Stephanie Bond - It Takes a Rebel

Men were like cats, she observed, pretending to study her watch. The more you ignored them, the more they wanted your attention. She forced herself not to listen to Jack Stillman’s words, although his baritone was impossible to shut out. Someone had found a photo of the ’85 UK football team among the cluttered bookshelves, and there he was, Jack pointed out as everyone crowded around, then launched into a story about the fellow who sat next to him. Within seconds, everyone was laughing.

Oh, brother. Alex took a deep gulp of coffee and scalded her tongue. “Dammit!”

Her expletive coincided with a lull in the laughter and seemed to reverberate from the dark walls. Everyone turned to stare, including Jack, whose eyes danced with amusement as she ran her tender tongue against the roof of her mouth. She had the strongest urge to stick it out at him.

“Problem, my dear?” her father asked, strolling into the room with all the casual ease of a man who owned the floors, walls and ceilings. At last everyone fell away from Jack Stillman and headed toward the table, scrupulously avoiding the chair opposite Alex, reserved for her father, of course.

“No,” she said somewhat thickly, walking around the table. “Allow me to introduce Mr. St—”

“Jack Stillman,” her father cut in, pumping the visitor’s hand, his broad face creasing in a grin reserved only for the most privileged. “Jack the Attack.”

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