“Terry’s been teaching me some of the lingo”—she gave a nod of recognition to the young man—“and I’m trying to use it.”
“I like that. And I like your plans for the image makeover, rehearsing for interviews, and the proposed interview and appearance schedule.”
“Thank you.” Her initial draft had included
The Ellen DeGeneres Show
, but she’d deleted it from the final version. Woody had just been blowing hot air.
Billy glanced down and fiddled with the pages. He wasn’t a fidgeter by nature, and Georgia sensed he was hunting for words. “You’re going to hand-hold Woody at the first half dozen or so events? To make sure he can deal with whatever comes along?”
She winced. It was an aspect of the plan that didn’t thrill her. An introvert, she was fine when she felt confident about her work and was dealing with clients and coworkers, but public appearances weren’t her forte. They were second nature for Viv. But this campaign was Georgia’s responsibility, and if she wanted to be an account
manager and maybe one day run her own firm, she needed to step up. “I will.”
“You might, uh …” Billy’s eyes met hers, then danced away. “When Viv’s consulting with you and Woody about his wardrobe, perhaps she could come up with some suggestions for you too, for public appearances.”
“You’re criticizing the way I dress?” she asked disbelievingly. “I’m totally professional.”
“Yes, of course,” he said quickly. “Your suits are perfectly, uh, suitable for the office, but I think something a little more, uh, well, different is called for when …” He glanced at Viv. “You get what I’m saying? The two of you could go shopping together. Dynamic Marketing will pay for anything you need, within reason.”
“Terrific!” Viv’s eyes sparkled with excitement.
“Fine. Whatever you want,” Georgia said evenly, seething inside. Billy wanted her to dress like Viv. Like her mom, Bernadette.
Terry gestured toward the clock on the wall. “Woody’ll be here any minute. I’m meeting with him first, right?”
Georgia nodded, relieved to postpone seeing the man. How could she face him? She had let him bury his face between her legs; then she’d run away. And now she had to reestablish her professionalism and authority.
She still couldn’t believe she’d behaved so badly. “Great, Terry,” she said with forced enthusiasm. “You work on those interview questions with him. After that, it’s the hair and clothing appointments. Viv, I know you’d suggested I come along, but really, you’re the expert on those things, as Billy so tactfully pointed out.” She avoided glancing at her boss. “You don’t need me there.”
Viv’s blue eyes gleamed. “Oh, but I do. You’re the one with the overall concept of this campaign.”
“Yes,” Billy said, “you should be there, George.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll be there.”
Grudgingly, she realized she was acting immature and cowardly—like Lady Emma, hiding in her room so as to avoid the Comte. As they all left the conference room, she firmed her jaw. “Terry, when Woody arrives, would you ask him to come to my office? I need five minutes with him before you two get going.”
She hurried to her office, pulled her hair out of its knot, ran a brush through it, then gathered it up even tighter. Though she usually left the collar button undone on her tailored shirt, now she fastened it.
When Woody walked through the door, she jerked to her feet and pressed her lips together as if that could hold back the flush that heated her cheeks and chest. He looked unbelievably masculine and sexy in jeans and a tee—and his mouth had touched the most private parts of her body.
But she couldn’t think about that. Or, at least, she shouldn’t.
“Please close the door,” she said stiffly.
Expression wary, he obeyed. He didn’t sit, and she didn’t suggest it.
“I want to apologize,” she said.
“Oh, yeah?” His tone was as cautious as his expression.
“I’ve behaved unprofessionally and it won’t happen again.” Her tight collar was doing its best to strangle her and she could barely swallow.
He tilted his head and studied her face. “Why?”
At least he’d lost the “how come?” if not his penchant for asking questions. “Why what?”
“Both. Why did you, and why won’t you?”
She really didn’t want to answer, but he deserved an explanation. “You must think I’m crazy, like I can’t make up my mind.”
“I don’t know what to think, Georgia. You’re the most confusing woman I’ve ever run into. I know you’re attracted to me.”
How embarrassing. She could almost feel the air between
them vibrate with tension. She closed her eyes briefly. Should she lie to save face? No, she refused to be such a coward. “I guess that’s obvious.”
“As obvious as the fact that you turn me on something wicked.”
“I do?” Despite her better intentions, her lips curled. Wow. She straightened them again. “But there are all sorts of reasons that nothing can—should—happen. We’re totally different people and our relationship is a business one. I’m not one of your puck bunnies.”
