It Takes a Rebel (5 page)

said, it seemed that Jack Stillman had been the man of the hour. Although UK was renowned for all of its team sports programs,

Jack the Attack had been heralded for single-handedly taking his football team to a prestigious past-season bowl game, and

winning it.

Page after page showed Jack in various midmotion poses: catching the football, running past opponents, crossing into the end

zone. The last page featured Jack in his mud-stained uniform, arm in arm with a casually dressed man who was a taller, wider

version of himself, behind whose unsuspecting head Jack was holding up two fingers in the universal "jackass" symbol.

Twenty-two-year-old Jack had the same killer grin, the same mischievous eyes, with piles of dark, unruly hair in a hopelessly

dated style. Alex smirked as she mentally compared the boy in the picture to the man she'd met this morning. Too bad he was

such a cliché—a washed-up jock still chasing pompoms.

Alex snapped the book closed. The ex-football star angle worried her. Her father was already aware of it, she was sure, and

the fact that he hadn't taken the time to enlighten her probably meant he would bend over backward to work with Stillman just

to be able to tell the guys at the club about the man's athletic accomplishments.

Anger burned the walls of her stomach, anger about the old boy's network, anger toward men who shirked their duties but

advanced to high-ranking corporate positions because they had a low golf handicap and could sweat with male executives in

the sauna. Subtle discrimination occurred within Tremont's, although she was working judiciously to address disparity within

the sales and marketing division. And subtle discrimination occurred within her own family. Had she been a son, an athlete,

she was certain her father would have showered her with attention, would have fostered her career more aggressively. She

ached for the closeness that she'd once shared with her mother, but that seemed so out of reach with her father.

She blinked back tears, feeling very alone in the big, high-ceilinged apartment. Fatigue pulled at her shoulders, but the sugar

she'd ingested pumped through her system. She needed sleep, but her bed, custom made of copper tubing and covered with a

crisp white duvet, looked sterile and cold in the far corner of the rectangular-shaped loft.

Alex located her glass of wine and finished it while standing at the sink. Knowing the ritual of preparing for bed sometimes

helped her insomnia, she moved toward the bedroom corner to undress. After draping the pale blue suit over a chrome valet,

she dropped her matching underwear into a lacy laundry bag. From the back of her armoire, she withdrew a nappy, yellow

cotton robe of her mother's and wrapped it around her. After removing her makeup with more vehemence than necessary, she

walked past her bed and returned to the comfy chair she'd abandoned when Lana arrived, covering her legs with a lightweight

afghan.

But she lay awake long after she'd extinguished her mother's light, straining with unexplainable loneliness and frustration,

stewing over unjust conditions she might never be able to change. Right or wrong, she channeled her hostility toward the one

person who, at the moment, best epitomized life's arbitrary inequities: Jack Stillman. Clod-hopping his way through life and

having the Tremont business laid at his feet because he was a man and a former sports celebrity simply wasn't fair.

Remembering Lana's words, Alex set her jaw in determination. Perfect record be damned. The infamous "Jack the Attack"

Stillman had already dropped the ball—he just didn't know it yet.

Chapter 4

« ^ »

"
D
on't drop the ball, Jack."

Derek's words from much earlier in the workday reverberated in his head. In the middle of the crisis with the IRS guy, Jack

had somehow explained away Tuesday's presence—later he'd given her a fifty dollar bill and told her not to come back—and

he managed to convince Derek that he had everything under control, including the Tremont's presentation.

Jack swore, then tore yet another sheet from his newsprint drawing pad, wadded it into a ball, and tossed it over his shoulder

with enough force to risk dislocating his elbow. His muse had truly abandoned him this time. Three-thirty in the morning, with

no revelation in sight. Forget the printer—this presentation would have to consist of raw drawings and hand-lettering.

If he ever came up with an idea, that is.

"Think, man, think," he muttered, tapping his charcoal pencil on the end of the desk, conjuring up key words to spark his

imagination.
Clothes, style, fashion, home decor
. He needed a catchy phrase to convince people to shop at Tremont's.

Shop till you drop at Tremont's spot.

If you got the money, honey, we got the goods.

Spend a lot of dough at Tremont's sto'.

Okay, so he was really rusty, but at least it was a start.

He sketched out a few unremarkable ideas, but a heavy stone of dread settled in his stomach—this was not the best stuff that

had ever come out of his pencil. The tight little bow of Alexandria Tremont's disapproving mouth had dogged him all evening.

The woman obviously didn't expect much and, despite his efforts to the contrary, that was exactly what he was going to deliver.

Dammit, he hated wanting to impress her … not that it mattered now.

Pouring himself another cup of coffee from a battered thermos, he raked a hand over his stubbly face and leaned back in his

chair. Jack winced as the strong, bitter brew hit his taste buds at the same time a bitter truth hit his gut. He was washed up.

Being at the top of his game—no matter what the arena—used to come so easily, and now he was struggling for mere

mediocrity.

His college football career had been a joyous four-year ride of accolades, trophies and popularity—a young man's dream

that afforded him unbelievable perks, including as many beautiful women as he could handle, and enough good memories to

last a lifetime. But for all his local celebrity and natural talent, he hadn't even considered going pro, partly because he didn't

want to put his body through the paces, and partly because he'd simply wanted to do more with his life, to strike out and

experience new settings, new people. And frankly, he'd always hated doing what was expected of him, whether it meant

playing pro football or working for the family ad agency. Until now, he hadn't realized how much he missed striving for

something beyond having enough beer to wash down the native food of wherever he happened to be.

