The Playboy's Protegee

You truly are a crazy old coot. Do you really think forcing the two into some unhappy togetherness is going to spark romance? You’ll be lucky you get any type of merger out of this mess you’ve created.

A.S.

Jacobsen Enterprises Internal Memo

From: Joe Jacobsen, CEO

To: Andrew Sanders, president

Re: Harry/Jacobsen Stars

It’s an acquisition, and of course everything will work out. I have a gift, a natural talent, for both business and romance. Want to bet on it? Didn’t we say double or nothing on Harry?

J.J.

Jacobsen Enterprises Internal Memo

From: Andrew Sanders, president

To: Joe Jacobsen, CEO

Re: Harry/Jacobsen Stars

Here we go again.

A.S.

“LAST CALL FOR Flight 690 to LaGuardia.”

“Here,” Megan rushed up to the counter, her new designer blue Italian pumps already rubbing a blister on her heel. She handed the clerk her boarding pass and began digging for her driver’s license.

So much for being on time for her flight. She’d left home late, traffic through the city on Highway 70 had been terrible, and the only long-term parking had been in lot A, the farthest one away.

To make matters worse, her gate in Lambert International’s D-concourse had been all the way at the end, and she’d been practically running the whole way, including on the speed walks. It seemed that everyone had a flight out of the Saint Louis international airport at 8:00 a.m. on a Tuesday morning.

“Has your luggage been with you at all times?” the counter clerk asked.

“What? Oh yes,” Megan said, snapping her attention to the task at hand, getting on the plane. Within moments she was walking down the gangway to the Boeing 757 for the 882 mile flight to New York.

This was her first time flying as a requirement of her job. She’d always known Joe Jacobsen refused to hire charter flights or even purchase his own jet, so it surprised her to discover that instead of coach, her seat was in first class. The few times she’d ever flown before had all been in coach where she was lucky to even get beverage service.

“Welcome,” the flight attendant said as she took Megan’s boarding pass. “Second row, which is actually the first one on your left, the aisle seat. You’ll need to put your carry-on luggage under the seat. The overhead bins are full.”

“Thanks,” Megan said. She walked the few feet toward her seat.

“About time.”

“Oh. You.” Megan’s breath exhaled into a sigh of resignation as she saw Harry. He was already seated by the window, a partially full glass of orange juice in his left hand.

“Hello to you too, seatmate. Let me tell you how delighted and excited I am to share this two-hour flight with you.” His blue eyes narrowed. “But at least you followed my advice. New clothes. Nice.”

Her new V-neck silk blouse gaped open as she attempted to shove her carry-on bag under the seat. She wrestled with keeping her shirt closed while she tried to shove the bag into the small space.

“New underthings too?”

Great. So much for success with her shirt. He’d been staring at her breasts. She covered her mortification by remaining flippant. “You said new clothes. I bought new everything.”

She gave one last irritated shove and the carry-on bag slid into place. Her purse she shoved into the space in front of her. She took her seat and strapped herself in.

“Orange juice or V8?”

“Orange juice,” Megan replied, taking the plastic cup the flight attendant handed her. She let the cold juice roll over her tongue. Just what she needed.

Harry’s voice came out of nowhere. “I would have pegged you for a V8 girl. All those vegetables.”

“You would peg me for a lot of things that I’m not,” Megan said. She looked ahead at the wall in front of her. The fabric was an interesting pattern of blue. Please don’t let him be a chatty seatmate.

“So tell me then about the real Megan MacGregor. You know, the things that aren’t on your résumé.”

“Most of them are none of your business.” To her delight she realized that sitting in first class meant having an extra-wide armrest. At least she wouldn’t need to jostle with Harry for that.

Next to her, Harry shrugged. “We have two hours to kill.”

Megan heard the rumbling of the engine as the plane began to back away from the gate. “Didn’t you bring a magazine? Business paperwork? My briefcase is in my carry-on. I have plenty to do.”

“Like you’ll be able to pull that out and get to it. ’Course, the show was pretty good.”

She felt her face flush. There never was a dull moment with Harry, was there? “I have a magazine in my purse.”

“Let me guess. Vogue? Mademoiselle?”

From his tone she knew he was poking fun at her. “For your information it’s U.S. News and World Report. I also have a book.”

His blue eyes twinkled. “A romance?”

“No, a mystery by Sue Grafton.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think it would be romance. Although with your prim-and-proper facade you could secretly harbor stacks of those sweep-me-off-my-feet historicals at home. You know, the ones with the half-naked guy on the cover.”

“I do not,” Megan retorted. She preferred contemporary romance, not that she’d tell him that.

“Do you even have a romantic bone in your body?”

“Harry!”

“She calls my name.”

The plane began to accelerate down the runway, thrusting them back into their seats. So engrossed in their conversation, they’d missed the security lecture. She made a mental note to remember where the exits were, something she’d been taught to do on an Oprah show on surviving disasters. But Oprah hadn’t known about Harry Sanders. He could have been a show all by himself.