Marrying the Manhattan Millionaire. Jackie Braun
Sam kept her eyes closed. “I’m either trying to sleep right now or politely ignoring you. Take your pick.”
“Come on, Sam. We’ve got some time to kill before we land in New York. Let’s make the most of it. What would your ad look like?”
It was an old game, one they’d played often when they were fresh out of college and eager to tear up the advertising scene. They would analyze various campaigns, print or television, and decide what they would do to improve them. Sam had no intention of playing along now. But she made the mistake of opening her eyes and glancing at the glossy page Michael held out to her. A statuesque blonde pouted up at her. She couldn’t help herself. Besides, she rationalized, talking shop with Michael was far safer than discussing dreams…or fantasies.
“Well, for one thing, I would have gone with a lesser-known model,” she said.
“Why?”
“Sasha Herman has pitched everything from cow’s milk to men’s undershirts.”
“So she resonates with the public,” he countered, playing devil’s advocate.
“That might be, but she also causes waves. Her increasingly radical political views aren’t winning many fans among women in middle America.”
“Everyone is entitled to an opinion,” Michael retorted. “So Sasha is a little more vocal than most people, so what? Should she be punished for exercising her constitutional right?”
“I’m all for the First Amendment, but the fact remains that she’s used her celebrity as a platform for some pretty extreme views, and it’s costing her. She’s fallen out of favor with a lot of Americans, including the very women who make up the client’s target market.” She sent him a quelling look. “No one ever said free speech was free.”
“Okay. Point taken. So you’d change models and go with a less recognizable face,” he said.
“Actually, I’d go with a complete unknown,” Sam decided as a new ad took shape in her mind. It was black-and-white and far more sensual, fitting with the perfume’s name: Beguile.
“To play up the mystery?” he asked.
“That’s right.” Sam nibbled her lower lip and allowed the vision to expand. “It should be a man wearing a white dress shirt, left unbuttoned to show off his incredible abs. After all, perfume is really just sex in a bottle. Women want to buy it from a good-looking man. It’s part of the fantasy. If I wear this scent I’m desirable. I can entice anyone. I can have anyone. Even this drop-dead gorgeous stud whose eyes are saying, ‘Beguile me.’”
“God, it’s scary how the female mind works,” Michael replied dryly.
“Oh, please,” she huffed. “The female mind is no different from the male mind. We think about sex, too.”
Think about it and dream about it in vivid detail, a small voice whispered.
“Go on,” Michael encouraged with an engaging smile. “I’m all ears.”
Uh-oh. She had wandered into boggy territory. As quickly as she could, Sam retreated. Conjuring up her most-patient and instructive voice, she replied, “Even though we’re rivals, here’s a key trade secret that I’m willing to share with you.” She leaned toward him and whispered, “Sex sells.”
“Gee. It seems to me I’ve heard that somewhere.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Like maybe in the first advertising class I took back in college.”
She lifted her shoulders. “It doesn’t sound like you paid close attention.”
“I did when the curvy blond junior who sat in front of me was absent. Otherwise I found her a bit too distracting, if you know what I mean.”
Sam cast her gaze skyward and settled back in her seat.
“Come on. That was before we met, Sam. There’s no need for you to be jealous.”
“Jealous? I’m not—”
“What about the rest of the ad?” he said with a smile.
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“What other changes would you make? I’m assuming you’d do more than switch the gender of the model.”
Though she wanted to ignore him, Sam straightened in her seat and studied the ad again. It really was hideous. She tapped the bottom of the page. “Well, for sure I’d eighty-six the field of flowers.”
“What’s wrong with flowers? I thought women liked flowers? I send my mother a bouquet for her birthday every year. Daisies. They’re her favorite. And you always liked roses. Long-stemmed red ones.”
He’d surprised her with them often, she recalled now. No special occasion necessary. She’d loved getting them, loved reading the sweet notes on the cards. She still had those cards, wrapped in a ribbon and tucked away in a dresser drawer beneath her unmentionables. Somehow, they’d survived the big purge she’d done of all things Michael after their final blowup. She would burn them when she got home, she decided and concentrated on the ad.
“Women do like flowers, but that’s not the point. The name of the perfume is Beguile. A patch of posies isn’t a fitting image, especially since the perfume isn’t even a floral scent.”
“You’ve smelled it?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Not on purpose, believe me. One of those paper samples was tucked into last month’s Cosmopolitan. It fell out while I was taking a quiz on…never mind.”
He chuckled softly and raised gooseflesh on her arms when he said, “I remember the quizzes in that magazine. They were very eye-opening and, um, educational.”
And she and Michael had a lot of fun putting into practice what they had learned from them.
Sam cleared her throat. “In case you’re wondering, the perfume smells very musky and heavy.”
“The kind that lingers in elevators long after the wearer is gone?” he asked.
She nearly groaned. He had to go and mention elevators and lingering. The dream was back, popping up in her mind like one of those annoying Internet ads. It chased away all thought of redesigning a perfume ad.
“Sam? You look a little flushed,” he said, bringing her back to the present and making her aware that she’d been staring at him. “Are you okay?”
No, she wasn’t. At the moment, she was the exact opposite of okay, and it was his fault. She handed him the magazine and settled back in her seat. “Will you be going after the account?”
His brow furrowed. “What?”
She nodded toward the magazine. “Beguile perfume. Feel free to use my ideas. I’m sure they’re better than anything you can come up with on your own.”
He shook his head slowly, his gaze disapproving. “That was low, Sam. Even for you.”
She hated that he was right. He might try to steal another advertising executive’s client, but he would never poach an idea. But at least Michael was glaring at her now rather than setting off her pulse with his sexy smile.
They passed the rest of the flight in stony silence, and when the aircraft touched down in New York they each gathered up their belongings and deplaned without exchanging so much as a word.
“So, did you win?” her mother asked.
Joy called as Sam was unpacking her suitcase that evening.
“No. I’m an also-ran once again. And you know how Dad feels about also-rans. No one remembers them,” she said doing a fair impersonation of her father’s resonating alto.
Joy snorted. “No one remembers them except for him. There’s no pleasing that man.” Which was why her mother had called it quits