Billionaire's Contract Engagement(14)

Her small hands slid up his chest. It was like a heating element sliding  over his skin. She left a blazing trail of fierce need in her wake. His  entire body came alive, and all she'd done was touch him. Innocently.

They wound up around his neck and then her fingertips just delved into  the hair at his nape. He shuddered, and it was all he could do to retain  his tight hold on his control.

His body screamed at him to haul her over his shoulder and drag her  caveman-style to the bedroom. He'd rip off her clothes and spend the  night taking her over and over until they both succumbed to exhaustion.

His mind yelled at him to be careful. To take it slow. Not to push her so far away that she never returned.

It was that fear of driving her away permanently that finally pulled him back from the brink of insanity.

With great reluctance, he pulled back. His hands were still tangled up  in her hair, and he carefully extricated them from the heavy coil that  lay over her shoulders.

Her eyes were cloudy, a gorgeous mix of confusion and desire that had  him wanting to throw caution to the wind and continue his seduction.

"That," he whispered, "is what I've been wanting to do ever since I saw  you across a crowded room six months ago. Now you tell me this has  anything to do with Maddox Communications and Reese Enterprises."

Her hand fluttered to her mouth and she stared at him with shocked awareness.

"Oh, God, Evan. What are we going to do?"

He smiled gently and slowly pulled her hand away from her swollen lips.

"What we're going to do is get your pitch out of the way tomorrow morning. Whatever happens afterward, we take it as it comes."





Eight


There was no need for Celia to set her alarm. She never went to sleep.  She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her senses completely shattered  by something as simple as a kiss.

No. That kiss could never ever be called simple.

She'd thought to go over her pitch. Mentally replay everything she  wanted to say until it flowed seamlessly through her mind. But all she'd  been able to do was lay there and wonder how she was going to manage to  keep things with Evan on a strictly professional level.

He kissed like a dream.

He'd make love like a dream.
         

     



 
And the sick thing was she'd never find out.

She rolled over and buried her face in her pillow.

Celia, Celia.

The admonishment burned like acid on her tongue. She was walking a very  tight, very dangerous line. It was bad enough that she was here with  Evan. Sharing a suite with Evan. Her groan was swallowed up by the  pillow.

The least she could have done was insisted on a separate room, but that  wouldn't have gone far in convincing his family that they were happily  engaged.

Friendship. Okay, she could handle a friendship with Evan. She liked  him. He asked her to consider this a personal favor. As a friend. And  she'd forget the kiss. Forget that he had made his intention to make  love to her abundantly clear.

All she had to do was get through her presentation, go to a rehearsal  dinner, wedding and reception with Evan-as his fiancée-and then she  could go home and put him firmly back in his neat, tidy little corner.

She struggled out of bed, knowing it would take her the better part of  an hour to erase the look of someone who hadn't slept. Evan had ordered  room service to be brought up at eight, and she wanted plenty of time to  go over her notes again.

She purposely toned down her looks, choosing subtle makeup. She did  nothing to highlight her eyes, which were her best feature. And she  pulled her hair back into a tight knot and used hairspray to keep the  wispy tendrils from escaping. She wanted no distractions. No sizzling  looks. No temptation to do something utterly stupid.

To her immense relief, when she walked out of her bedroom, Evan was in  total business mode. He didn't stare at her like he was set to devour  her. He gave her a cursory glance and motioned for her to sit across  from him at the dining table where breakfast had already been served.

"We can eat and talk, or we can eat and then talk. Strictly up to you," he said when she took her seat.

"We can eat and talk," she said. "I'm not using props or anything, and I  planned it to be more conversational than a formal presentation."

He nodded approvingly. "Great. Let's dig in and get started then."

There was a moment of transition where they ate in silence before Celia  shut off everything but the task at hand. This was her career and she  knew she was damn good at it. She hadn't gotten to where she was and  survived the pitfalls without the ability to put her game face on in the  face of adversity.

