It Takes a Rebel. Stephanie Bond

Funny, but she hadn’t driven with the top down nearly as much as she thought she might when she’d bought the car on impulse last spring. Lately she’d been regretting her splurge; what had once sounded fun now seemed rather silly.

      Alex dodged a pothole, then eased into side street traffic and headed for the bypass, her foot depressing the gas a little harder as the image of Jack Stillman’s smug face rose in her mind. The nerve of the man, making a pass at her! Her cheeks warmed at the memory of his raking gaze, as if he were entitled or something, the cad.

      The bronzed bum hadn’t even bothered to put his best foot forward—or even don shoes for that matter—to impress a potentially huge customer. If there was one thing she resented, it was a man with an attitude who had absolutely nothing to back it up, and Jack Stillman appeared to be the poster boy for arrogance. He’d obviously mistaken her for the kind of woman who would be swayed by his stray-dog good looks. The scoundrel undoubtedly planned to shmooze her and her father with good-old-boy charm—a southern staple she’d come to despise during her rise through the ranks of the family business.

      Her father had insisted, and rightfully so, that she start on the sales floor as a teenager and learn the business from the bottom up. Over the past fifteen years, she’d worked doubly hard to overcome the stigma of being the boss’s daughter. Even her own father had resisted moving her into management, even though she knew the business inside out by the time most kids were finishing college. She’d reached the level of director two years ago, and was now in the running for the position of vice president of sales and marketing recently vacated by a retiree. The competition was stiff, but her record had been exemplary, and the new vice president would be announced any day. Her father would be so proud if the board of directors chose her.

      Then, perhaps, Al would be forced to recognize her contribution to the company, to stop interfering with her duties and decisions. This situation with the Stillman & Sons agency was a perfect example. The vice presidential duties had been split among the four sales directors for the time being, and though the responsibility of choosing a new advertising agency had been assigned to her, her father seemed determined to give their considerable business to the doubtful Stillman & Sons agency because of a from-the-hip promise he’d made to a Good Samaritan. The man had since passed away, but Al wouldn’t hear of ‘going back on his word.’

      And now they were left to deal with a derelict son who read Playboy at the office and fancied himself a ladies’ man. Alex sighed. She really didn’t need the hassle.

      She lifted the lid to a compartment on her armrest, removed her cellular phone, and punched in the number for her father’s private line.

      Her father answered after a half ring. “This is Al,” he barked.

      “It’s Alex,” she said. “Is this a bad time?”

      “Never for you, Alex,” he murmured, his voice softening. Despite his flaws, she really loved him. “What’s up, my dear?”

      “I just left the Stillman & Sons advertising agency.”

      “I thought the agency was sending someone here tomorrow morning.”

      The questioning tone in her father’s voice made her squirm. “I, um, had some time and decided to pay them a courtesy visit.”

      “And?”

      There it was again—that tone. “And they’re not in our league, Dad.” She winced at her slip because she preferred not to address him personally when they discussed business.

      “What makes you say that?”

      “The place is a mess, and Jack Stillman wasn’t much better—raggedy, unclean, the man even asked me out.” As if she would even consider going out with the buffoon.

      “Can’t fault his taste.”

      She rolled her eyes at his chuckle. “Stillman & Sons is a low-class operation.”

      “Did you see their portfolio?”

      Alex balked. “It hardly seemed worth the trouble.”

      “Well, I have it on good faith that the agency is small, but good. I want to see what they have to offer. You’re forgetting, Alex, we used to be the underdog.”

      Alex bit back her argument, knowing she couldn’t change his mind when he was in such a mood. In fact, she was starting to worry that the reason she’d been chosen for this assignment was so her father could pull the strings without appearing to. “Okay,” she conceded. “The appointment stands. I’ll see you at ten in the morning.”

      “Have a nice day, sweetheart. By the way, Gloria wants you to come over for dinner soon.”

      She wrinkled her nose at the mention of her father’s wife—the woman was dim and dull—then mouthed some vague response before saying goodbye. Alex disconnected the call, feeling torn, as usual, after talking to her father. Was it so wrong to want his love and his respect?

      But as she replaced the phone, she suddenly realized she didn’t have a thing to worry about where the meeting was concerned. Jack Stillman would swagger in tomorrow looking like a wasted tourist and even her honor-bound father would recognize the absurdity of working with the down-and-out agency.

      Alex smiled and lifted her chin. With Jack Stillman’s unwitting ‘help’ tomorrow morning, she’d be able to kill two birds with one stone: Her father would be forced to consider the reputable St. Louis advertising firm she was advocating, which also meant he would be forced to admit that she was right. And since the episode would unfold in the presence of various VIP’s, her chance for the vice presidency would undoubtedly improve.

      With a new outlook, she laughed aloud, mentally thanking the disreputable-looking advertising man for being in the wrong place at the right time. Her dear mother had once said that every event in this seemingly disjointed world actually happened for a reason. Apparently her mother’s theory even extended to her unpleasant encounter with the repulsive Jack Stillman.

      2

      “DEREK’S GOING TO KILL ME.” Jack held his head in his hands, fighting some kind of weird swirling sensation in his stomach. And his heart was racing as if he’d just run for a ninety-nine-yard touchdown. “He’s absolutely going to kill me.”

      “In that case, I hope you have cash.”

      He glanced up to the open doorway. A plump fiftyish black woman stood dressed in white pants and shirt, wearing a lopsided red paper hat that read “Tony’s.” “You the stromboli sandwich with extra cheese?” she asked, her hand on one hip.

      Jack nodded miserably, thinking even food wouldn’t help his mood today.

      “That’ll be six dollars and forty cents.” She dropped the sack on the desk unceremoniously and wiggled her fingers in his direction. Her fingernails were at least two inches long. And bright yellow.

      With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself to his feet and removed his wallet. He counted eight one dollar bills into her hand, then added another when she lifted a winged eyebrow.

      “You the handyman around here?” She nodded toward his tool belt as she stuffed the money into a fanny pack around her waist.

      “Sort of,” he mumbled. “This is my company…and my brother’s.”

      “The murderer?”

      Jack frowned. “Hmm?”

      Her head jutted forward. “The man who’s going to kill you—is he your brother?”

      “Oh. Yeah.”

      “Why?”

      “Why what?”

      Her eyes rolled upward, and she spoke as if to a child. “Why is he going to kill you?”

      Irritated by the woman’s nosiness, he scowled. “It’s a long story.”

      “Lucky for you,” she said, revealing