Stephanie Bond - It Takes a Rebel

The furniture wasn’t much better, the bulky chairs so unwieldy she could barely move them in and out from the broad-legged table. She chose the chair at the head of the table, farthest from the door. After setting down her coffee cup and the reports, she crossed the gloomy room to open the window blinds on the outside wall. As far as she was concerned, the sole good feature of the room was the view.

Rolling hills of pasture land and forests provided a backdrop for the modest Lexington skyline. The fiery October hues threw the white board fences encircling distant grazing land into stark relief. The flying hooves of two yearlings sprinting across a slanted field reminded her that fall horse racing season at Keeneland started in a couple of days. Alex smiled, momentarily distracted, and experienced a rush of gratitude to be living in such a beautiful area.

Winding, tree-lined roads led residents into the downtown area, a myriad of old tobacco warehouses, new office buildings, slender town houses and fountained courtyards. Brick, stone, metal, concrete, glass, water, one-and two-way streets—all these elements combined to create the casual, eclectic cityscape that embodied Lexington: part urban, part rural, totally accommodating.

Tremont’s flagship store and administrative offices occupied a five-story building on Webster Avenue just a few blocks from the center of downtown, and walking distance from Alex’s loft apartment. They had managed to compete with the malls by building an adjacent parking structure and, at her persistent urging, by developing a food court on the entire first floor of the building, including a sidewalk café that had become very popular with the business lunch crowd and the Junior League. As a result, gift shops and service businesses had popped up all around them.

Alex sipped her coffee, feeling very much like a proud parent admiring her offspring. She had contributed to the growth of Tremont’s, and Tremont’s played a vital role in the downtown economy. Long after she was gone, Tremont’s would be a living, breathing entity, a legacy of her father’s and her own and her children’s impact on the city and the state. The knowledge pleased her immensely.

As she stared down at the street, a red taxicab pulled alongside the opposite sidewalk, and a man alighted. Bound for the financial building two doors down, she suspected, then she squinted to study the man in the distance as he leaned inside to pay the driver. He certainly looked the part of a money man—commanding figure, dark hair, proper suit. Her tongue poked deep into her cheek. And he wasn’t a bad-looking fellow, either.

“What’s so interesting?”

She dropped the blind, turned, and conjured up a smile for Heath Reddinger, who looked fair and fit and smart in his navy pinstripe suit and tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses. “Just people-watching.”

His forehead furrowed. “Alex, you look tired. I thought you were going to bed early last night.”

“I did,” she said, telling herself she should feel flattered by his concern rather than faintly annoyed. “I’m fine, really.”

Heath glanced back toward the door to ensure they were alone. They both agreed not to flaunt their relationship during work hours. “I’m sorry, but I have to cancel dinner tonight,” he said. “I just discovered I’m needed in Cincinnati. I’m leaving this afternoon.”

“For how long?” She’d been looking forward to a relaxing evening together, and to the sea bass at Gerrard’s.

“No more than a couple of days, I think.”

Alex frowned. “A problem with our bank?”

Heath sipped his creamed coffee before he answered. “No problem, just an issue. Can I get a rain check on dinner?”

She nodded, respectful of Heath’s dedication to her father’s company.

Heath reached forward and smoothed a finger back from her temple. “Maybe we should plan a long weekend away when I get back, hmm?”

A light rapping on the door accompanied by Tess clearing her throat diverted Alex’s attention over Heath’s shoulder. The flash of irritation that her secretary had been privy to the intimate gesture and conversation was quickly replaced by her puzzlement at the tall gentleman standing next to a beaming Tess. A memory cord stirred at the base of Alex’s brain, and she realized the dark-headed visitor was the same man she’d watched climb out of the taxi on the street below. A salesman, of course. What else would a man as handsome as he be doing for a living? Riveting dark eyes, tanned, planed features, immaculate suit. No wonder Tess looked like she’d been plugged into an electrical transformer. Alex grudgingly indulged in a twinge of appreciation of her own—the man was…noteworthy.

Alex stepped around Heath. “Yes, Tess?”

“Mr. Stillman is here.”

Alex blinked, wondering why Tess had announced Stillman’s arrival before introducing the salesman. Her gaze darted to the man, and one side of his mouth curved upward. Confusion flooded her.

“Good morning, Ms. Tremont,” the man said in a hauntingly familiar voice.

A FULL FIFTEEN SECONDS passed before Alex made the connection that this…paragon…was the same wild-eyed, bushy-headed, scruffy-faced irreverent vagrant she’d spoken to yesterday. Her jaw loosened a bit, and her mind raced, trying to reconcile the two images.

Meanwhile, Jack Stillman seemed to be enjoying every minute of her discomfort. His dark eyes—brown? green?—alight with the barest hint of amusement, never left her face. Her heart pumped wildly, sending hot apprehension to her limbs while alarms sounded in her ears. His full-fledged grin catapulted his unnerving energy across the space between them to wrap around her. Alex resisted the pull, leaning into the conference room table until the hard edge bit into the front of her thighs. This man was dangerous, and she would do well to keep her distance, and to keep her wits about her.

“Good morning, Mr. Stillman,” she replied coolly, then gestured toward the opposite end of the table. “Won’t you have a seat?” Getting the man off his feet would give her the slightest advantage.

Instead of answering, he strode toward Heath and extended his hand. “Jack Stillman of the Stillman & Sons Agency.”

Heath introduced himself, and Alex could have kicked herself for her gaffe. The men shook hands, although the set of Heath’s chin emanated a certain wariness. Bobby Warner, a fellow sales director and her prime competition for the vice presidency walked in with his signature swagger, then gaped at Jack.

“You’re not the Jack Stillman who played for UK in the early eighties?”

Jack dimpled. “Guilty.”

Behind them, Alex rolled her eyes.

“I’ll never forget that sixty-six-yard touchdown against Tennessee in eighty-four,” Bobby said, stepping back to feign a catch while Alex stared. She could count on her colleagues to overlook Jack Stillman’s exaggerated celebrity and do what was best for the company…couldn’t she?

To her relief, several other associates entered the room—the public relations director, another sales director, two vice presidents and a couple of marketing assistants—chatting among themselves. She left the introductions to Bobby, who seemed disturbingly chummy with Jack Stillman after only three and a half minutes. The group body language concerned her. The men leaned toward him, hands in pockets, athletically wide-legged—even Rudy Claven, who hadn’t missed being a woman by much, and was teased mercifully by the company softball team for “throwing like a girl.” And the four women in the room seemed to hang on to every detail as Bobby ingratiatingly expanded on Jack’s scoffing I’m-not-a-legend preamble.

Ugh.

Alex pretended to mingle as they waited for her father, but instead studied Jack from beneath her lashes, part of her marveling over his physical transformation, all of her wary to the point of nervous tension. He panned his audience to include everyone in a glory-days anecdote he’d probably recounted a thousand times, and his gaze seemed to linger on her longer than necessary.