t need to jostle with Harry for that.

Next to her, Harry shrugged. “We have two hours to kill.”

Megan heard the rumbling of the engine as the plane began to back away from the gate. “Didn’t you bring a magazine? Business paperwork? My briefcase is in my carry-on. I have plenty to do.”

“Like you’ll be able to pull that out and get to it. ’Course, the show was pretty good.”

She felt her face flush. There never was a dull moment with Harry, was there? “I have a magazine in my purse.”

“Let me guess. Vogue? Mademoiselle?”

From his tone she knew he was poking fun at her. “For your information it’s U.S. News and World Report. I also have a book.”

His blue eyes twinkled. “A romance?”

“No, a mystery by Sue Grafton.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think it would be romance. Although with your prim-and-proper facade you could secretly harbor stacks of those sweep-me-off-my-feet historicals at home. You know, the ones with the half-naked guy on the cover.”

“I do not,” Megan retorted. She preferred contemporary romance, not that she’d tell him that.

“Do you even have a romantic bone in your body?”

“Harry!”

“She calls my name.”

The plane began to accelerate down the runway, thrusting them back into their seats. So engrossed in their conversation, they’d missed the security lecture. She made a mental note to remember where the exits were, something she’d been taught to do on an Oprah show on surviving disasters. But Oprah hadn’t known about Harry Sanders. He could have been a show all by himself.

“It won’t crash,” Harry said as if reading her mind. “I’ve never had a bad flight.”

Of course the golden boy wouldn’t. The skies wouldn’t dare misbehave for him. “Yes, but with my bad luck, today might be the first. Look at the proof. We got stuck with each other, didn’t we?”

He smiled, giving her the grin that she knew had melted hearts for miles. “The more I think of that, the more I think how lucky you are, in the good sense. I’m a Jacobsen.”

“So? That just means you got your foot in the door. Personally, I would have rather had Lyle McKaskill.”

“Really? He’s fifty. But then, I forget you like them older.” Harry’s smile had faded.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

But the plane had launched itself into the air, and, instead of answering, Harry turned his attention out the window as the city of Saint Louis began fading from view.

Megan fumed. Dig and rip. What did he mean anyway with that crack? Did he know how absolutely infuriating he was? He was a cad. A jerk. A first-class…Mentally she ripped on him, but it did nothing to assuage the conflicting feelings now going through her.

She’d always avoided being this close to Harry Sanders. The man was a walking pheromone, a womanizer. And she wasn’t as immune to him as she’d always thought she was. Sitting next to him she could smell his cologne. He smelled of wilderness, of something wild and primal. His short blond hair looked silken, eminently touchable. She could picture running her hands into the golden strands, and grabbing hunks of his beautiful hair as he thrust into her. She’d pull his lips back down to hers and…

Stop right there! That was not a picture or a fantasy she needed. The last thing she needed was to have any type of sexual harassment charges drummed up on her, or for her to send any sort of subliminal sexual messages to Harry.

The man was one hundred percent pure playboy. He ran through women like water.

The last thing she needed was to lose her focus. Harry Sanders was, for better or worse, her mentor. This was business. That was all. Her career could be made or broken on this trip. She couldn’t screw it up with thoughts she didn’t need to be having about Harry Sanders.

HARRY WATCHED Saint Louis fade into the ground below. They’d gone westward, and then circled back, heading east over the northern end of the city on their way to New York. From his seat by the window he was able to look southward and see the Gateway Arch as the plane cut through the scattered remnants of high cirrus clouds. It was a beautiful day for flying.

So focused on his thoughts, he barely heard the captain’s announcement that they’d reached their cruising altitude of thirty-something thousand feet. Had it been thirty-two or thirty-four? Maybe it had been thirty-six. The ground could be seen intermittently. He thought about asking the flight attendant for a moment, but then dismissed that idea. There was no point.

He knew the damage to his psyche and concentration was already complete. The irritating Megan MacGregor had wormed her way under his skin.

He couldn’t believe it when she’d almost missed the plane, and worse, he had actually found himself worried about her! What was wrong with him? He’d been glad to see her! Her missing the plane would have been a godsend; she would have proven once and for all how irresponsible she truly was, and how she wasn’t what she seemed. But she’d made it just in time.

And she’d taken his advice. She’d bought new clothes. The saleslady who’d helped her ought to be shot. Megan had gone from a prim, proper and frumpy man-eater to a sexy, irresistible siren in a blue suit. And underneath her silk deep-V shirt she’d worn cream-colored lace.

No man needed to see that, and Harry had been only inches from being able to bury his face right into the ripe breasts that the lace did nothing to conceal.

Thank goodness she hadn’t gotten Lyle McKaskill for her mentor. The man was married, but that wouldn’t have stopped Megan. Harry winced slightly. No guy stood a chance, not even him.

Maybe Megan was the type that a man needed to sleep with once. Not that Harry planned on sleeping with her, of course, but he comforted himself on knowing what she’d be like—a quick fling. Then afterward he would discover that she wasn’t worth it—that the fire was in the chase, not the capture.

