Attitude (4 page)

Ginger peered harder. It was definitely him, but who was he? "Okay, I give up." She handed the magazine back to Tracy.

"That—" Tracy stabbed the page with a blunt fingernail, "is Cal Beaumann, from
Life and Love.
They killed him off three, maybe four years ago. After that he disappeared."

"You watch the soaps?" Ginger was fascinated with soap operas, but with her work schedule, she never had the luxury of connecting with the story line, so rather than frustrate herself, she left them alone.

"Did, when I was in art school." She touched Cal's image. "I ate my lunch watching this guy make love to women for two years." She laughed. "And from what I read about him, he was as busy with the female sex off screen as he was on. The tabloids loved him. He actually won a contest they ran on which soap star had the best and biggest pe—"

"
Stop
. I don't want to know," Ginger croaked. She would not go from talking business to penis size. She wouldn't. But his jeans definitely held promise.

"Pectorals,
Ginger. I was going to say
pectorals.'"

"I knew that." Ginger turned red enough that Trace shook her head.

"Although there were rumors..."

Ginger glared at her, but her stomach did a traitorous flip-flop. She'd pegged Beaumann as an A+ woman magnet, but she hadn't factored in playboy status. No wonder she'd drowned in her own hormones when she set eyes on him. She was programmed to fall for these kind of guys.

Typical scenario? One look and her brain shorted out, leaving her dumb as an unmanned hammer.

But not this time! Her loins—or whatever was causing the trouble down there—were seriously girded. No way would she traipse the yellow brick road with yet another guy whose only significant credentials had been earned in the bedroom.

"I can't believe he's in Waveside." Tracy's brown eyes widened in delayed shock. "And I actually spoke to him when I set up the appointment." She looked as if she were going to faint, but rallied to shoot Ginger a steely look. "And you say you
blew
it?"

"So the man says." She was mad all over again. "But I say, maybe not." She rose from the table, put her dishes in the sink, and leaned her backside against the counter. "I muscled myself into one more appointment." She set her mouth into a straight line. "I told him I'd be back in two days. And when I walk into his office, I intend to blow him out of his Nikes."

Tracy's expression turned hopeful. "You're going shopping?"

"No." Ginger would get the account, but she'd get it her way. She pulled up her mental socks. An Amazon in beige. That's what she was. All business. All the time. Besides, she didn't want to go to bed with Cal Beaumann... her thoughts slid off the rails. There were those rumpled sheets again... She shook them flat. She wanted the Cinema Neo account—period. She didn't need flash and style for that; all she needed was her brains and her talent.

And maybe one other thing...

The hope in Tracy's eyes faded. "But you've got some terrific ideas, right?"

Ginger's bravado withered to pickle size. "Not a one."

* * *

When Hudson Blaine walked into Cal's office, the two men did the male hug thing, quick embrace, manly slap on the back. "Good to see you, Hud," Cal said. "It's been too long."

"Over a year." Hudson dropped his case and took the chair he was offered, stretched his legs in front of him.

"I could have come to L.A."

"I figured I should get a firsthand look at what you're trying to do up here. Makes the job easier."

Cal settled into his chair. "So how's the PR business treating you these days?" He surveyed his friend, lifted a brow, and grinned. "Judging from the Armani on your back, I'm guessing pretty well."

"You'd guess right."

"Better than repping a reluctant soap actor, huh?"

Hudson laughed. "Much. And I don't have to use a cattle prod and bullwhip to get the guy to sign a contract most actors would kill for."

"It wasn't for me."

"Yeah, I know. But we had some good times."

"The best."

"The best food, the best wine, the best women."

