It Takes a Rebel

Contents:

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

Epilogue

Chapter 1

^ »

"
J
ack, are you listening?"

Jack Stillman jerked his attention back to his brother's voice on the phone. "Hmm? Sure, bro."

"I'm counting on you," Derek said in that patronizing big-brother tone that Jack hated.

He rolled his eyes, leaned back in his desk chair, and propped his feet on the corner of the desk. "Stop worrying, I can

handle things until you get back."

"I'm not worried about your ability," Derek said dryly. "It's your dedication that keeps me up at night."

Jack frowned. "Your new bride should be the only thing keeping you up at night."

Derek chuckled in a way that told Jack he hadn't spent
every
minute of his honeymoon worrying about the ad agency. "Just

remember—"

"I
know
, bro, I know. The gal from the IRS office will be by this afternoon, the phone bill needs to be paid, and I have an

appointment with Al Tremont tomorrow morning at ten. I have everything under control."

"Since we need to make a good impression on this IRS agent, you might not want to call her 'gal.'"

He sighed, loath to spend the afternoon with some dried-up hag who wanted to scrutinize his W-4's.

"Is the office straightened up?" Derek asked.

Jack glanced at the pizza box sitting on his desk from yesterday, and the cartons of leftover Chinese from the day before. On

the other side of the room that housed both his and Derek's desks, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf had collapsed, the timing of the

mishap probably hastened by his overuse of the mini-basketball hoop on the side, he conceded. Twice he'd thought about

straightening the mountain of reference books and papers on the floor, then changed his mind. And he hadn't gotten around to

sorting the mail in the two weeks since Derek had left. He raised the lid on the pizza box and lifted the remaining stone-cold

slice to his mouth for a bite. "The place looks peachy," he said through a mouthful of rubbery cheese.

"Good. Then tell me you dressed up."

Jack looked down at one of the short sleeve floral shirts he'd acquired during his extended vacation in Florida, then opened

his top drawer and withdrew a black and white striped tie from the wad of spares he kept there for emergencies. "Tie and

everything," he said, flipping up the collar of his shirt and fashioning a loose Windsor knot.

"And you got a haircut?"

He ran his hand through his dark shaggy hair and grunted what he hoped passed for affirmation.

Derek sighed in relief, so he must have sounded convincing. "And you have ideas drawn up for Tremont?"

Jack shot a look in the direction of his sketch pad, then flicked a chunk of pepperoni from the blank top sheet. "Some of my

best work ever."

"Great. What did you come up with?"

"Uh, I'll call you and go over the presentation when I get everything back from the printer."

"You're the artist," Derek said with a little laugh. "I'm nervous about you meeting with the IRS woman, but I have to admit,

I'm sure you'll do a good job with Tremont. This account could put us in the big league, you know."

Jack winced and rubbed his stomach. Guilt and cold pizza did not mix. "I know, Derek, I won't let you down." He checked

the clock on Derek's desk—he'd lost his own watch in a poker game in Kissimmee—and straightened. The IRS gal would

arrive in another hour. "Listen, bro, gotta run."

"Call me on my cell phone if the agent has questions you can't answer."

"Sure thing. Give Janine a kiss for me, and make it French, okay?" He hung up before Derek could reprimand him, bit off

another chunk of pizza, then winged it toward the overflowing trash can. After wiping his hands on his cut-off denim shorts, he

pushed himself to his feet with an aggrieved sigh. Might as well get the darn bookshelf fixed.

He stretched tall into a mighty yawn, then padded barefoot to the closet they used as a supply room. He'd have time to slide

into his deck shoes before the broad got there. Jack shook his head at the neat shelves, the bins of miscellaneous office supplies

and the various tools. His brother had inherited their mother's penchant for order, while he had inherited their father's tendency

toward turmoil.

God rest his father's sweet soul, the old man was still doing them favors. Paul Stillman, ever the generous spirit, had once

stopped on New Circle Road to assist a motorist, only to discover the man was none other than Alexander Tremont, owner of

the Tremont department store chain. Tremont had been on his way to a meeting at his flagship store in Lexington, Kentucky, and

their father had given him a lift. When the two men hit it off, Tremont had promised the Stillman & Sons agency a chance at his

business once his contract with a high-powered agency had run its course.