But inexplicably, the yearning that had lodged in his stomach the previous day had permeated other vital organs until he

could feel it, see it, breathe it—the need to achieve. The need to make something out of nothing. The need to prove to others

that he could hack it in any environment. The need to prove to himself that he still had his edge. And, he admitted with the kind

of brutal honesty that comes to a man in the wee hours of the morning, Alexandria Tremont played a startling role in his

reawakening. Just the thought of the challenge in her ice-blue eyes brought long dormant feelings of aspiration zooming to the

surface. He hadn't felt this alive since he was carried off the football field on the shoulders of his teammates for the last time.

He wanted this win so badly, he could taste her—er, it.

The rush of adrenaline continued to feed his brain, which churned until the light of early dawn seeped through the windows.

Jack discarded idea after idea, but he refused to give up hope that something fantastic would occur to him. Around seven, and

with little to show for his sleepless night, Jack heard a scratching sound on the front door. He went to investigate, stapler in

hand for lack of a better weapon. To his abject consternation, Tuesday opened the door and marched inside, flipping on lights

as she went. She wore an attractive flowered skirt and a modest blouse. "Morning," she sang.

"How'd you get in?" he demanded.

She held up a Tremont's department store credit card, of all things. "I jiggled the lock—this is no Fort Knox, sonny. You're

here early."

"I didn't leave," he said, scowling. "And I thought I told you not to come back."

"You were having a bad day," she said cheerfully. "So I thought I'd give you another chance." She leaned toward him and

grimaced. "Oooh, you don't look so good."

"I know."

"Did you finish the presentation?"

"Yes."

"Is it good?"

"No."

She sighed, a sorrowful noise. "Well, you'll have to wow them with charm, I suppose." She squinted, angling her head.

"What were you planning to wear?"

He looked down at his disheveled beach clothes and shrugged. "I hadn't thought about it, but I'm sure I can rustle up a sport

coat."

Tuesday grunted and picked up the phone. "What are you, about a forty-four long?"

He shrugged again, then nodded. "As best as I can remember."

She looked him up and down. "Six-three?"

Again, he nodded.

"Size twelve shoe?"

"Thirteen if I can get them. Why?"

Tuesday waved her hand in a shooing motion. "Go take a shower and shave that hairy face. Hurry, and yell for me when

you're finished."

Jack wasn't sure if he was simply too tired to argue, or just glad to have someone tell him what to do. The Tremont's account

was lost now anyway—he would merely go through the motions for Derek's sake.

He retreated to the bathroom in the back, grateful for the shower the landlord had thought to build. Shaving had never been a

favorite chore, and it took some time to clear the dark scruff from his jaw. He checked in the cabinet on the wall, and sure

enough, Derek had left a couple pairs of underwear, along with a pair of faded jeans and a few T-shirts. Derek was more thick-

bodied than he, but the underwear would work. Jack had barely snapped the waistband in place when an impatient knock

sounded at the door.

"You through in there?"

"Give me a second," he called, then wrapped a towel around his waist before opening the door.

Tuesday strode in, carrying a comb and a pair of scissors. "Oh, no," Jack said, shaking his head. "You're not cutting my hair."

"Oh, yes," she said, motioning for him to sit on the commode lid. "That wooliness has to come off. Come on, now, don't

argue."

He stubbornly crossed his arms and remained standing. She pointed the scissors at him. "Don't make me climb up there. Do

you want to blow this chance completely?"

Jack sighed and shook his head.

"Then sit."

He sat. And she cut. And cut and cut and cut.

Cringing at the mounds of dark hair accumulating on the floor around him, Jack pleaded, "Gee, at least leave me enough to

comb."

She stepped back, made a few final snips, then nodded and whipped off the towel protecting his shoulders. "There, you look

human again." Tuesday exited the bathroom with purpose.

Half afraid to look in the mirror, Jack did so one eye at a time. Damn. He pursed his mouth and lifted a hand to his sheared

head. It was short, but it didn't look half bad. He turned sideways and ran a hand over the back of his neck.

"Long time, no see," he murmured. He leaned over the sink and wet his short hair, then combed it back. "Hello, ears."

"Here you go, handsome."

Tuesday was back, this time holding a vinyl suit bag. "Suit, shirt, cuff links, tie, socks, belt and shoes, size twelve—your

toes'll be pinched just a mite."

Jack's eyes widened. "Where did you get this stuff?"

"My son, Reggie," she said. "Remember, he works for Tremont's?"

"Oh, right," he said. "Menswear?"

She nodded. "Natty dresser, my Reggie." She handed him the bag. "Clothes make the man, you know."

Touched, Jack reached for the bag, then stopped and stared at her. "Tuesday, you're a genius."

She gave him a dismissive wave. "I know that, son. What took you so long to catch on?"

Jack unzipped the bag, his mind jumping ahead to his blank sketch pad. He had about an hour to get a new idea down on

paper.

"Tuesday, I'm going to be cutting it close. Will you call me a taxi?" A trip across town on his motorcycle might compromise

the condition of his portfolio, he realized.

"I did. It'll be here at a quarter to ten," she said, then turned and closed the door.

Jack grinned at his own reflection, suddenly feeling young again. He was back, and good wasn't a big enough word to

express how he felt. He felt … he felt …
energized
. And lucky. And teeming with fiery anticipation at the look on the ice

princess's face when he walked through the door.

"Look out, Ms. Alexandria Tremont," he murmured. "Ready or not, here I come."

* * *

public. This morning, she acknowledged, the routine also served to soothe her anxiety about the impending advertising meeting.

Actually, she felt a little sorry for Jack Stillman—the clueless man was in way over his swollen head. But regardless of her