One Night Standards(10)

There was a long pause. “Could you describe your bed to me?”

Her breath caught. “My bed?”

“’Cause I’ve been picturing you in it for the past hour and a half. I’ve got you down…but I’m wondering if the bed is going to match my mental picture of it.”

She felt a flush cover her body, culminating in heat between her legs. She cursed herself for it. “It’s a queen-size bed,” she said. “The sheets are jersey…T-shirt material. Very soft and smooth.” She ran her free hand over them, feeling the texture beneath her fingertips. “Very…inviting.”

She could almost hear his body tense. “Really,” he drawled.

“I’ve also got a pretty thick comforter. Lilac colored. And about a million pillows.” She let that sink in. “I’m lying on top of the covers, incidentally.”

He groaned, and she couldn’t help it…she grinned. “Thanks,” he said, and his tone sounded a bit strangled. “That completes the picture nicely.”

“Just curious, but what do you picture I’m wearing?”

“Well, I don’t know what kind of clothes you own,” he said, “so I have to admit, I’m picturing you naked.”

Her nipples tightened. “Right back atcha,” she said.

“Easy enough,” he said. “I sleep au naturel, anyway.”

She felt her heart start to hammer. “I remember how hot you get when you sleep,” she whispered, then tried to laugh, to lighten the mood. “I could’ve toasted marshmallows.”

“I remember how you feel when you sleep,” he said, his voice low and warming. “Smelling your hair. Tucking you up against me.”

“I remember how you touched me,” she said, and absently smoothed her own hand over the silky material of her nightgown. “I can practically still feel your hands on me.”

She heard him take a deep breath, and she could almost whimper with wanting him.

“I have to see you again,” he said, his voice ragged.

She closed her eyes. Just like that, reality crashed in on her.

“Mark, we can’t,” she reminded him. “You know why we can’t.”

“But I’ve been thinking about that,” he said slowly. “We’re two fully grown, conscious, conscientious adults. I don’t see why the one thing has to influence the other.”

She felt the delicious heat that had been crawling through her dissipate, like a cloud of steam. “You mean, you don’t see why our having sex should be at all related to our being business competitors?” she said, her voice laced with irony. “You’re absolutely right. It’s not like we’ll be going at it on the conference table at Marion & Co., after all.”

“You can make fun of me all you like,” he drawled, “but it’s true. What business is it of theirs, if we’re involved?”

“Involved,” she said slowly, wondering at the word. Was that what they were?

“All I’m saying is, I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m starting to realize I don’t want to.”

Sophie sighed.

He had a history of charming people, she remembered. She also remembered the way he’d offered her a ride—and then had tried to pump her for information.

She wanted to trust him, wasn’t sure she should.

“I think about you, too,” she admitted.

“Well, then…”

“And then I think about how important all this is. To my company. And my business.”

She heard him sigh over the line. “There’s more to life than business, Sophie.”

“I know that,” she said, in a little snappish voice, then she sighed. “So—are you going to ask to be reassigned?”

“What?” The shocked tone of voice would’ve made her laugh if it weren’t so painful. “Why would I do that?”

“To make sure there’s nothing in our way,” she said, then as gently as possible, she repeated, “there’s more to life than business, after all.”

A slow pause, then another sigh. “Point taken.”

She felt a little dip in her stomach. Belatedly, she knew it was disappointment.

“We’d better not do this again,” she said softly. “This…or, you know. The other.”

“You’re probably right.” And the regret was obvious in his voice. “Good night, Sophie Jones.”

“Good night, Mark McMann,” she said, then clicked off her phone.

It was the smart idea, she knew that for a fact.

So why do I feel like crying?



MARK HADN’T SPOKEN TO SOPHIE since her late-night phone call, two weeks prior. He’d agreed to keep things professional. She was right: they both did have a lot at stake. But this was professional—this was business. Mrs. Marion had called both rival companies and invited them to a dinner meeting in San Francisco.

“I realize this is unorthodox, but I wanted to meet with all of you and lay down some of the parameters of the competition, as it were,” Mrs. Marion said, sitting at the head of the table with all the confidence and authority of a Mafia don. Or donna, Mark thought.

Mark sat there with his boss, Simone, and Carol, who had not been won over by his persistence and charm despite his concerted efforts. In fact, she openly resented the fact that Mark was there at all.

Too bad, he thought, sending her a polite, sweet-tea-and-Southern-charm smile that she returned weakly. In the end, this account’s mine, sweetie.

Then he looked across the table, and his smile faltered.

The only person representing Diva Nation was Sophie, putting her at a distinct disadvantage. She was flanked by competitors, and while she wasn’t exactly buckling under the strain, it was obvious that she was uncomfortable. She was assiduously avoiding looking at him, for one thing…. Something Mark was afraid the rest of the table would pick up on.

Not that he and Sophie had done anything, he assured himself. Not that they were going to do anything. That thought brought a bit more regret than comfort. But if she kept acting weird, he was afraid they’d assume that something had already happened. Especially after Simone’s parting comment to him after the last trade show.

“The competition will have two phases, one at the National Cosmetics Trade Show in Las Vegas, and the second here in Marion & Co.’s home city of San Francisco,” Mrs. Marion said smoothly. “While presentation is going to be important, I want emphasis on knowledge of the target market. And I want to be wowed, ladies and gentleman. If I’m not…” She shrugged, her demure smile hiding what Mark knew were barracuda-sharp instincts. “No one has to win this competition, necessarily. Your two companies are the best of the best, as far as I’m concerned, for what we’re trying to accomplish. But if I don’t get something that will knock my socks off, then I won’t award the contract to either of you. Those are the ground rules.”

Mark watched as that sank in with his colleagues. Sophie nodded somberly, causing one of the tendrils of hair held back by a barrette to fall forward, curling slightly around her jawline.

He felt his mouth go dry, and quickly took a sip of water. Stay focused, McMann. She’s a wonderful woman, no question—but business is business.

It wasn’t fair, though. It simply wasn’t fair.

“Trimera has been doing business with companies like yours for the past thirty years,” Carol chimed in, her tone just this side of smug. “I’m sure we’ll be able to present you with something satisfactory.”

Sophie’s gaze darted to Carol, the slightest hint of a frown crossing her face before she smoothed her expression out.

Mrs. Marion caught that, as well. “And what about you, Sophie? This is a big step for your company. Think you’re up to the challenge?”

Sophie didn’t answer immediately, studying the broiled chicken on her plate instead of speaking. When she did, her voice was calm and clear. “I think that sometimes, big companies can be out of touch with what people really want,” she answered carefully. “I know that we’re small…but I also know that we’re much closer to the target. Being small gives us a distinct advantage.”

Mark thought he heard Carol scoff quietly on his right. Simone simply smiled, even though her eyes were twinkling shrewdly. “Of course, that depends on the target. If you’re targeting a more youthful market—I’m guessing you’re in your twenties, if you don’t mind my speculating on your age?” She didn’t even pause for Sophie’s response to that gibe. “You’ll understand that younger generation. You’ll be able to make the wild and crazy marketing that they seem to plug into.”

“Although,” Carol added, “Marion & Co. has a slightly older and more affluent demographic.”

Bam. Like a one-two punch, Simone and Carol had managed to imply that Sophie was too young and inexperienced to handle this sort of account, and that she could only market to teenagers who shopped in supermarkets. It was like watching a contract hit.

Sophie didn’t even bother concealing her frown this time. “That’s not what I meant—”

“And you do have a lot of novelty products,” Carol added sweetly. “Those really are adorable. What’s that one…your Caliente lip gloss? Very trendy.”