Surprise Package (9 page)

      
She was turning over a new leaf, beginning a new life.
Yeah, and it's almost Christmas, and you're alone again.
Gilly made an early resolution. She would not inflict herself on her friends like some desperate orphan this year. She'd spend Christmas here in her own place and buy herself a real Christmas tree and surround it with presents—all for her. After what she'd been through, she had earned it.

* * * *

      
“No way are you going to mope alone at home over the holidays!” Charis said. It was quitting time, and they were leaving the building. Gilly was loaded down with manuscripts she had not worked on because of her decorating frenzy the night before. “Look, girlfriend, I know this thing with Jeff hit you hard, but that's all the more reason not to be alone on Christmas.”

      
Gilly pushed through the heavy glass door to the street and was greeted by an icy blast of wind. “That's all the more reason for me to learn to do just that. I know you mean well, Charis, but I have to stand on my own two feet. I've always been too...too needy, I guess.”

      
“Given what you went through as a kid, you're entitled,” Charis said as they trudged up Sixth Avenue toward the subway station.

      
“That's no way to go through life. Look at the trouble it's gotten me into.”

      
“Man trouble, you mean.”

      
“Yeah, I mean.”

      
“Well, you need to meet somebody new, that's all there is to it.”

      
“Give me a little time off to catch my breath before you start fixing me up again, will you? I really need a break from this relationship thing.”

      
Suddenly, Charis stopped in her tracks, causing the woman directly behind her to veer around, giving her a dirty look. “So much for the Christmas spirit,” she said, laughingly as they began to walk again. It was walk or be trampled in the holiday rush. “I have it, Gilly, the perfect ticket. It should be a blast. Bill will understand.”

      
“It must be contagious. Now you're babbling, Charis.”

      
Her friend chuckled, grabbing Gilly by the arm. “You and I, sweetie, are going to the holiday party the sales reps are throwing for our publisher and some of their other romance customers tomorrow after work. The entertainment should be exactly what you need. No relationships...but there should be a string or two involved.” She giggled like a schoolgirl.

* * * *

      
I can't go through with it, Charis. Kathy Betterson just came up to me and positively leered when she described what goes on at these things. I can't believe the publishers actually attend it.”

      
“Your Ohio roots are showing again, Gil. You're in the Big Apple now. A contingent from RT is coming. Rumor has it even Kathryn Falk and Carol Stacy are joining in the festivities this year, along with some of their staff.” RT,
Romantic Times
, was the leading magazine in the romance genre, and getting its founder and publisher to attend the party was quite a coup.

      
“It just sounds so...icky, Char. Remember, I'm a small-town girl at heart.”

      
“You're from Cleveland, Gil,” Charis reminded her. “Lighten up. It'll be fun.”

      
Gilly had never approved of holiday office parties. They tended to be loud, raucous affairs where everyone drank too much and let loose inhibitions better kept in check. But Charis would give her no peace if she did not attend.

      
So that evening Gilly found herself entering the hotel suite where the party was being held. The big room was festooned with red and green balloons and holly wreaths. Mistletoe hung everywhere. There were a lot of faces she didn't recognize, mostly female. The sales reps, mostly men and far fewer in number, jovially obliged the laughing women who lined up to give them mock smooches.

      
A pair of bartenders stood at long tables covered with bottles and glasses, mixing everyone's requests while exchanging quips with the celebrants. Charis and Gilly made their way to the bar and ordered screwdrivers, then moved off to sip their drinks and join the revelry. After a while, they got separated, and Gilly wandered to the room where the entertainment was scheduled to commence in a few moments. In the center of the room a large open area was surrounded by a circle of folding chairs about a dozen deep, all decorated with red satin bows.

      
“Take your seats, ladies and gentlemen—especially you ladies. The show's about to begin, and I know you won't want to miss a single thing.” A big heavyset man with a microphone walked around shooing the revelers into the room. Gilly stood behind the door, wondering if he worked carnivals during the summer months. Probably not much for him to do but this in the off season, she sniffed to herself.