Last week, Al Tremont's secretary had phoned to keep his promise. Saddened to learn of their father's passing, Tremont

nonetheless set an appointment to discuss ideas for a new ad campaign. Derek had been ecstatic when Jack told him, and

considered cutting short his honeymoon, but Jack had assured him he could handle the presentation.

And he could handle the presentation, he told himself. He'd already performed some rudimentary research by calling

acquaintances to ask what the hell the store sold. He still had nearly twenty-four hours until the Tremont appointment, and he

always did his best work under pressure. If history repeated itself, his most creative ideas would strike him around three

o'clock tomorrow morning.

He pulled down a tool belt and strapped it low around his hips. Begrudgingly, he lifted the stepladder to his shoulder—might

as well change the two expired overhead light-bulbs while he was at it.

Upon closer inspection, the bookshelf was in worse shape than he'd thought. He ended up reinforcing the brace under each

shelf and tightening every screw that held the piece together. Once the unit was stabilized, he positioned it against the wall,

then knelt to start replacing the heap of books, binders and periodicals.

Two minutes into the pile, between volumes of advertising trade magazines, he stumbled across an old friend—the 1997

Playboy
"Southern College Coeds" issue. A dog-eared page took him directly to the University of Kentucky offerings. Wow,

still impressive. And by chance, he'd spotted the blonde in the cropped T-shirt at the next football game he'd attended. What

was her name? Jack peered more closely. Oh, yeah—Sissy. He and Sissy had shared some good times.

"Excuse me."

At the sound of a woman's voice, Jack jerked his head up and slapped the magazine closed. In the doorway of their

disheveled office stood the most drop-dead gorgeous woman he'd ever had the pleasure of setting his eyes upon. His body

leapt in unadulterated admiration. The woman was … tight. Tight black hair bound away from her face. Tight skin over sharp

cheekbones and a perfect nose. Tight set of her mouth and chin. Tight tailored pale blue suit that hugged every curve of her long

body. Tight look from her haughty blue eyes. Tight grip on the black briefcase she held.

To say the IRS rep didn't look anything like what he'd expected was an understatement of laughable proportions. "Yes?" He

adopted a charming expression. His mind raced ahead to the drinks, the dinner, the bed they were destined to share.

"I'm looking for Mr. Stillman."

Oh, and a husky voice, too. He'd surely died and gone to heaven. "You found him," he said, then tossed the magazine to the

floor and walked toward her.

"You're Derek Stillman?" she asked, not hiding her surprise.

"No, I'm his brother, Jack, the better looking one." He grinned. "Derek is out of town, but I've been expecting you."

"Oh?" she asked, scanning the contents of the office. "You know who I am?"

"Sure," he said cheerfully. "Derek and I were just discussing the meeting on the phone."

Suddenly he realized the unkempt appearance of their office might run in their favor—the woman could certainly see they

weren't hiding income. He laughed and gestured around. "As you can see, we're not exactly the cream of the advertising

agencies." He made a rueful noise. "A month ago we were on the verge of bankruptcy, and now we're just hanging on by the

skin of our ass—um, teeth, so this shouldn't take long."

"Indeed," she said, her enunciation clipped. "I believe I've seen enough." She turned as if to leave.

He panicked. "Wait—what about our appointment?"

"Consider it canceled."

Jack nearly whooped with relief—Derek would be ecstatic that the audit had been dismissed, but he wasn't about to let this

creature just walk out of his life.

"You don't have to be so hasty," he drawled, strolling closer. "There's a silver lining to every cloud." When she turned back,

he angled his head at her and gave her his most devilish grin. "How about dinner?"

One thin jet eyebrow shot up. "With you?"

He winked. "I grill a mean steak."

Her smile was, of course, tight. "I'm a vegetarian."

Jack blanched. He'd heard of vegetarians, but he'd never met one. "Well, I grill a mean … head of cabbage. What do you

say?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I say 'no.' Goodbye, Mr. Stillman."

"Wait," he said, trotting after her into the reception area, where they kept a desk, a phone and an extinct computer for

appearances. The two weeks' worth of mail nearly obscured the top of the dummy desk.

She turned again, her mouth pursed, her gaze chilly.