A SURE THING? Read online

  "Uh-huh. And when's the last time you took that leap?" Kate asked, moving in for the kill.

  "Okay, okay, it's been a while." Yeah, like nine months, three weeks and seventeen days. "But I can sum up my lack of interest in two words: Aaron Winston."

  "That was months ago. And just because your last boyfriend turned out to have major control issues, doesn't mean that would happen with your next boyfriend."

  "Sure, Aaron was the last one, but what about his predecessors Carl, Mike, Kevin, Rob … the list goes on. It seems as if every man I date has control issues. It's like I'm this big magnet—" she spread her arms to demonstrate "—that only attracts men who want to smother, change and control me. Well, that type and gay men. Unfortunately neither one works for me." When Kate appeared about to argue, Jilly plunged on, "Look, I'll admit I'm paranoid, but given my track record with men can you blame me?"

  Kate heaved out a sigh. "I suppose not."

  "Believe me, I'd love to have the sort of relationship that you share with Ben."

  "And if the right guy came along…?"

  "I'd grab him like that." She snapped her fingers. "But I'm not holding my breath for Mr. Fabulous to walk by. And besides, I'm way too busy at work to spend time looking for this fictitious man."

  "Excellent. That means you'll find him soon. The right guy always comes along when you're not looking."

  "Sure. If you say so."

  "I do. Believe me, when you least anticipate it, something unexpected will happen and—poof!—your world will be turned upside down."

  Their waiter delivered their food, and having skipped lunch, Jilly immediately applied her chopsticks to her sautéed shrimp and broccoli.

  "I wish there was someone at my office I could introduce you to," Kate said, filling their small, white, porcelain teacups with fragrant brew, "but they're all either married, gay, nearing retirement age or as mature as preschoolers."

  "Hmmm. I thought all men fell into one of those categories."

  Kate laughed. "Only ninety-nine percent. It's trying to find that elusive one percent that's the challenge. But Ben is proof that they're out there."

  "Well, I don't have the time right now to devote to searching out the one remaining good apple in the barrel. Men require too much time and attention, both of which I'm currently out of." She shook her head. "Whoever said women were high maintenance was definitely a man. Where are all the guys I read about in Cosmo who like independent women who don't cling to them like vines? I certainly haven't met any." She stabbed a shrimp with the end of her chopstick. "Sure, they say that's what they want, but after a few dates, it seems as if guys develop expectations—like that I'll be at their beck and call, and that they can take charge of my life. Then they get testy if I need to cancel plans because of work."

  "Amen, sister," Kate said. "The majority of men I met before Ben required nonstop ego stroking, and seemed to crave almost slavish devotion—not that they necessarily planned to return that slavish devotion, and not that I'd wanted them to, anyway—but they wanted it just the same."

  "Yup. And the minute they realize my job is my top priority and I'm not willing to rearrange my entire schedule, or change my hair or fashion preferences or political beliefs or whatever to suit their every need, interest fizzles—on both sides. I don't want or need a man to take care of me, and I sure don't want a man who thinks he should be in charge all the time. I don't want the mess my mom found herself in to ever happen to me, which is why it's so scary that I almost fell into that trap with Aaron. I've worked too long and hard to make certain I can take care of myself—financially and emotionally."

  "Oh, I agree," Kate said, popping a water chestnut into her mouth. "But—trust me on this—it's very nice to have someone else take care of you physically for a change."

  Jilly shook her head at Kate's devilish grin. "You're killing me, you know that? Good grief, you practically have little bluebirds of happiness encircling your head like a wreath. If I didn't love you so much and weren't so happy for you, I'd have to bring you outside and slap the crap out of you for being so content and in love and sexually satisfied."

  Kate laughed. "Well, maybe you'll meet the man of your dreams at Chateau Fontaine this weekend."

  "Not likely. This is going to be strictly business."

  "Just keep an open mind—in case Mr. Right happens to knock on your door." She raised her porcelain cup and fixed Jilly with a no-nonsense stare. "Promise?"

  Jilly briefly looked toward the ceiling, but tapped the rim of her cup against Kate's. "All right, I promise. But the problem here is that because you're in love, you think everyone should be in love."