      
“C'mon, let's get front-row seats.” Charis appeared out of nowhere, grabbing Gilly's arm and steering her forward.

      
Women were already swarming into the room like bees to a honey tree. “I don't think this is me, Char. I'd rather just stand in the back of—”

      
“No way, kiddo. You are going to sit up front, you are going to let down your hair, and you are going to have fun! Look, even the Lady of Barrow is taking a front-row seat, and so's Carol Stacy. If the founder and publisher of the biggest magazine in the trade don't think they're too good to have a few kicks, why should you?”

      
Well, when Charis put it that way, it did make Gilly sound awfully stuffy. She allowed herself to be led down the aisle and took a seat in the second row, just behind the celebrities from
Romantic Times
. She noticed the editorial directors, as well as various other high-ranking women employed by the publishing houses, taking their seats. How bad could it be?

Chapter Eight

      
Then the music started—not the gyrating sort of hokum she'd expected, but a popular holiday song. The man who had been ushering the revelers into the room was now wheeling a low, wide cart down the aisle. On it sat a large package, gift-wrapped in red and white foil with a huge red satin bow on the lid. When he reached the center of the room, he stopped and set a hand brake on the very substantial-looking vehicle that had transported the “entertainment” into the room.

      
“Ladies, I give you Gentleman Johnny Jackson!”

      
With that, the emcee stepped away, and all eyes in the room fastened themselves on the big box stage center. Slowly, the lid began to rise and slide ever so slowly over to one edge. Every female in the room seemed to hold her breath, Gilly included.

      
It must be the screwdriver. I never could drink without getting giddy.
Her eyes were glued to the top of that box just like everyone else's. When the lid began to fall, a female sales rep sitting in the front row jumped up and caught it in her arms, peeking inside the box with a squeal of delight. A red satin top hat appeared first, tossed casually over the rim of the box by a white-gloved masculine hand. Now, every woman leaned forward on her folding chair. The top of his head emerged, followed by a pair of broad shoulders encased in a form-fitting red satin tux. He was facing the opposite side of the room as he slowly stood up, revealing…

      
“Buns of steel!” a copyeditor sitting next to Gilly breathed in awe as the aforementioned tush began to move, ever so slowly, ever so sensuously, to the beat of the music.

      
The red satin tux pants looked spray-painted on his body as he stepped over the edge of the gift box and jumped lithely to the floor. He scooped up the top hat with one hand and placed it on his head at a rakish angle. Everyone was hypnotized by Gentleman Johnny.

      
“I never thought I'd say it, but I think this guy has a better bod than Bill—oh, God, don't you dare tell him I said that!” Charis whispered without taking her eyes off the long-legged man in red satin. She did not notice that Gilly was sitting very still, making no reply, her eyes wide and glassy as she stared at the tall man with the shoulder-length black hair.

      
It can't be...

      
Her mind simply shut down. He did not have to turn around. She knew every inch of that gorgeous body—the broad shoulders, the long legs, the “buns of steel,” and the graceful hands. Especially the hands—those slim, powerful hands, which he was now divesting of their gloves. Hadn't she studied the pattern of hair on their backs as he slept beside her? She knew the way he moved, the way he held his head, every nuance of his appearance. Even when he spun around and faced her side of the audience, Gilly could not fully take it in—Jeffrey Lyle Brandt, a male stripper!

      
Good grief! He's coming closer.
She slid down in her seat, deathly afraid that he would recognize her amid the throng of eager women who were by now growing increasingly raucous as he began to shrug the shiny red satin jacket off one muscular shoulder. Gilly couldn't seem to tear her eyes from him and the incredible exhibition he was giving.
If I don't quit staring, he'll sense that it's me!
The surge of panic gradually subsided as a bitter thought stung her: She was hardly significant enough in Jeff Brandt's life for him to feel any special bond that would allow him to pick her out of a crowd, especially a crowd like this.

