One Night Standards

“You know,” Simone said carefully, “I couldn’t help but notice you had a bit of a connection with that Diva Nation woman—Sophie, her name was. Right?”

“She’s a nice woman,” Mark said carefully. “And just because we’re competitors doesn’t mean I need to hate her on sight, does it?”

“I’m merely saying,” Simone continued. “She seemed to like you, too. Maybe you could see what you could find out. I’m sure she’d be happy to talk to you on some kind of neutral ground.”

Mark felt it again—that dirty, unethical, icky feeling. “Trust me, she’s not the type.”

“Already tried, huh?” Simone laughed, and in that moment, Mark wished he were anywhere but here. “I might’ve guessed. You’re going to be a great marketing guy, and you’re going to knock this one out of the park. You’ll be one of the best.”

He smiled weakly, then fled. If being one of the best meant using a sweet person like Sophie…

He shook his head. It wasn’t as if he had anything with Sophie, and even if he did…well, he wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize that, he promised himself. He just wouldn’t.

3

SOPHIE GLANCED AT THE CLOCK by her bed. Ten o’clock. Early, by a lot of people’s standards. Unfortunately, she knew that sleep would evade her for another three hours, at least. She felt wired, even though she’d deliberately only drunk decaf all day. She’d gotten a good chunk of work done: she had most of the slides ready for the Marion & Co. presentation. She was a little nervous, but more excited—the sign that it was going to go very, very well.

But right now, she wasn’t thinking of the presentation. She was thinking, as usual, about Mark McMann.

She pushed her face down into her foam pillow. They’d agreed not to have any contact other than professional—after all, they were in competition, their paths would cross. But they had to be very, very careful, so no one would suspect how close they’d come to…well, getting very, very close. No friendly chats in elevators, no random “bump-into” exchanges in the lobby. Certainly no drinks in the hotel bar.

It also meant she sure as hell shouldn’t call him.

She sighed heavily. Even without the competition, she knew they shouldn’t get involved in any way, shape or form. Men who looked like him did not under normal circumstances go for women who looked like her, for one thing. And while Sophie knew she wasn’t ugly, she wasn’t about to pass for a model any time soon. She also knew that he had plenty of women going after him. He probably had no shortage of willing applicants for the position of bed warmer, and no doubt had spent plenty of time with a variety of them. And that type of man wasn’t her type at all.

She thought about Troy, her last and longest-lasting relationship. He had been tall, geeky, with blond hair and glasses. He was a finance analyst, and a good one. They’d met in the MBA program at the University of California, San Diego. In her case, it had been love at first sight. They’d been friends first, but she’d always known they’d shift over to lovers.

What she had not known was they should’ve stayed friends. She’d nearly smothered in all that comfort and compatibility. And she had to admit, she’d been shocked when he’d said the same thing, just before he’d broken up with her. She’d been the best study-buddy he’d ever had, but he just couldn’t see himself marrying her.

Not that you want to marry Mark.

She flipped over. She ought to get up and do something. Clean something. Maybe do some more work, even though she doubted it would be usable, what with her mind highballing as it was at a million miles an hour. She really ought to start that meditation that Lydia had raved about. She ought to do something.

Flashback to Mark, pressing her into the bed at the hotel…his weight, his strength, the gentleness of him covering her. How there had only been thin layers of cotton between the two of them and one night of what she felt sure would be unforgettable bliss.

She shivered uncontrollably.

You are insane!

She only barely realized she’d picked up her cell phone and dialed his number.

“Mark McMann,” he said, sounding tired.

She stared at her phone, aghast. What are you doing?

“I’m so sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean…”

“Sophie?”

“Is it too late for me to call?” She winced. “Certainly, it’s too late for me to call. You’re on the East Coast. It’s, what, one o’clock in the morning? Listen, I’ll—”

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