Better Than Chocolate...

“I’m not a fling kind of gal. And Perry didn’t leave any karma there.” Things hadn’t progressed beyond a few dinner dates and a couple of lukewarm kisses. Despite the surprise element, she’d kept her wits about her and was able to size things up when she’d caught Perry naked. Unless he was extremely good at making the most of what he had, she hadn’t missed much.

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“But—”

Andrea held up her hand, interrupting Eve’s rebuttal. Eve shut up. No one in their right mind talked to Andrea’s hand. “Eve, you are a genius at work. But you’re lousy at picking men. Do yourself a favor. Have a fling.”

Eve had Godiva’d her way to the same conclusion—not the fling part, but the bad choice in men. Chocolate hadn’t helped and she didn’t see that Andrea’s advice would, either. “Is a fling going to improve my lousy judgment?”

“No. I personally think you pick those guys to avoid commitment. They’re losers, so it’s a good reason to dump them. You know, like in Moonstruck when Cher tells Nic Cage he’s a wolf who’d rather gnaw off his own leg than get caught in a trap.”

Eve knew the scene well since she and Andrea had seen the movie about a dozen times since they’d been friends. Andrea had serious Nic Cage fever.

“I do not deliberately pick losers in order to avoid serious relationships.” She didn’t, did she? That would be seriously warped. “So, tell me again why I should hop into bed with a stranger this weekend?”

Andrea wore a dreamy expression. “Think ‘Strangers in the Night,’” she sang the title to the Frank Sinatra classic. Andrea, who’d grown up in Brooklyn, with her grandmother sharing her parents’ house, had been weaned on Sinatra, Nat King Cole and Ella Fitzgerald. Andrea was a quixotic mixture of uptown sophisticate and romantic neighborhood girl, virgin extraordinaire still waiting on a man with an equally romantic soul. They, however, were in short supply. “Think romance. It would be fun.”

“The only fun I’m interested in is winning that promotion and beating LaRoux.”

“I’m just interested in who winds up on top,” Andrea said, a teasing glint in her eye.

JACK LAROUX LEANED against the hotel’s black marble counter, impatience lurking behind his nonchalance. He needed a swim, a shower and a Scotch. Not necessarily in that order. All three were a mere check-in away.

According to Neville, Jack also needed to get laid. But then again, his assistant considered sex of tantamount importance ninety-nine percent of the time. From day one Jack’s perpetual reserve had never inhibited Neville’s outrageous tongue.

While he waited on his key card, Jack checked out the bar tucked into a corner on the first floor, visible from the lobby mezzanine. Not crowded yet. Not surprising at seven forty-five on a Friday night. He could probably pick up a Scotch and Neville’s prescribed lay in the bar. If that was what he’d wanted. Instead, he’d order the Scotch poolside after his swim.

“Here you are, Mr. LaRoux,” said the desk clerk. Meg, according to her name tag, offered a smooth, professional smile along with his key card. “You’re in Suite four-fourteen. Is there anything else I can help you with? Do you need a hand with your bag?”

“I can handle it.” He picked up the garment bag and the black leather attaché housing his laptop, compliments of Hendley and Wells, and smiled across the desk at her. “Thanks, Meg.”

Meg blushed and tucked her hair behind one ear, flustered. Who was he to question why women responded to his smile that way? But they did, and it made his life much easier. Most of the time. “Enjoy your stay, Mr. LaRoux.”

“Thanks.” Jack shouldered his bag and headed for the bank of elevators, anxious to dump his things in his room and head to the pool. He had energy to burn and swimming laps inspired some of his best thinking.

He rode the glass-fronted elevator to the third floor. The thick carpet absorbed the sound of his footsteps as he walked down the hall.

His cell phone buzzed. Neville’s office extension flashed on the caller ID. Jack flipped it open with one hand. “Hi, Nev.”

“You will not believe who just called the office looking for you,” Neville announced with typical dramatic flair.

“Don’t leave me hanging.” Jack keyed open his suite door and padded across the thick carpet. He deposited his laptop on the desk.

“LaTonya Greer.” Neville paused for effect.

The redhead he’d met at the art gallery opening last week? No. Her name was Leslie or Laura or maybe it’d been Leanne. It wasn’t LaTonya. He crossed the sitting room to the bedroom and hung his garment bag in the closet. “Am I supposed to know LaTonya Greer?”

“Hel-lo. Assistant to Eve the Evil One.”

“Hmm. I hope LaTonya Greer doesn’t torture her boss with hyperbole.”

Neville sniffed on the other end. “You’d better hope she’s not as good at her job as I am. Of course, she couldn’t possibly be.”

Jack grinned at Neville’s pretended effrontery and juggled the cell phone on his shoulder as he shrugged out of his jacket. “No one’s as good at their job as you are—hyperbole or otherwise. What did Ms. Greer want with me and what did you tell her?”

“It was some nonsense about confirming information for Monday’s meeting. I told her you were in a meeting.”

“Good. Anything else?”

“Good. That’s it? Don’t you wonder what she’s up to?”

Neville possessed excellent intuition regarding advertising, but he tended to be a tad dramatic, seeing intrigue where none existed.

Jack shrugged, even though Neville couldn’t see it over the phone. “I’m sure you handled it with your usual aplomb.”

“I did, thank you. Now, what’s on the agenda for tonight?” Neville’s voice carried that let-us-digress-to-sex tone.

“After I hang up with you I’m going to check out the pool.”

“Laps and a Scotch?” Nev asked with a sigh.

Neville sounded as if Jack might break out knitting needles next. It didn’t mean he’d grown boringly predictable, it just meant he’d developed a method that worked. Sipping Scotch after a hard swim sparked his creativity.

“I should be poolside—” he checked his Rolex “—in about ten minutes.”

“Swim your laps and then check out the bar. All work and no play makes Jack a very dull boy. Find yourself a playmate for the weekend.”

“I’m not into—”

“Then you should be,” Neville interrupted. “You’ve been wound up way too tight lately. Think of it as relaxation therapy. You know, all those endorphins released by good sex. Consider it priming the pump for doing your best work on Monday.” Neville was nothing if not tenacious. Arguing with him was a waste of breath.

“Sure, Nev,” Jack said.

“You’re humoring me.” Jack should’ve gone for a more convincing tone. “I’m dead serious about those endorphins.”

“I’ve been busy.” And bored. All the women he met seemed the same.

“Nobody should be that busy. Speaking of bitches, when’s the Evil Eve blowing in on her broom?”

They’d been speaking of bitches? Not in his conversation. Jack shook his head. “You supplied the itinerary forwarded by the travel agent. She’s expected the same time I was supposed to be here, Monday morning.”

“I’ll want a full report on the Avenger.”

Eve the Avenger. Or simply, Evil Eve as Neville preferred. She had a hell of a buzz going, not only in the company but in the industry. He’d studied her most recent projects. She was good, borderline brilliant.

“I’m looking forward to meeting her. I admire her work and respect her reputation.” He’d even pictured her a couple of times in his head. Tall, thin, distant, cool. Okay, maybe he even had a bit of a fantasy thing going for her.

“Courting the enemy. That is so Machiavellian,” Neville said.