  "Everyone should be," Kate agreed without hesitation. "Falling in love doesn't mean you're relinquishing all control or losing your independence." She reached out and squeezed Jilly's hand. "It doesn't have to be that way, Jilly. I used to think that, too—until I met Ben. There's a big difference between compromising your dreams and ambitions, and sharing them with someone. You'll understand when you meet the right guy."

  Looking at Kate's earnest expression, at the happiness that shone from her in almost visible rays, Jilly felt a pang of something resonate through her that she couldn't put a name to. Envy? Want? Probably. Who wouldn't want the sort of love Kate had with Ben?

  "Well, until the right guy toddles along, my time and energy are focused on my career. And winning the ARC account would be a major coup."

  "Speaking of which," Kate said, scooping more fried rice onto her plate, "I wonder what Matt Davidson will say when you land the account."

  An odd tingle, no doubt indigestion brought on by the mention of Matt's name, fluttered through Jilly. "He'll probably claim in that infuriating, superior way of his that he could have landed the account in half the time, and with a better campaign. He thinks he's 'all that' because he brought in a big account while I was out with the flu. He's the most arrogant, ambitious, annoying, cutthroat, doesn't - give - a - damn - about - anyone - but - himself person I've ever had the misfortune to meet."

  Grrrr. The mere thought of Matt Davidson raised her hackles. He'd earned her enmity right from the beginning when he'd waltzed into Maxximum and promptly landed Strattford Furniture, an account she'd worked on for weeks. When she'd confronted him, demanding an explanation for stealing her account, he'd bristled, denying he'd ever do such a thing, claiming that Walter Strattford was a long-standing friend of his family and had sought him out. After Matt's story had proven true, even though she was still irritated, Jilly had attempted to offer an olive branch, but clearly Matt wanted no part of her peace offering. He seemed to have singled her out as his main competition. As Jilly wasn't about to let him usurp her hard-won position at Maxximum, the line in the sand had been drawn.

  Unfortunately, the part of her that demanded complete honesty had to admit—albeit grudgingly—that Matt Davidson's creative abilities were pretty impressive. Okay, incredibly impressive. And as if he wasn't already irritating enough, the guy had the nerve to be good-looking to boot. With his dark hair and deep blue eyes, Matt Davidson definitely wasn't hard to look at.

  Still, she had no intention of turning her back on someone as openly ambitious as Matt. Advertising was dog eat dog, and she had no intention of getting devoured.

  "Well, he might be your biggest rival and a pain in the butt," Kate said, yanking her from her reverie, "but based on that glimpse I caught of him that one time when you pointed him out, he's very cute."

  "Yeah. Cute like a rattlesnake. You saw him at a distance. The closer you get, the less attractive he is, believe me." Her inner voice chanted something that sounded suspiciously like liar, liar, pants on fire, but she wrapped a muzzle on the pesky voice, and forced her annoying coworker from her thoughts.

  Her career was priority one. And with hard work and dedication, she had a feeling that this weekend at Chateau Fontaine was going to bring her everything she wanted.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

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  Stopping under the columned portico that stood in front of Chateau Fontaine's curved driveway, Matt shifted his Lexus into Park and gratefully exited the vehicle. His legs were stiff from six straight hours of sitting, and his ass felt like it weighed eight hundred pounds. For the amount of time he'd been in the car, he could have driven to damn Canada.

  Of course, not arriving at Chateau Fontaine until the middle of the freakin' night was his own fault. What stroke of insanity had possessed him to attempt to drive out to the winery? He'd known there'd be traffic—hell, the Long Island Expressway wasn't called the World's Largest Parking Lot for nothing—but he'd figured that by not leaving the city until almost 8:00 p.m. he'd miss most of the congestion. Unfortunately he hadn't factored in the holiday shoppers on the road. Nor had he predicted the overturned tractor-trailer that had closed all eastbound lanes, clogging the roadway for miles. Or the snow that had started falling several hours ago.