“Jesus, I know that.” He kept studying her. “You’re saying you’d like to, though?”
“Like to, uh … ?”
“Have sex again. If it wasn’t for business and how different we are.”
He was the most virile, masculine creature she’d ever seen and her whole body tingled with the desire to have him touch her. “Woody, I was with one man for years and years.” She wouldn’t tell him she’d lost her virginity to that man. “I take relationships seriously.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay, I can see that. And you know that the word ‘relationship,’ with a capital R, gives me hives.” He reflected a moment. “But if it wasn’t for that stuff, you’d sleep with me?” He didn’t seem to be joking, he wasn’t flirting, and she didn’t know what he was driving at.
Baffled, she planted her hands on her hips. “What are you asking?”
“Did you like it? Would you do it again if it wasn’t for all the stuff that’s bugging you?”
Oh my God. She gritted her teeth. “Yes, I liked it! Damn it, what are you looking for?”
A slow smile widened on his lips. Such sensual lips, and such a warm, charming smile. “Just wanted to know it was okay for you.”
“You’re the one who thought it was crappy,” she snapped.
“What?” He looked astonished.
“After, you said it was kind of crappy.” She fought to keep the hurt out of her voice.
“Shit, no, that’s not what I meant. I meant that I was, you know, selfish. I didn’t make it good for you. You didn’t, uh, come.”
Heat flooded her entire body. “I did,” she whispered.
“I meant the second time.”
Her mouth fell open as it dawned on her that the big tough jock, the guy women flocked around, might suffer from performance anxiety? Immediately, she felt 100 percent better. Her lips curved. “Actually, I did. You just weren’t paying attention.”
“You can say that again,” he muttered ruefully. “But seriously, you did?”
She nodded. “Now are you satisfied?”
He grinned, a sexy flash of white teeth, and his blue eyes sparkled. “Nah, I’m sexually frustrated as hell. How ’bout you?”
She gave a startled laugh. “That pretty much describes it.” And for her, the mutual confessions had gone a long way to clearing the air. Did he feel it too? “So, Woody, are we okay? Are we going to be able to work together?”
“If you can keep those pretty hands off me,” he drawled, sounding smug.
“Oh, it’ll be a struggle, but I’ll do my best,” she teased back, knowing she spoke the truth.
“Yeah, me too. But you can undo that button. Promise I won’t rip your clothes off you.” He headed for the door, then tossed a final remark over his shoulder. “Not unless you beg me to.”
Laughing, she reached up and unfastened the button that was nearly strangling her. That would be the day. Georgia Malone begging a jock for sex.
Albeit hot sex. Very hot sex.
An hour later, Georgia walked with Viv and Woody to Christopher Slate’s hair salon. The loft-style room had azure walls and half a dozen unusual chandeliers. The décor featured a clutter of funky objets d’art, bright abstracts of nude men and women, state-of-the-art hairdressing equipment, giant plants, couches that belonged on the set of a French drawing-room farce, and even a hot pink chaise longue. Very odd, and it shouldn’t have worked, but to Georgia’s mind it was both cozy and intriguing.
“Eclectic,” Woody said sagely.
Georgia raised her brows. He really did pick things up quickly.
“Yes, it is,” Viv said, “and creative. Come meet Christopher.”
Christopher Slate, a man of perhaps forty, was willowy and elegant in a black shirt and pants. A mane of glossy black hair cascaded from a silver-clasped ponytail to midway down his back. His features were those of a Spanish grandee, his manner blatantly gay.
His eyes widened theatrically as he took in Woody; then he said to Viv, “My dear, how deliciously raw!”
Georgia choked back a laugh and Woody sent her a thundercloud glare. He squared his shoulders and stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” Christopher returned, clasping Woody’s hand enthusiastically between his slender palms. “Now, come with me and we’ll get you changed.”
“I can get myself changed, thanks all the same,” Woody growled.
Georgia bent her head to Viv’s. “He’s going to kill us for this, you realize.”
“Nonsense. I have complete faith in Christopher.” The blonde rubbed her hands together and said gleefully, “One transformation coming up.”
