Arm Candy. Jo Leigh
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team was top-notch, especially her assistant, Marla, which meant she could concentrate on putting out fires rather than concerning herself with the details. Unfortunately, the biggest fire she’d have to put out was in Owen’s pants.
To make matters worse, they were all staying at the Willows hotel for the duration, and Owen had booked her a suite right next to his own. Undoubtedly with connecting doors.
Something had to be done. Something that wouldn’t get her fired. Something that would show Owen once and for all that she wasn’t available.
The elevator stopped in the lobby and she nodded at the security guy as she headed for the street, her heels clicking on the marble floors. Once she was outside, she stood still for just a moment, letting the cool air of the early-fall evening refresh her. This was her favorite time of year, especially in New York. The whole city seemed more alive. The humidity and heat of summer had finally passed, and the promise of brilliant holidays shimmered just around the corner.
She stepped to the curb and hailed a taxi. In another ten minutes or so, she could take a nice warm shower, crawl between her Egyptian-cotton sheets and forget about Owen, makeup and ad campaigns until five-thirty, when it would all begin again.
The cabbie was mercifully silent, and Jessica leaned her head back on the torn seat. There was so much to do before the premiere, and she felt guilty about leaving work at all. Ridiculous, but nonetheless it was true. Her job was everything… No, that wasn’t true. Her career was everything. Nothing, not even Owen and his out-of-control libido, was going to stand in her way. She would be an executive VP before she reached thirty, or die trying.
But that meant fending off Owen’s advances until the campaign was over. The only thing that would keep Owen away was her having a boyfriend. But he knew she didn’t have one, and how in hell was she supposed to come up with one in the next week?
Her gaze flickered over the staccato pImages** flashing by the window as the taxi zoomed toward Chelsea. At the corner of Seventh Avenue and West Twenty-first, she saw a billboard for Angel’s Escort Service.
Jessica smiled as she stared, the entire plan falling into place with a sweet little plunk. An escort. Of course. She could say it was someone from Harvard, someone she’d been with before. It would be a simple enough thing to hire a man for the job, someone sophisticated enough to play the part, handsome enough to look good in the inevitable photos, and someone discreet enough not to blow the whistle on her.
Glen. Her best friend. Of course. God, why hadn’t she thought of this before? It was so obvious. The only person in the whole office who’d even heard of Glen was Marla, and Marla was the soul of discretion. She’d call him tomorrow. He’d love a week at the Willows. And Owen McCabe could take his advances and shove them right up his Armani.
“LOVE TO. Can’t.”
Jessica blinked, not wanting to believe the words. “Glen, no. Please. Maybe you don’t understand the seriousness of the situation. He’s relentless. He’s everywhere. I need you.”
“I know, Jess, but I just can’t, I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing, I’ll be in California for four of the days.”
“You can’t cancel? Reschedule?”
His deep baritone filled her ear and made her clutch the phone with a desperate fist. “No, I can’t.”
“Dammit, dammit, dammit. This was the perfect solution.”
“So, find someone else. Surely I’m not the only guy you know.”
“No, but you’re the only guy I know well enough to ask. Come on, Glen. You’re perfect.”
“Ah, you say the sweetest things.”
“How about a friend? You have friends. Lots of friends. I’ll pay. Well. But he’s got to be discreet. If anyone finds out…”
“I think I might know someone.”
“Really?” She grabbed her Mont Blanc, the pen she’d gotten as a graduation present from her aunt Lydia of Belgium, and twirled it between her fingers.
“Yeah, but I’ll have to convince him.”
“Do it. Please. I’m begging.”
“Hey, I’ll do my best.”
She could picture him sitting in his gallery, underneath the Jean-Michel Basquiat collage, wearing something fabulous that flattered his blue eyes and dark, dark hair. “Thank you.”
“Just a thought,” he said, “but have you tried telling your boss you’re not interested?”
She laughed, which she hadn’t done in quite some time. It wasn’t a good laugh, though, and she thought of the many, many times she’d told Owen straight out that she had no intention of stepping over the line with him. “He has selective hearing. And don’t tell me to file a suit. I’ve thought this through and I’m going to bail when the time is right.”
“I figured. You’re nothing if not thorough.”
“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”
“Make that thorough and paranoid.”
She smiled. “When this is all over, I’m going to buy you the most decadent meal in Manhattan. You say where and when.”
“Deal. Now let me go see what I can do.”
“Go!” She hung up, then leaned back in her chair, consciously relaxing her shoulders as she sank into the kidskin leather. Glen would come through, she had to believe that. If not, she’d just plain hire someone from an escort agency. She’d heard of it being done, although she’d never met anyone who’d used the service. But she hoped she didn’t have to resort to that. This was too important.
A knock on the door brought her back to the business at hand. “Come in.”
Marla Scott, Jessica’s assistant, walked in, her arms filled with magazines. She came over to the desk, put them down carefully, then rubbed her hands together. “I’ve marked all the ads. Check out The New Yorker. There’s a column raving about the budget and our conspicuous consumption. It’s great.”
The stack was huge, and this was only the beginning of the blitz that would blanket newspapers, radio and billboards across the city. By the end of the campaign there wouldn’t be a man, woman or child in the country who wouldn’t know about the New Dawn line.
Marla sat down in the chair across from Jessica. “So are you up to your elbows?”
“Yes, but talk anyway.”
“Okay,” she said, flicking a strand of her long red hair away from her face. “So I went out with this John person last night. The one from the Starbucks? Who got the last oat scone?”
Jessica remembered. Poor Marla. Shy as a butterfly, and so lonely. She was the best assistant Jessica had ever had, completely on top of the job, no nonsense, but also generous and funny, and she had the absolute worst luck with men. “He’s the tall one, right? NYU?”
Marla nodded. “Lookswise, scrumptious. Datewise, disastrous.”
“No.”
“Yes. He took me to a play. Off-off-Broadway. More like performance art, really, with this one woman complaining about her period while this other woman pretended to masturbate. It was very high on the yuck factor.”
“It wasn’t his fault it was terrible.”
“True. Very true.”
“So?”
“So it turns out the woman pretending is actually his ex-girlfriend, only by the time we’re backstage schmoozing with the cast and fans, they’re not so ex, if you know what I mean.”
“What?”
“Complete