Читать книгу Marrying the Manhattan Millionaire - Jackie Braun - Страница 8

CHAPTER ONE

“AND the winner is…”

During the infinitesimal pause before the presenter read the Addy Award recipient’s name, Samantha Bradford was sure her heart stopped beating.

This is it, she thought. This is my moment.

“Michael Lewis of the Grafton Surry Agency.”

Or not.

Sam straightened in her seat, pasted a smile on her face and joined in the applause. As her palms slapped together with stinging force, her gaze narrowed on the man who was striding across the stage of the Atlanta Herriman Hotel’s grand ballroom, buttoning the jacket of his superbly tailored suit as he went. She knew him well. He was admittedly handsome, sexy, smart, insightful and charismatic. He also sang off-key in the shower, preferred boxers to briefs, enjoyed watching old war movies, had the annoying habit of leaving the seat up and possessed an untouched trust fund whose worth was on par with the gross national product of some small countries.

Yes, she knew him that well.

Seven years earlier Samantha had been in love with him and blissfully counting down the days until she became his wife. They’d found advertising jobs in Los Angeles, put down a deposit on a town house and made all manner of grand plans for their new life together. Those plans never materialized. The reason no longer mattered as far as she was concerned, though at the time Michael had accused her of choosing her family over him. Sam saw things differently. Everything could have worked out if only the man had been capable of compromise.

They’d gone their separate ways, bitterness burning any bridge that might have remained. She’d been fine with that. Really. She’d patched up her heart, put her life back in order. Michael had moved to Los Angeles without her. Sam had stayed in Manhattan, but she too had moved on.

Then fifteen months ago he’d returned to the city and the advertising scene where she was now at the top of her game. Ever since then, all of the memories, both good and bad, that Sam had safely stored away kept threatening to tumble out. She found that damned irritating. She found the man to be even more so. Michael had taken a job with one of the city’s largest ad agencies and a key rival to the one where Sam worked, which was owned by her father. She and Michael had been in competition ever since, angling for each other’s clients and going head-to-head for the industry’s highest accolades.

Such as the Addy.

The hands that a moment ago had engaged in polite applause balled into fists in her lap. What made tonight’s loss all the more galling was the fact that just the previous month Michael had snatched up the honors she’d been nominated for in the print campaign category of the Clio Awards.

For anyone keeping score, and she knew damned well Michael was, tonight made it two and zip in his favor.

Sure enough, when he reached the podium and took the trophy in his hands, his gaze seemed to search the audience. She swore he was looking straight at her when he brought the Addy to his lips and gave it a lingering kiss. Afterward, he offered a sexy grin that had half the women in the room issuing a sigh and the other half wanting to. Sam’s stomach did a familiar little flip and roll, but she reminded herself that she’d long ago conquered the weakness that would have had her falling into either category.

“Some people might say it’s an honor just to be nominated for this award,” Michael began. “But I’ll let you in on a little secret. I really wanted to win this one. And victory is all the sweeter for having been chosen from a group of such talented people.”

He winked in her direction.

Why you arrogant son of a…

She let the thought go unfinished. Instead, she instructed herself to take a deep breath and hold it before releasing it slowly between her teeth. She knew from past experience that the relaxation technique worked, so she tuned out the rest of Michael’s short acceptance speech and continued, feeling some of her tension ebb away.

Look forward, not back.

That was her motto. The awards would be over soon. The American Advertising Federation’s annual conference had wrapped up that afternoon. Tomorrow she would return to New York, and though it was a Sunday, she would be back at work. Nothing new in that. Sam spent a lot of weekends at the office. But while staying at the Atlanta Herriman she’d heard talk that the luxury chain of hotels might be looking for a new firm to handle its national campaigns. She intended for the Bradford Agency to be first in line should the rumor turn out to be true.

Thundering applause pulled her from her thoughts. Michael was leaving the stage. He held the trophy aloft in one hand as he made a fist of the other and pumped it in the air. It took an effort not to let her lip curl. She hadn’t thought it possible for him to look cockier than he had on his way to receive the award. It just went to show that the man’s potential in that area was limitless.

Three tables over, the people from Grafton Surry were on their feet, giving their golden boy a standing ovation. No doubt they would be toasting him with champagne late into the night. Perhaps one of the pretty, young account executives sitting at his table would offer to celebrate with him in private. Who knew? Who cared? Not Sam. Nope. She planned to go to bed early, rise before the sun and be at her desk in New York by noon. By the time Michael roused from sleep with what she hoped would be one very major hangover, she would have worked up a strategy for landing that big account.