Woody emerged from a change room, caped in black and purple, looking immensely ill at ease. The stylist seated him in front of a giant mirror and edged gracefully around him, studying his head from all angles, lifting his hair and testing the texture between his fingers. Woody’s face was expressionless, as if he’d left his body in the chair and removed his mind to a distant planet.
Christopher finally spoke. “Viv, you suggested a style rather like that of our friend Terry?”
“Terry Banerjee comes here too?” Georgia asked.
“But of course,” Christopher said.
“I’d look stupid with hair like Terry’s,” Woody said grimly, “and I hate putting all that goop in it.”
“Product,” the stylist corrected. “We could go very short, because your skull has a wonderful shape.” He stood back and shook his head. “But no, I like longer hair, especially on a man with such healthy, thick hair.”
He glanced at Viv and Georgia. “Woody is an athlete, and long hair is synonymous with virility, isn’t it, ladies? Samson, and so on? Isn’t every middle-aged man’s greatest fear the loss of his hair?” He made a wry face. “Well, his second greatest fear, because after all hair does only
symbolize
virility. The hair is a poor substitute if the real thing is missing. Not that I imagine you’ll have to worry about the depletion of either, will you, Woody?”
Woody’s lips twitched. “No signs of trouble yet, Christopher.”
“I thought not.” He patted Woody on the shoulder. “I can always tell these things.”
“Longish hair, then,” Viv said, “and the beard needs to go.”
Georgia nodded.
“No,” Woody said flatly, and Christopher glanced at the two women.
“You may hate shaving,” Georgia said, “but you’re going to have to get used to it.”
He shook his head. “It’s a playoff beard.”
“A what?” she asked, as Viv also stared in puzzlement.
“We don’t shave during the playoffs.”
“Athletes have superstitions,” Christopher said.
“I’ve noticed that almost all the players for the Beavers and the Ducks have beards,” Georgia said. “But we’ll be doing ad photos and the scruffy beard just won’t work. If you read the contract, you’d know we—”
“Goddamn contract.” Woody scowled. “Shaving would jinx our luck. I can’t do it.”
Pointing out the childishness of the superstition wouldn’t be the most effective tactic. “I understand. But, Woody, not to be insulting, at the moment the beards aren’t bringing the Beavers much luck.”
“We’ll turn things around,” he said grimly.
“Of course you will,” Christopher said. “And I want to help. Here’s what I’m thinking. Maybe you need a fresh angle on the beard tradition.”
“A fresh angle?” Woody’s tone was wary.
“We won’t shave it,” the stylist said, “but we’ll trim it. It won’t be rough and sloppy, but neat, focused, and virile. Just like the Beavers’ game will be. And”—he turned to Georgia and Viv—“he’ll look utterly stunning, I promise you.”
Georgia turned to Viv. “It sounds like a good solution to me, but you’re the expert.”
“I trust Christopher.” Viv gave a sunny smile. “And we all want to do everything we can to improve the Beavers’ chances.”
Woody groaned.
“Shall we leave the boys to play?” Viv steered Georgia over to a corner where one of the delicate French couches sat beside a shiny Italian espresso machine. Clearly a regular, she fixed cappuccinos for both of them.
Georgia took a sip. “Poor Woody. He’s going to hate today, isn’t he? Hair and wardrobe?” Empathizing, she shuddered. However, her boss had given her a more-than-strong hint, and if Woody could man up to a makeover, she had to do her part. “Billy’s right that I could use some new clothes for the events I’ll be attending with Woody. Are there stores you’d suggest?” Evening wear had never been part of her wardrobe.
Viv’s eyes gleamed. “I’ll come with you. We’ll have great fun!”
Georgia winced, remembering her mom dragging her shopping as a child, buying her pink frilly dresses, then, as she neared the age of ten, miniskirts and skimpy camisoles. Clothes that made men look at her. Touch her. She shuddered at the memory of her mom’s boyfriend fondling her, then forced it away. She wasn’t that girl. She was a confident woman.
Dubiously, she studied Viv, today in a magenta and bright yellow pantsuit. Georgia might be confident, but no way would she wear figure-hugging, cleavage-revealing clothes like the blonde’s. Would Viv be any help in finding pantsuits in silk or satin, dressy yet tailored and unobtrusive?
Knowing that she’d hate every second of the shopping expedition, Georgia glanced with sympathy toward Woody. Interestingly enough, he didn’t look totally wretched. He was getting along well with Christopher Slate.