      
Flexing his knees and ever so subtly moving his hips to the music, he swung the jacket over one shoulder and strode across the floor like a devil-may-care hitchhiker, Clark Gable in
It Happened One Night
. When he lowered the jacket around the shoulders of the contracts manager, she nearly swooned before he whisked it away and sent it flying into the box. Then, he pulled off his tie and tossed it to the back row. There was a veritable feeding frenzy as women clawed each other for the small piece of red satin.

      
Like those of every other woman in the room, Gilly's eyes followed avidly as he popped the rhinestone cuff links from his shirt and put them provocatively into one tight pants pocket. Then, he started flipping the rhinestone studs from the front of his shirt into the audience. Joan Rivers might have said that if God had intended women to get down on the floor and exercise, He would have strewn it with diamonds; but in this case rhinestones worked even better. A dozen women were on their hands and knees, seizing the faux gems as he unfastened the cummerbund at his waist and used it playfully like a back scrubber, all to the beat of the music. He applied the sash to a few other more imaginative places, then tossed it, too, into the box.

      
By the time he had the shirt peeled open, revealing a dark thatch of hair that narrowed enticingly at the waistband of his pants, the women were shrieking and stomping like Greek maenads. Cries of, “Do it, Johnny, baby!” “Bare your soul,” and, “Yesssss!” echoed around the room, almost drowning out the music.

      
He left the shirt gaping open and turned his attention to his shoes. How the hell could a man taking off shoes and socks be sexy? Oh, it was, it was. “Oh, God, even his feet are gorgeous!” a young billing clerk whispered breathlessly to her companions.

      
Gilly watched the rhythmic balancing act as he stood on one foot, the other in midair, all the while moving with the music. He tossed one shoe over his shoulder into the box, then the other. She remembered watching Jeff go through his Tai Chi exercises, never imagining how much the discipline would help with the contortions he now performed. The roar of the crowd grew deafening when his hand moved to the fly of his pants.

      
At the rear of the room several high-ranking publishing executives stood in the shadow of the door. None was certain whether to be horrified or amused by their employees' enthusiasm. Deciding to go with the holiday spirit, they exchanged a few hearty chuckles and ordered more martinis.

      
“Omigod, he's going to do it!” Charis whispered to Gilly as Jeff began slowly lowering the zipper. But then, before she could notice her friend's frozen demeanor, he stopped, raising it once more.

      
Charis, like every other woman in the room, groaned...every woman but one. He teased them again and again as he made his way around the circle, playing the largely female crowd for all it was worth. There was a palpable sigh of satisfaction when the zipper finally stayed down. He let the fly gape open, revealing the pattern of black hair arrowing past the navel in his washboard abdomen to disappear tantalizingly below. His narrow hips gyrated in slow sync with the music, emphasizing the way the skintight red satin pants clung to his lower body as he shrugged off the white silk shirt and flung it onto the growing pile of clothes inside the box.

      
“I wouldn't have to do any Christmas shopping for my boyfriend if I could get my hands on that box,” one editor said to another. “But then again, I'd a hell of a lot rather see Johnny wearing those clothes than Sam.”

      
“I'd rather see Johnny
not
wearing them,” her companion replied, eyes glued to the man as he began to ease the pants down with excruciating slowness, letting the women work themselves into an even greater frenzy.

The tips were better that way.

      
When he finally peeled them completely off and threw them into the box, one shiny red pant leg dangled over the edge, swinging to the music. He was six feet, two inches of lean, sinuous muscles and looked lightly tanned...everywhere. The tiny briefs didn't conceal much.

      
Now the money-making part of the event began in earnest. He gave them several minutes to look but not touch, dancing smoothly around the circle, almost but not quite daring them to make the first move. Someone always did.