Michael paid tribute to his win with a glass of the hotel’s finest bourbon as he sat by himself in the upscale lounge that overlooked the lobby’s impressive fountain. The trophy was in the center of the table, sharing space with a bowl of mixed nuts. He was pleased to have won it, especially since his success had come at Samantha’s expense. Again. But victory didn’t taste as sweet as he’d hoped it would. Something was missing. Again.

Several of his colleagues had gone to a nightclub outside the Herriman. They’d urged Michael to come along since he was the one they wanted to honor with raised glasses. He’d declined, claiming fatigue, even though he was 180 degrees the opposite of tired, which was why he was in the lounge rather than sitting alone in his room sampling something from the minibar. Wired, that’s how he felt. Primed. Though for what he couldn’t have said.

Until he saw her.

Sam stood framed in the lounge’s arched entrance, looking like something straight out of his fantasies. But it wasn’t fantasies that kept Michael awake at night. No. Memories were the culprit. Some were bitter, others sweet. All of them still beckoned him, remaining far too fresh and distracting, given the passage of time. The woman had hurt him. Now she haunted him, which, aside from the excellent job opportunity at Grafton Surry, was why he’d returned to New York. He wanted her exorcised once and for all.

Unfortunately, as he stared at her now, all he really wanted was her.

Sam had always had that effect on him. It wasn’t until she’d essentially put her father’s needs before Michael’s, making her priorities painfully clear, that he’d resented her for it. He swallowed now and swore under his breath. Why did she have to be so beautiful?

Seven years hadn’t changed that fact. If anything, she was lovelier now than she’d been at twenty-five. Her face had lost some of its fullness but none of its impact, dominated as it was by nearly black eyes that were topped off with a lush fringe of lashes and elegantly arched brows. Her hair was a couple of shades lighter than her eyes but just as rich, with a natural wave and sheen. She wore it shorter now. It hung to just below her shoulders, additional layers softening the appearance of her blunt chin and prominent cheekbones.

And then there was that body. Michael shifted uncomfortably in his seat as his gaze slipped south, pulled in that direction despite his best intentions. Soft curves made him want to moan. Sam had never been voluptuous, but nothing about her figure could be considered boyish. The cinnamon-colored halter-style gown she wore made it abundantly clear that every last inch of her was female. The gown dipped low enough in the front to offer a tantalizing peek of cleavage, under which a wide band of fabric highlighted the narrowness of her waist. From there, it flared out subtly at her hips. A slit up from the hem gave him a glimpse of one shapely calf. He remembered how those bare legs felt to his touch. He remembered how they felt wrapped around him.

Michael reached for his drink, finishing off the bourbon in a single gulp. Need began trickling back even before he returned the glass to the table. To counteract it, he reminded himself how ruthless she could be. Once upon a time he’d admired Sam’s go-for-the-jugular approach in business. Now that they were competitors, he found it damned annoying. Last month she’d tried to sweet-talk away one of Grafton Surry’s biggest clients. One of his biggest accounts. Only a sizable cut in his commission and long hours spent on a new campaign had kept the high-end watchmaker from jumping ship. He would be paying her back for that. Soon.

Right now he intended to call it a night. Michael raised his hand to signal the waiter for his check. Unfortunately, it was Samantha’s attention he snagged. He knew the exact moment she spotted him. Her expression tightened, and for just a second he swore she looked…vulnerable. Trick of the lounge’s dim lighting, he decided, and sent her a smile as he gave his Addy award a caressing stroke.

Samantha’s dark gaze followed the motion and she scowled. She turned and took a step toward the exit, but then she was pivoting back and marching to his table on a pair of heels that made her legs look as if they belonged in a chorus line.

“Hello, Michael.”

Her voice was as husky and provocative as he remembered. He ignored the tug of lust and in his most casual tone replied, “Hey, Sam. It’s been a while.”

They had seen each other a few times across crowded rooms at advertising functions, but this marked their first actual conversation since his return to town.

“Yes. It has.”

“How have you been?” he asked.

“Good. Great, in fact. You?”

“The same. How’s your family?”

Michael thought he’d managed to keep the sneer from his tone, but realized he wasn’t successful when she replied, “I might tell you if I thought you really cared. In fact, as I recall, the last time I tried to tell you, you wouldn’t even listen.”

“Ancient history.” He shrugged. But then couldn’t resist adding, “I see you’re still working for Daddy.”

She crossed her arms, leaving the little beaded handbag she carried to swing from one elbow in her agitation. That wasn’t what held his attention, though. The pose did sinful things to her cleavage, which in turn did sinful things to his line of thinking.