"I studied your last ad campaign, and I believe you're missing a huge segment of your target audience."

He blinked, set his fork down and stared across at her. "Okay, you have my attention."

"Perhaps I should put it another way. I think you're not targeting the right audience. You're missing a huge opportunity."

She paused for effect and then segued into her spiel.

"Right now you appeal to the sports crowd. The guy who jogs. The woman  who goes to the gym. The person who cares about staying in shape. You're  all about functionality. The kids who play sports. The guys who play  racquetball at the club. The casual basketball game on the weekends."

Evan nodded.

"Then there are the people, like me, who are allergic to physical activity."

He snorted and sent an appraising look over her body.

She ignored him and continued on.

"These are the people who watch sports. They're tuned in to every game.  The players. The teams. They run the gambit from the fanatic to the  casual observer. They're the people who will buy your sportswear not  because they're going to worry over the functionality. They don't care.  They want to look cool. They want to immerse themselves in the aura of  the sports world. You're a brand, a label. It's a status symbol."

Her excitement mounted with every word. He was listening intently. She had him.

"So you do dual marketing. You go after the die-hard fitness enthusiast  with the sweaty workout commercials. The driven athlete who's going to  be the best and wearing your brand the entire time."

Again she paused to gauge his reaction, and he was leaning forward, his brow creased in concentration.

"Then you go after the men and the women and the kids who want your  clothing and your shoes because they look good. Because they make them  feel athletic without ever lifting a finger. You show them someone  looking cool and sophisticated in your clothing. You show them it's hip  to have Reese Wear. They can be average, everyday Joes and still know  what it feels like to be a star."

Then she went for the kill shot. Her excitement mounted because she knew  he was interested. This had nothing to do with personal attraction. He  was all business right now and his eyes gleamed with enthusiasm.         

     



 

"And the person you show to both of these groups, the man you have doing  the sweaty, driven shoots and the cool, suave commercials is Noah  Hart."

Evan's eyes widened a fraction, and then he sat back in his seat. "Wait a minute."

She waited, trying valiantly to hide her smug grin. This would be the fun part.

"You're telling me you can get me Noah Hart?" He didn't even wait for  her to reply. "Companies have been after Noah Hart ever since he entered  the major leagues."

"Before," she said airily. "They wanted him out of college."

"Whatever. The point is, the man has never agreed to an endorsement deal. What makes you think you can change his mind?"

"And if I told you he's willing to talk to you?"

"No way," Evan breathed.

"It'll cost you."

"Hell, it would be worth it!" His eyes narrowed again. "He'll talk to me. You've already been in contact with him?"

"I might have mentioned the possibility of you doing a new ad campaign."

"And he's interested?"

"He'll talk to you. I provided him research, which means you passed the  first round of scrutiny with him. He's a hard guy. You land him and  it'll be huge. Not only will you have a kick-ass ad campaign, but you'll  also be the guy who signed Noah Hart."

"I'd want exclusivity," Evan said quickly.

"You'd have to be prepared to pay for that privilege," Celia pointed  out. She wasn't about to tell Evan that exclusivity or not, the chances  of Noah agreeing to do another deal with someone else was slim to none.  The man simply wasn't motivated by money.

"Okay, let's forget Noah Hart for the moment. I like your ideas, Celia. I  mean, the average Joe has never escaped my notice, but you're right.  I've never gone after him in marketing. My commercials are always about  the drive to succeed. I talk to the athlete in all of us."

"Which I've just pointed out doesn't exist in everyone," she said drily.

"Yes, you're right. Completely. The junior-high kid trying to look cool. Huge market there that I've yet to tap."

"Most of my ideas are about how to structure television commercials,  Internet advertising and print media to target all segments of the  population from the die-hard sports and fitness enthusiast to Suzy  Homemaker who just wants a comfortable pair of tennis shoes. We'd speak  separately to teens, young adults all the way up to the retired folks."