But it was tempting. He’d told Grandpa Joe that Megan was a sexual harassment case waiting to happen. He had to make sure it wasn’t with him.

“Are you going to explain your comment from earlier?”

Her voice cut through the haze of his thoughts and he turned to face her. She sat a scant eighteen or so inches from him. To kiss her, all he’d have to do was lean over. “What comment?”

She sighed, her full red lips puckering with mild distaste. “Never mind. Perhaps we should discuss the upcoming meetings. Why don’t you give me your thoughts on what we’re up against.”

“I could,” Harry said, and then he drew himself up. “Why not?”

After all, they did have two hours to kill. He proceeded to fill her in. She listened attentively, her expression never changing as he outlined the new Jacobsen Enterprises strategy.

“Who came up with that?” she asked.

“Jill Benedict and Alan Dalen. If you want to discuss the presentation with them, they’re right behind us, three rows back, right before the partition. Their mentors are seated across from them. Aisle five.”

“No. I don’t need to talk to them.” The shake of Megan’s head sent her brown hair into her face. She pushed the loose strands behind her ears. Along with her new clothes, she’d gotten her hair cut. Harry resisted the urge to tuck a wayward strand back behind her right ear. Her face scrunched into cute ridges across her forehead, indicating she was deep in thought.

“You don’t like the idea,” Harry observed.

Megan gestured. “No, I don’t. It’s still limited. It’s missing something.”

“Jill researched everything you discussed at the meeting. You remember the meeting.”

Megan sidestepped that question as if that meeting was now irrelevant. “I should have done the research on this myself. I hate delegating. Something’s always missing whenever I do.”

“Nothing’s missing. It’s a great plan. Betty is going to do the presentations. We’ll be meeting in the conference room of Smith and Bethesda, the legal firm that Evie’s hired to act as intermediaries for the sale. It’s as close to neutral ground as we can get. Evie’s legal team, and some representatives from Evie’s, will be there.”

“The presentation is still wrong. It’s missing something,” Megan repeated. Her face still showed her concentration. She took a sip of juice.

“You said it was missing something in the meeting too,” Harry reminded her. “We’ve fixed that.”

“No, we haven’t. We’ve simply found out why the restaurants were losing money, and that the problems that they’re having are easily correctable. We can keep the establishments open, which eliminates one of Evie’s complaints against our bid. But we didn’t address Evie’s main concern. What is it that makes our presentation better? Why are we a better company than Odyssey Holdings? Why should they sell to us instead of merge with Odyssey?”

Harry looked at Megan. Her face had become more animated, and he found his gaze drawn to her full lips as she spoke. Those lips were eminently kissable. “What makes Jacobsen better, Harry?”

“Grandpa Joe.” The words were the first thing to his mind and they shot off his tongue before he even thought to think about and perhaps stop them.

“Exactly!” Megan looked triumphant. “That’s it! Grandpa Joe, well, to me, Joe Jacobsen. He’s what we need to sell to Evie’s. Grandpa Joe cares. That’s what makes us better than Odyssey Holdings, why Evie’s should take our bid over Odyssey’s. Jacobsen Enterprises is a family company. Sure, it’s a public company with publicly traded stock, but the family holds the majority of the stock. You’ve got a trust fund full of it, don’t you?”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“Harry…” Her tone protested his vague answer. “This is important.”

He exhaled. He’d been raised not to talk about how much money he had. “Only thirty percent of the stock is owned by nonfamily members.”

“Evie’s is a private company, based on a man’s love for his wife. What we need to sell, Harry, is your family. Your family firm will take care of Evie’s. It won’t be lost somewhere in the corporate shuffle of some large, anonymous holding company. Jacobsen will take care of Evie’s, just like it was a Grandpa Joe’s Good Eats.”

Harry thought about that for a moment. She had a point. An excellent point, in fact. “I’ll have Betty work it into the presentation.”

“No.” Again Megan’s firm tone stopped him. “She’s not going to make the presentation. You are.”

“What? That’s not my role on the team. While it’s under my leadership, Betty is a better presenter.”

“It doesn’t matter. You are going to present the proposal, Harry. Look at the image you’ll bring to the floor. Grandpa Joe cares about this acquisition so much that he sent his grandson, a stockholder, to personally oversee it. You need to make the presentation, and run the negotiations. You’re not the new car manager but the salesman on the floor. I’ll help.”

Harry wasn’t sure he liked this idea. His sister Darci had always been the negotiator. Even Kyle, Alan’s mentor, was a much better negotiator than Harry was. Harry always handled the public relations end of things, the spit-polish so to speak. He calmed nerves, smoothed over ruffled feelings, made transitions flawless. As Megan had just put it, he was the new car manager. He cemented the deals but was never in the forefront.

“And how will you help?” he asked.

“I’m going to write your presentation.” Megan reached into her purse and pulled out a Palm Pilot. Within a moment she’d set up a little keyboard attachment to the unit and had the whole thing sitting on her fold-out tray. “It shouldn’t be too hard. It’s not like we have to redo any of our visual aids or acquisition folders.”