“Why wouldn’t I be? The Bradford Agency is the best in town.”

“One of the best,” he corrected. “I guess I thought maybe after all these years you would have finally broken free of him.”

“I don’t need to break free,” she objected. “I’m an account executive and a good one. I’m being primed, I might add, to take over the agency when my father retires in eight years. That means that by the time I’m forty, I’ll be the one calling all the shots at Bradford. I could very well wind up in charge of my own agency before you do. I’m hardly the prisoner you assume me to be.”

“Right.” He nodded solemnly and ignored her jab about his foot-dragging on going into business for himself. “I forgot. You had a choice, Sam. And you made it.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. He barely heard her voice above the din of conversations when she replied, “You made a choice, too.”

He closed his eyes, shook his head. “Back to that already, are we?”

“What did you expect?”

“More originality on your part, I guess, given some of the advertising campaigns you’ve put together.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m trying to figure out if that was intended as a compliment.”

“Let me know when you decide.” His smile was intentionally ambivalent.

Sam unfolded her arms. “Well, I just came over to offer my congratulations.”

“That’s big of you under the circumstances.”

“Just say ‘you’re welcome,’” she said tightly.

“You’re welcome.” Michael angled sideways in his seat and settled one elbow over the back of the chair. Testing himself, he allowed his gaze to meander to the vee of her décolletage again. Even without her arms crossed, enough gently mounded skin was exposed to ignite his imagination and send his hormones into overdrive. “That dress looks good on you. And I do mean that as a compliment, in case you’re wondering.”

She shrugged dismissively. “It was just something I had hanging in my closet.”

“Ah. I see you still have expensive taste.” When she said nothing, Michael added, “That particular designer’s fashions are very high end. I know because he’s one of my clients.”

“Yes. For now.” She smiled sweetly and he felt a muscle begin to tick in his jaw.

“You work too hard, Sam. It makes me wonder if you’re ever off the clock or if you’re always scheming up ways to grab my accounts.”

“I don’t have to scheme for that, Michael. I just have to do my job well. As for my personal life, it’s none of your business.”

He shrugged. “Still, I’m surprised to see you in here. I figured you’d be tucked in your bed by now, alarm set, bags packed and ready to head to the airport to catch the first flight to LaGuardia.”

This time the muscle that ticked was in her jaw, making him wonder how close he’d come to the truth.

“If you must know, I was supposed to meet someone for drinks.”

Michael glanced around. His amused expression belied his words when he said, “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but it looks as if you’ve been stood up.”

“As amusing as you would find that to be, the truth is I’m the one who’s late. Our meeting time was nearly an hour ago. Unfortunately, it completely slipped my mind.”

“Better things to do, such as go to bed alone?”

Her eyes narrowed, making him wonder if he’d scored another hit. Then he pictured her in that bed, alone…and waiting. And he was the one who took the hit. “Sorry.” Michael waved a hand. “It’s none of my business.”

“Right you are.”

“Forget I said it.”

“I’ve tried to forget everything you’ve ever said to me,” she replied airily.

“Yeah?” He cocked his head to one side. “Had any success?”

“Plenty.” She smiled.

“So, you’re saying the past—our past—is water under the bridge?”

She nodded, looking pleased when she informed him, “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Good. Glad to hear it.” He reached for the chair next to his and pulled it away from the table. “Then it shouldn’t be a problem for you to join me in a drink. You can drown your sorrows.”

He told himself he’d only tendered the invitation to wipe that smug grin off her face. He half hoped she would refuse. His masochistic half, though, knew she would accept. Sam wasn’t one to back down from a challenge or a dare. Essentially, his invitation was both. A chorus of Halleluiah—sung by that masochistic half—broke out in his head as she lowered herself slowly into the chair. He sought to silence it with a sip of bourbon, only to realize a little too late that his glass was empty.

Of course she noticed.

“What are you looking to drown, Michael?” One dark eyebrow arched as she asked the question. Before he could answer she signaled the waiter. “I tell you what. This round is on me.”

Michael tapped the side of the empty glass with his index finger. He meant it when he said, “You’ll get no objection. I’m only too happy to see you pay.”

Sam gritted her teeth. Foolishness, that’s what this was. She couldn’t believe she’d let Michael trick her into having a drink with him, much less buying. She stared at the Addy award that was in the middle of the table and recalled his acceptance speech. She felt her blood pressure rise along with her anger. She should get up and leave. But that would be playing right into his hands. She’d stay. Let him be the first to call it a night. He was stuck with her company now.