"Amen." Cal lifted his coffee cup, didn't have the heart to tell his friend he didn't miss any of it. Okay, maybe he did miss the women, but there were plenty of those, and plenty of ready sex, if a man went looking. Which he hadn't. He'd been doing the monk thing too damn long. Obviously a big mistake, given he hadn't stopped thinking about sex since Ginger Cameron walked out of his office two days ago. Hell, the woman looked so damn tight-assed and proper, you'd think she was a virgin. Could she be? He couldn't buy it. Inexperienced? Maybe. His mind shot to a pristine bed, smooth white sheets, Ginger, knees glued together, arms covering her breasts, giving him a sultry I-dare-you smile. Hell, he was getting hard just thinking about spreading those knees, running a hand up to—

"Ian here?" Hud asked.

The question snapped his attention back to business. He shifted in his chair. "No, he's in Chicago tickling his pork bellies." Ian was Cal's brother. It was his money funding the business. Cal owed him. Big time.

Hudson grinned. "Still the deal maker, huh?"

"Yup. Still at it."
And still dogging my every step.
Owing Ian came with a price. In exchange for his cash, he'd taken the majority share position and would hold it until Cinema Neo was doing well enough that Cal could buy him out. Cal intended to make that as soon as possible.

"You've managed this far without my big-city rates, Cal. Why now? No local talent?"

Cal had a fleeting image of a woman in tent fabric.
Slim ankles. Soft, soft skin.
"Not good enough." He put his coffee aside and brought the tent image back. Ginger wouldn't work, either for business or pleasure. Well, maybe pleasure.

Hudson straightened in his chair. "Then let's do it. Let's talk movies. What're you opening with?"

"No Friend At All.
Snagged it at Sundance."

"That's the comedy with that new guy... Kiff something."

"Quick. Kiff Quick. And yes, it's as funny as the buzz says it is. I couldn't have a better opener."

"All right!" Hudson pulled out a notepad and pen. "So, let's hear it. What are you looking for?"

Cal leaned back in his chair and started talking, while Hudson listened, questioned, and jotted down the occasional note. Cal felt better already, his guilt about canceling his appointment with Ginger dissipated with every question Hudson asked. For the first time in weeks he stopped worrying about his opening night.

He was doing the right thing here. And with luck he'd never see the Cameron woman again.

* * *

Ginger stared at the theater doors, paralyzed. To say she was tense would be the mother of all understatements.

High pressure selling was one thing, but what she was about to do ranked up there with force-feeding and entrapment. She tried the doors, unlocked just as they'd been two days ago. She let out a relieved breath.

Inside the lobby, she heard men's voices; deep, rumbling, and too muted to hear properly. Taking another second to compose herself, she marched to Beaumann's office, a warship on a mission, armored in gunmetal gray wool, white shirt buttoned to the throat, and practical leather pumps. She eased her collar away from her neck with her index finger and rapped on the half open door to Cal's office. With a slight shove, it opened wide enough to show two men sitting at the desk.

Cal's feet were propped on one end, the other man's at the other. Both sets of feet hit the floor in tandem. The stranger stood and Cal gaped. She had a moment of satisfaction at the guilt on his face. He looked like an ex-con who'd spotted his parole officer at an illegal arms sale.

"Am I early?" Ginger asked. She directed her question to Cal and shot a friendly, innocent glance at the other man in the room. She hoped she looked ingenuous but doubted it. She was the world's worst poker player.

"I called," Cal said bluntly. "Cancelled the appointment."

"You did?" She widened her eyes, ever so little.

"I did," he repeated with a read-my-lips expression on his face. "Left the message with your assistant. Tracy?"

"That explains it, then," Ginger said, stepping into the office as if she belonged there. "First off, Tracy's not my assistant. She's my housemate. An artist, actually. A good one. She just answers the phone sometimes when I'm out... if she feels like it. This time, obviously, she forgot to give me the message." She stopped, both her babbling and her white lying, and cleared her throat. She'd got the message all right, and decided to ignore it. She smoothed down one of her gray wool lapels, but didn't move to go. "Too bad."

"Yeah." Cal's eyes narrowed. "I can see you're really torn up about it."

