Marrying the Manhattan Millionaire. Jackie Braun
our wedding, moved to California without you and waited for you to come, only to have you call to say you were staying in Manhattan. So, it’s your memory that could use a little improvement. Mine is just fine, sweetheart.”
The endearment, issued as it was in such an insulting manner, rubbed roughly across her nerves. It didn’t help that he was still holding her hand. She tugged free of his grasp. “Don’t call me that. You lost the right a long time ago.”
He made a scoffing sound. “I didn’t lose it. I gave it up gladly when you sent back my ring. Daddy—you know, the same guy who spent your entire adolescence kicking your self-esteem to the curb—needed you.”
“You still don’t get it.” Sam shook her head in frustration and even as she called herself a fool all these years later, she wanted him to understand. “After Sonya’s accident—”
Just as he had seven years ago, though, he blocked her attempt to explain. “Don’t. Let’s not talk about your sister or your father or anything else to do with the past.” Before she could object—and, boy, did she plan to give him an earful—he abruptly changed the subject. “How about another toast?”
“I can’t imagine what else we have to drink to.” She meant it. After all, almost everything between them was past tense.
Michael, of course, found the one thing that wasn’t. “How about my win tonight. You know, just to show that you harbor no hard feelings.”
He offered the same grin that he had from the podium. It was a challenge, a dare, and as such she found herself helpless to say no.
“Why not?” she replied.
“Ah. There’s a good sport.”
She doubted he would think so when she’d culled half of his accounts. That was her goal. Maybe then he’d leave New York again. In the interim, she could be magnanimous and humor him. “To your win tonight.”
As Sam reached for her wine, Michael had the nerve to tack on, “And the one last month. You haven’t forgotten the Clio, have you?”
“No. It’s fresh in my mind,” she assured him, twirling the thin stem of her glass between her thumb and fingers. Half of his accounts at Grafton Surry? Why stop there? She wanted them all. “To your win, both tonight and last month.” Just before taking a sip of her wine she added, “May they be your last.”
His laughter came as a surprise, erupting as it did just after he managed to choke down a swallow of bourbon. She remembered that laugh. There’d been a time when she’d loved hearing it.
“I thought there were no hard feelings,” he sputtered.
“None whatsoever.” She nodded toward the award. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t plan to be the one holding that thing next year.”
“It sounds as if you’ve got a serious case of trophy envy, Sam.” He picked up the Addy and held it out to her. His tone bordered on seductive when he leaned close and whispered, “Want to touch it?”
His words awakened needs that had nothing to do with advertising or awards, and stirred up memories of quiet mornings, lazy afternoons and late nights when temptation had turned into passion and obliterated all else.
“It’s heavier than it looks,” he went on. “But, damn, it feels so good.”
So good.
The scent of his cologne wrapped around Sam, pulling her in. Sex. She remembered what it had been like with him, how glorious it had felt. She exhaled sharply and pushed both Michael and the award away.
“Thanks, but I’ll wait until I’m alone.” She cleared her throat, felt her face heat at what could only be called a Freudian slip. “I mean, I’ll wait until I have my own.”
He studied her a moment longer than was comfortable for her. Then he shrugged and returned the trophy to the table. “Suit yourself. Of course, that might be a while. The competition in your category has gotten pretty stiff these days.”
“Is that your ego talking?”
He snagged a handful of nuts. “Call it what you will. Results are what matter. And we both know what those have been lately.”
“Awards aren’t everything,” she reminded him.
“No. They’re the icing on the cake. In the end, accounts are what matter.”
“The bigger, the better,” she agreed, her thoughts turning to the hotel chain. If the rumor was true and she could land the account, what a feather in her cap that would be. Even her father would be impressed, and God knew earning Randolph Bradford’s approval had never been easy. If not for her sister’s accident and then… Sam refused to allow the thought to be finished.
“Like Sentinel Timepieces?” Michael asked, referring to the watchmaker she’d tried to entice away.
That hadn’t been what she’d had in mind, but she shrugged. “Perhaps. I go after what I want and I usually get it. Sentinel was an anomaly.”
He looked slightly amused. “Is that your polite way of telling me to watch my back?” He wagged his eyebrows and added, “I’d rather watch yours.”
She rolled her eyes, even as his juvenile comeback had heat curling through her belly. “Suit yourself, but don’t cry foul when your preoccupation with my posterior results in a mass exodus of clients from Grafton Surry.”
“Preoccupied goes a little too far. Your butt, as fondly as I remember it, isn’t going to stop me from spending a little one-on-one time with the folks who are signed with Bradford.”
The gloves were off, which was fine with Sam. She liked this better. Work, rivalry— they were straightforward.
“Unlike your clientele, mine is loyal, which I think you’ve already found out.”
“I’ve only called a couple so far.”
“Then I’ll save you some time. I offer them what they want and I deliver the market. None of them is looking to switch.”
“Sure about that? I can deliver the market, too.” His lips curved. “And I can do an even better job of it than you.”
Sam snorted. “God, you’ve never been short on confidence.”
“Neither have you.” He’d been smiling, but now he sobered. “You know, even more than your butt, I always found that to be an incredible turn-on.”
Sam tucked some hair behind her ears and moistened her lips. Laugh in his face, she ordered herself. At the very least deliver an emasculating comeback. All she came up with was, “Me, too.”
As soon as the words were out, Sam wanted to throttle herself. Why did she have to go and admit something so potentially volatile? It was bad enough to think it. After all, she’d been trying to sift out all of the softer emotions she had when it came to Michael. Here was a doozy and it was threatening to whisk her back in time.
She blamed the wine, even though more than half a glass remained. Most of all, she blamed Michael. He’d been the one to bring it up. Glancing at him now, she found a modicum of comfort in the fact that he looked as out of sorts as she felt, as if he too were wishing he could snatch back his words.
“I think I should call it a night,” Sam said, reversing her earlier decision to have him leave first. “I have an early flight.”
“Yeah. Same here.”
With her luck they would be on the same plane, seated next to each other and then stuck on the runway during an extended delay.
After the waiter came with their check, Sam paid the bill. Michael insisted on leaving the tip, though she’d told him she had that covered, too. They argued back and forth, neither one backing down. Just like old times. In the end, the waiter wound up with one whopper of a gratuity.
They