When the waiter arrived, she asked for a glass of Chardonnay. Michael ordered bourbon. According to her watch, it took the server eleven minutes and forty-eight seconds to return with their beverages. She and Michael spent the time selecting nuts from the bowl and making inane comments about the conference, which was only marginally better than chatting about the weather.

“A Chardonnay for the lady and your bourbon, sir,” the waiter said as he removed the glasses from his tray and set them on the table.

When he was gone, Sam asked, “What happened to Scotch?”

That had always been his drink of choice. He’d preferred it neat as opposed to on the rocks.

He shrugged. “Tastes change.”

“Yes, they do.” Samantha picked up her drink. “Here’s to change.”

“Are we drinking to any change in particular?”

She watched his fingers curl around his glass. They were long and, she recalled, exceptionally skilled. Sam chased away the memory with a sip of wine and lifted her shoulders in a negligent shrug. “I’ll leave that to you to decide.”

His eyebrows shot up. “I don’t remember you being so accommodating in the past, Sam. I like it. A lot.” He winked then and raised his own glass. “To change.”

She intended to let his remark pass without comment, even though Michael was dead wrong: he’d been the one with issues when it came to accommodation, to compromise, not her. Sam took another sip of her wine before setting the glass back on the table. Then she took a deep calming breath and offered him a bland smile. It promptly turned into a sneer. So much for biting her tongue, she thought as she launched into her attack.

“God, that’s so like you to manipulate the truth. I’m not the one who issued the damned ultimatum that killed our relationship.”

“No? Are you sure about that?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re the one who took a stand, Sam.”

“Me? ‘Come to California now or it’s over.’ Do those words ring a bell? If not, maybe you should go see a doctor. It appears your memory is failing.” She reached over and tapped his temple where a few fine threads of silver shot through his otherwise sandy-brown hair. When had he acquired those? And why did they have to look so damned good on him?

Michael captured her fingers in his. “I postponed our wedding, moved to California without you and waited for you to come, only to have you call to say you were staying in Manhattan. So, it’s your memory that could use a little improvement. Mine is just fine, sweetheart.”

The endearment, issued as it was in such an insulting manner, rubbed roughly across her nerves. It didn’t help that he was still holding her hand. She tugged free of his grasp. “Don’t call me that. You lost the right a long time ago.”

He made a scoffing sound. “I didn’t lose it. I gave it up gladly when you sent back my ring. Daddy—you know, the same guy who spent your entire adolescence kicking your self-esteem to the curb—needed you.”

“You still don’t get it.” Sam shook her head in frustration and even as she called herself a fool all these years later, she wanted him to understand. “After Sonya’s accident—”

Just as he had seven years ago, though, he blocked her attempt to explain. “Don’t. Let’s not talk about your sister or your father or anything else to do with the past.” Before she could object—and, boy, did she plan to give him an earful—he abruptly changed the subject. “How about another toast?”

“I can’t imagine what else we have to drink to.” She meant it. After all, almost everything between them was past tense.

Michael, of course, found the one thing that wasn’t. “How about my win tonight. You know, just to show that you harbor no hard feelings.”

He offered the same grin that he had from the podium. It was a challenge, a dare, and as such she found herself helpless to say no.

“Why not?” she replied.

“Ah. There’s a good sport.”

She doubted he would think so when she’d culled half of his accounts. That was her goal. Maybe then he’d leave New York again. In the interim, she could be magnanimous and humor him. “To your win tonight.”

As Sam reached for her wine, Michael had the nerve to tack on, “And the one last month. You haven’t forgotten the Clio, have you?”

“No. It’s fresh in my mind,” she assured him, twirling the thin stem of her glass between her thumb and fingers. Half of his accounts at Grafton Surry? Why stop there? She wanted them all. “To your win, both tonight and last month.” Just before taking a sip of her wine she added, “May they be your last.”

His laughter came as a surprise, erupting as it did just after he managed to choke down a swallow of bourbon. She remembered that laugh. There’d been a time when she’d loved hearing it.

“I thought there were no hard feelings,” he sputtered.

“None whatsoever.” She nodded toward the award. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t plan to be the one holding that thing next year.”

“It sounds as if you’ve got a serious case of trophy envy, Sam.” He picked up the Addy and held it out to her. His tone bordered on seductive when he leaned close and whispered, “Want to touch it?”

His words awakened needs that had nothing to do with advertising or awards, and stirred up memories of quiet mornings, lazy afternoons and late nights when temptation had turned into passion and obliterated all else.

“It’s heavier than it looks,” he went on. “But, damn, it feels so good.”

So good.

The scent of his cologne wrapped around Sam, pulling her in. Sex. She remembered what it had been like with him, how glorious it had felt. She exhaled sharply and pushed both Michael and the award away.