She focused on him. "I said I'd be back in two days, Mr. Beaumann, and here I am. I generally do what I say I'm going to do. Of course, if you really want me to leave..." She held her breath.

They stared at one another, two cats on a narrow fence.

"Anyone care to introduce us?" the other man said, his expression quizzical—and amused.

"No point. The lady won't be staying," Cal said.

Ginger turned to the other man. "Ginger Cameron, Ginger Ink."

He took her hand. "Hudson Blaine, The Blaine Group. My pleasure."

Ginger's spirit withered. "I've heard of your firm, Mr. Blaine." The Blaine Group was one of the most talked about PR firms in L.A. It didn't take a Mensa member to figure out what he was doing in Cal's office. But she wouldn't quit now. Trouble was, she didn't know where to go from here. "You do fabulous work."

"And that's yours?" He nodded at her bulging portfolio.

She nodded back.

"I'd like to see it."

"Hudson." Cal's tone was low and lethal.

Ginger didn't miss a beat, even though she suspected the polished Hudson Blaine expected she'd fall flat on her unbuffed face. "And I'd love to show it to you." She glanced at Cal. He looked thunderous. She plopped her case on his desk and started to unzip it. "I've got some great ideas for Cinema Neo and—"

"Miss Cameron?" Cal put a hand over hers, effectively terminating the unzip.

She looked up at him, unaccountably flustered by the slide of his warm hand over her knuckles. "Yes," she croaked, desperate to look assured, but afraid she'd only managed the desperate part.

Cal looked as if he were about to loose a blister of words, but instead he took a noisy breath, and left his hand to linger over hers. "You've got twenty minutes," he said, then gestured at Hudson Blaine with a jut of his chin. "And you owe it to him. Better say your thanks now, because after you leave he's going to have an unfortunate accident."

Hudson chuckled and pulled out a chair. "Ginger, take a seat. Let's make the big guy squirm."

* * *

An hour later Cal walked Ginger out of his office and out the main theater door to the street. The sun hit her eyes with a blinding smack, but she'd barely blinked before Cal had the doors locked behind her.

When she got to her aging Omega, she slumped against it with the sluggishness of a centenarian on tranquilizers, her mind alternately buzzing and whiting out. She brushed an errant curl behind her unstudded ear.

She'd blown it.

She'd given it her best shot and had the biggest misfire in her brilliantly short career. She sighed. Ginger Ink was back to promoting doughnut shops and tire sales.

Hudson was nice enough, but Beaumann? He hadn't said a word during the entire presentation. Sat there and glowered like an old bull moose with a rock in its hoof. Not a question, not a nod, not a sign she'd made any impression at all.

She'd exhale if her lungs weren't filled with lead. Still, she couldn't figure out if she was mad or sad.

She chalked the feeling up to disappointment, got in her car, and fired it up. She needed a cream puff drenched in chocolate, and she needed it fast.

To hell with Cal Beaumann and his precious Cinema Neo.

* * *

"You have to go with her, Cal. That was great stuff." Hud poured himself a glass of water and went back to his chair.

"I don't know." Cal shook his head, still in doubt.

"Why the hell not?"

"God, Hud, you saw the way the woman was dressed."

"So undress her. You used to be pretty good at that as I remember."

"Funny," he answered dryly, knowing he'd been thinking the same thing all through Ginger's presentation.
Take it off, Ginger. Take it all off.

"She's into retro." Hud shrugged. "What's the big deal?"

"The deal is she looks like a nineteen-twenties Salvation Army officer." Cal got to his feet. "Her ideas for radio spots, local ads, and press releases? Great, sure, but the meet-the-people part of this project? I can't see it."

"So tell her to pick up her image. Get some new clothes."

"Tell a woman what to wear? I'd rather face a prison riot with a water pistol."

"Your call, but under that tarp she calls a suit there's a helluva creative person." Hud got to his feet. "I'm going back to the hotel. Call when you decide." He paused. "And remind yourself of this... she'll be a lot cheaper than The Blaine Group."