It Takes a Rebel

She stopped to straighten a pillow on the sofa—living in an open loft apartment meant everything had to be in its place. “Hi. Did you get my message?”

“Yes. Do you want me to come over?”

They hadn’t slept together in weeks, but she simply wasn’t up to his lengthy, methodical foreplay rituals tonight, not with work issues weighing on her mind. “I’m really tired, and my day is packed tomorrow.”

“Oh, okay.” Agreeable, as always. “By the way, Al asked me to sit in on the morning meeting with the local ad agency. I hope that’s okay with you.”

She’d suspected as much—her father was gathering supporters, and he knew Heath was anxious to gain his favor. Alex pursed her mouth, weighing her response. “That’s why I called, although I personally think the meeting will be a waste of time. I paid the agency a surprise visit today and the owner is a Neanderthal.”

“Hmm. Did you tell your father?”

“Sure, but he insists on going through with this charade because of a promise he made to the former owner of the agency.”

“Well.” Heath hesitated, always a little nervous when she disagreed with her father. “I guess it’ll be a short meeting.”

“Uh-huh,” she agreed as she moved into the tiny blue and chrome kitchen nook situated in a corner. “I’m sure you’ll agree with me wholeheartedly once you meet this character.” She recorked the wine bottle and returned it to a shelf in the refrigerator door. “We’ll have to stick together to convince Daddy that we need to elevate the quality of the firms we do business with. You know—being judged by the company we keep, and all that jazz.”

“Okay,” he agreed, but he sounded as if he were sitting on a fence row, casting glances on either side.

She tore off a paper towel and wiped a ring of moisture gathered on the tile counter where the bottle had sat. “Maybe we can have dinner tomorrow night.”

“Great! I’ll make reservations at Gerrard’s.”

Her favorite—Heath was such a gentleman. For a few seconds, she reconsidered having him come over, then decided guiltily that she needed the sleep more than the physical attention. “Gerrard’s sounds wonderful. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

After disconnecting the call, Alex removed the pins from her hair and sighed, feeling restless and antsy for some reason she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She grabbed a magazine and her half-full glass, then fell into her white over-stuffed chair-and-a-half and propped her feet on the matching ottoman. With the pull of a delicate chain, she turned on a Tiffany-style floor lamp and fingered the large porcelain bead at the end of the chain, studying the intricate design she had memorized long ago.

The lamp had been a moving-in gift from her mother when Alex had first bought the spacious loft condo. She wasn’t sure which one of them was more excited with the find, but then her mother had passed away suddenly, before they’d had a chance to decorate the unique space together. Alex knew it sounded corny, but when she sat under the lamp, she felt as if her mother’s spirit glowed all around her. She sipped from her glass, and idly fingered the pages of the magazine, subconsciously absorbing the latest styles, colors and accessories. The store carried that line of coats…that line of separates…that line of belts.

Jack Stillman…Jack Stillman. Alex laid her head back and frowned at the antique tin ceiling she’d painted a luminous pewter. Why did his name tickle the back of her memory? Perhaps it was just one of those names…

A frenzied knock on her door interrupted her thoughts. She knew who it was even before she pushed herself to her feet and padded across the white wood floor, but she checked the peephole just in case. Lana Martina, friend, fool, and neighbor, peered back at her, her arched white eyebrows high and promising.

Alex’s spirits lifted instantly—Lana was a full-fledged, flat-out, certified nut who just happened to have taken a liking to quiet, scholarly Alex while they were in high school. Within the halls of their private Catholic school, Lana was a walking scandal, her pleated skirt always a little too short, her polished nails always a little too long. But her incredible intellect had kept the nuns at bay. In fact, Alex had met her on the debate team, and while the girls couldn’t have come from more different backgrounds, they had formed a lasting friendship.

Alex swung open the door, smiling when she saw Lana held two pint-sized cartons of ready-to-spread cake frosting. “Mocha cocoa with artificial flavoring?” her friend asked, reading from the labels. “Or fantasy fudge with lots of nasty preservatives?”

“Fantasy fudge,” Alex said, standing aside to allow Lana in. Her friend was as slim as a mannequin, but her personality needed as much room as possible.

“I brought utensils,” Lana said, holding up two silver dessert spoons. “It’s such a pain to get chocolate out from under your fingernails.”

Alex took the proffered spoon and carton of icing, then followed Lana to the sitting area. Having performed this ritual countless times, they assumed their respective corners of the comfy red couch, Alex’s feet curled beneath her, Lana sitting cross-legged.

“Nice silver,” Alex observed, studying the intricate pattern on the end of the heavy spoon.

“It belongs to Vile Vicki.” Lana ripped the foil covering off the top of her carton.

“You stole her silver?”

“Borrowed,” Lana corrected, dipping in her spoon and shoveling in a mound of chocolate big enough to choke two men. “She’s such a witch,” she said thickly.

Alex smiled, then spooned in a less impressive amount of the creamy fudge icing, allowing the sweet, chocolaty flavor to melt over her tongue before she responded. “She can’t be that bad.”

“You don’t live with her,” Lana insisted. “The woman is simply the most self-absorbed, tedious, annoying female I’ve ever met.”

“There’s Gloria the Gold Digger,” Alex said, pointing her spoon.

“At least she was smart enough to marry your father.”

“True,” Alex conceded with a sigh. Hopes that she and her father would become closer after her mother died had been dashed by Gloria Bickum Georgeson Abrams. The woman had brought a disposable pan of the most hideous macaroni salad to their home after her mother’s funeral, and had been underfoot ever since.

“I swear, Alex, I’m going to kill her.”

“Gloria?”

“No, Vicki. Do you know what she did?”

“I can’t guess.”

“Guess.”

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can.”

Alex sighed. “Borrowed your suede coat again?”

“She ruined it. No, worse.”

“Forgot to pay a bill?”

“I had to flash the cable man so he wouldn’t cut us off. But it’s worse.”

“What?”

“Guess.”

“Lana—”

“She’s dating Bill Friar.”

Alex swallowed. “Oh.” Lana was the most popular, outgoing woman she knew, and her looks were extraordinary, if offbeat—classic bone structure and violet-colored eyes allowed her to pull off spiky bleach-white hair. But Lexington men did not stand in line for eccentric-looking women with an I.Q. that put her on the Mensa mailing list. Bill Friar had seemed to be the exception—at first. Then the big phony had broken her friend’s big heart.

“Yeah, ‘oh,’ is right.” Lana shoveled in another huge bite. “She has the nerve to rub it in my face.”

Alex felt a pang for her friend. “Are they getting serious?”

“No, she’s dating a dozen other guys. She only went out with him to get back at me.”