“Thanks, but I’ll wait until I’m alone.” She cleared her throat, felt her face heat at what could only be called a Freudian slip. “I mean, I’ll wait until I have my own.”

He studied her a moment longer than was comfortable for her. Then he shrugged and returned the trophy to the table. “Suit yourself. Of course, that might be a while. The competition in your category has gotten pretty stiff these days.”

“Is that your ego talking?”

He snagged a handful of nuts. “Call it what you will. Results are what matter. And we both know what those have been lately.”

“Awards aren’t everything,” she reminded him.

“No. They’re the icing on the cake. In the end, accounts are what matter.”

“The bigger, the better,” she agreed, her thoughts turning to the hotel chain. If the rumor was true and she could land the account, what a feather in her cap that would be. Even her father would be impressed, and God knew earning Randolph Bradford’s approval had never been easy. If not for her sister’s accident and then… Sam refused to allow the thought to be finished.

“Like Sentinel Timepieces?” Michael asked, referring to the watchmaker she’d tried to entice away.

That hadn’t been what she’d had in mind, but she shrugged. “Perhaps. I go after what I want and I usually get it. Sentinel was an anomaly.”

He looked slightly amused. “Is that your polite way of telling me to watch my back?” He wagged his eyebrows and added, “I’d rather watch yours.”

She rolled her eyes, even as his juvenile comeback had heat curling through her belly. “Suit yourself, but don’t cry foul when your preoccupation with my posterior results in a mass exodus of clients from Grafton Surry.”

“Preoccupied goes a little too far. Your butt, as fondly as I remember it, isn’t going to stop me from spending a little one-on-one time with the folks who are signed with Bradford.”

The gloves were off, which was fine with Sam. She liked this better. Work, rivalry— they were straightforward.

“Unlike your clientele, mine is loyal, which I think you’ve already found out.”

“I’ve only called a couple so far.”

“Then I’ll save you some time. I offer them what they want and I deliver the market. None of them is looking to switch.”

“Sure about that? I can deliver the market, too.” His lips curved. “And I can do an even better job of it than you.”

Sam snorted. “God, you’ve never been short on confidence.”

“Neither have you.” He’d been smiling, but now he sobered. “You know, even more than your butt, I always found that to be an incredible turn-on.”

Sam tucked some hair behind her ears and moistened her lips. Laugh in his face, she ordered herself. At the very least deliver an emasculating comeback. All she came up with was, “Me, too.”

As soon as the words were out, Sam wanted to throttle herself. Why did she have to go and admit something so potentially volatile? It was bad enough to think it. After all, she’d been trying to sift out all of the softer emotions she had when it came to Michael. Here was a doozy and it was threatening to whisk her back in time.

She blamed the wine, even though more than half a glass remained. Most of all, she blamed Michael. He’d been the one to bring it up. Glancing at him now, she found a modicum of comfort in the fact that he looked as out of sorts as she felt, as if he too were wishing he could snatch back his words.

“I think I should call it a night,” Sam said, reversing her earlier decision to have him leave first. “I have an early flight.”

“Yeah. Same here.”

With her luck they would be on the same plane, seated next to each other and then stuck on the runway during an extended delay.

After the waiter came with their check, Sam paid the bill. Michael insisted on leaving the tip, though she’d told him she had that covered, too. They argued back and forth, neither one backing down. Just like old times. In the end, the waiter wound up with one whopper of a gratuity.

They walked out of the lounge together yet not together. Sam groped for something to say as they stepped into the elevator, and the awkward silence stretched. Even when the bell dinged and the doors slid open on the tenth floor, nothing came to mind.

She chanced a glance in Michael’s direction as he got out. There’d been a time when she could read every one of his expressions. She didn’t recognize this one. His smile was tight as he reached for the doors to prevent them from closing.

“See you back in New York,” he said, which was unlikely. They’d managed to avoid each other for more than a year.

“Sure,” she nodded. “Maybe I’ll bump into you at the office of one of your clients.”

“Now, Sam.” He tipped his head to one side and made a tsking noise. “Be good.”

“Oh, I’m better than good and…” She blinked. The words were a joke, an old and very private one between the pair of them. Her rejoinder usually ended with the sensual promise: “I’ll prove it to you later.”

Michael’s smoky gaze told her he remembered the joke, too. He leaned forward and for one brief moment she thought he was considering kissing her. A bell chimed then and the doors jolted his elbow in their effort to shut. He released them and stepped back. But the last thing Sam saw before they closed completely was Michael reaching out as if to stop them.