  After accepting a claim check from the valet and removing his black leather overnight bag from the trunk, Matt circled through the revolving glass door then crossed the cream marble floor, heading toward the registration desk as if it were an oasis in the desert. Damn, but he was tired. His eyes felt gritty, he was thirsty, and the energy provided by the Snickers bar he'd eaten at his desk for dinner was long gone. But at this point he was even too tired to eat.

  "Hell, I'm even too tired for sex," he muttered. Now there was a sentence he didn't think he'd ever hear himself say.

  All he wanted was to crawl into bed and pass out until his wake-up call. After pulling an all-nighter last night working up ideas for ARC Software, then suffering through a long, frustrating, headache-inducing day, topped off with the drive from hell, he was finished.

  He'd wanted to check in early, to give himself a chance to relax and look over his notes before his breakfast meeting with Jack Witherspoon, but his crazy day had sunk those plans like a bowling ball tossed in a lake. He'd spoken to Jack this morning and since neither knew exactly what time they'd be arriving at the resort, they'd agreed it was best to meet first thing in the morning instead of tonight. Good thing, as Matt would have had to cancel.

  When he arrived at the highly polished beige granite counter, he was greeted by a young woman whose name tag announced she was Maggie. Maggie appeared way too perky for the middle of the night.

  Summoning a tired smile, Matt gave her his confirmation number by handing her the fax he'd received that morning from Maxximum's travel agent.

  "Oh, yes, Mr. Davidson, you're all set," Maggie said with a friendly grin. She handed him a key card and a pamphlet. "This explains all our amenities. Take the elevators on your left to the third floor. Room 312 will be at the end of the hallway."

  Room 312 sounded like Utopia, and the only amenity he needed right now was a bed. "I'd like to have a wakeup call, please, for six-thirty." That would give him plenty of time to relax and look over his notes before meeting with Jack Witherspoon at nine. He did his best thinking in the morning, and he was too exhausted to contemplate work now. What he needed now was sleep. He just hoped he'd find his bed before he passed out.

  Nodding his thanks, Matt hoisted his overnight bag onto his shoulder and headed across the lobby, his tired gaze skimming over the lush, yet understated neoclassic decor. Christmas wreaths decorated with colorful glass ornaments hung on the walls, and long, fragrant boughs of pine draped the mantel. The entire back wall was glass and, he presumed, overlooked the vineyards. Vaulted ceilings, supported by marble columns wrapped in holiday twinkle lights, dotted the perimeter of the lobby. Lush foliage, planted in huge urns painted with scenes of pastoral vineyards, lent the room a gardenlike atmosphere. Thick rugs, their borders decorated with grapes, vines and leaves, were scattered around the room, as were plush, inviting chairs. An ivory grand piano stood majestically in the corner, near a curving staircase that led up to a loft area. There, a brightly lit Christmas tree glowed with jewel-tone lights.

  He dozed off standing up in the elevator, awakening when his head bobbed forward with a sudden jerk as the car halted at the third floor and the doors slid open. Squinting his tired eyes against the bright light illuminating the hallway, he made his way down the leaf-patterned carpet to room 312.

  After slipping the key card into the slot, he turned the brass handle when the green light flashed. He gratefully entered the room, closing the door behind him, and welcomed the soothing darkness after the irritatingly bright hallway light.

  Bed, bed, bed his exhausted cells chanted. He plopped his overnight bag on the floor, then quickly removed his overcoat. Eyelids drooping, he toed off his dress shoes, then undressed with clumsy haste, tossing his clothing haphazardly over his bag, vowing to hang up everything in the morning when he could think straight. Stripped down to his boxer briefs, he stumbled in the dark toward the bed. With the small part of his brain that was still barely functioning, he noted the lumpy disarray of the covers on the far side of the bed. Humph. This might be a swanky resort, but the housekeeping left a lot to be desired. But who the hell cared? There was a pillow with his name on it only seconds away.

  A long, satisfied sigh escaped him as he eased beneath the covers, and let his groggy head settle against the cushy pillow. The limp relaxation brought on by utter exhaustion closed in on him. Floating in a hazy state that bordered on just dropping off to sleep, he turned onto his side, and stretched out his arm.

  His hand landed on something delightfully warm and silky. Satin sheets. A low hum of appreciation rumbled in his throat. Nice. His hand cruised upward, some deep recess of his fried brain vaguely appreciating the smooth texture. Soft. Smooth and curvy. Like a woman's breast.

  His fingers gently kneaded the plump softness, and as sleep overcame him, his imagination conjured up a rosy nipple beading beneath his palm. He drew in a contented breath. Oooooh, baby. Yeah. This was some kind of fabulous bed. He shifted closer to the enticing softness, brushing his body against the delightful warmth. Definitely gotta get me a bed like this…

  A low, throaty, sexy moan sounded, and the plump softness beneath his hand shifted. Warm breath touched his shoulder, and for one heavenly moment it felt as if feminine curves pressed against him. Before his brain could fully register the delightful sensation, a sharp gasp sounded next to his ear. What the—?

  His eyeballs weren't even all the way open when he was pelted with a barrage of thrashing limbs and a slew of threats.

  "Get away from me, you bastard," came a female voice filled with both fury and fright, "or I'll hand you your severed gonads on a platter."

  Holy crap! That chased away all remnants of sleep like a bucket of ice water over the head, and he quickly cupped his privates.

  The next instant light flooded the room, and he blinked against the sudden brightness. Looking up, he found himself staring at a vision of dark-haired fury. She stood on the mattress, chest heaving, eyes filled with a combination of fright and a lethal expression that made it clear his gonads were indeed in danger. She snatched up a paperback book from the nightstand and raised it above her head as if to hurl it at him. She looked like a one-woman kung fu, Swat team, fully prepared to kick his ass. "What the hell do you…?" Her furious question trailed off, and she narrowed her eyes. "Matt?"

  Matt? She knew him? He uncupped himself and struggled to sit up. "Yeah. Who are…?" His struggling abruptly ended, and he stilled as a flash of disbelieving recognition hit him like a two-by-four to the head. He actually felt his eyeballs goggle. "Jilly?"

  They stared at each other for several long seconds, silence stretching between them. Matt wasn't certain what was preventing her from speaking, but he sure as hell knew what had rendered him speechless.

  The woman standing on the bed was most certainly Jilly Taylor, but except for the familiar facial features, nothing about this tousle-haired female resembled the Ice Princess.

  Good God, this raven-haired temptress could ignite a bonfire in a rainstorm. Long, silky strands of midnight hair fell across h
er shoulders and down her back in tumbled disarray. Her golden-brown eyes, devoid of her rectangular glasses, appeared huge and startled. Crimson stained her cheeks, and her full lips were moist and parted.

  Unlike the ultraconservative Jilly Taylor he knew, nothing about this woman screamed prim or proper. Smooth, creamy skin—a lot of it—was showcased by the black satin tank top she wore. His stupefied gaze skimmed over her delicate collarbone, focused on the way her chest rose and fell with her rapid breaths, then lowered to the swell of her breasts and the visible outline of her erect nipples pushing against the material. His fingers involuntarily clenched, vividly recalling the plump softness of what he now realized had been her breast filling his palm.

  His gaze tracked lower still, over the several inches of flat, toned abdomen left bare between the end of her tank and the top of her low-rise black, lacy panties. And her legs … holy hell, the sight of those long, shapely bare legs nearly stopped his heart. She looked like she'd stepped off the pages of a Victoria's Secret catalog—right after a bout of hot sex.

  Damn. No more need to wonder what was hiding under all those straitlaced suits she wore—not that he'd ever wondered, of course. But now he knew. And he knew not only what she looked like, but also what she felt like. Jilly possessed a warm, soft, womanly, fantasy-inducing body that was rapidly supplying a number of unwanted, ill-advised fantasies. Great. Just what he needed—a budding erection.

  Forcing himself to concentrate on his annoyance rather than her nearly naked body, he cleared his throat—twice—to find his voice. "What are you doing here?"

  She planted her hands on her hips and raised her brows, looking down on him from her vantage point like an avenging warrior. "Actually, I think the question is what are you doing here—besides breaking into my room and scaring me to death? Is this some kind of sick joke?"