As You Like It. Lori Wilde
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the table at Marissa. The man was a supreme egotist with a sleazy streak a mile wide. He fancied she wanted him as much as he wanted her and he was her chief competition for the promotion. Unfortunately, while Dash was a royal pain in the keester, he was also damn good at his job.
Marissa ignored him and focused her total attention on Francine. Baxter and Jackson made up thirty percent of Pegasus’s entire business and since premature labor had forced the current account director to leave her job three weeks earlier than planned, the sex institute’s account was now up for grabs. Whoever ended up managing that piece of the pie stood an excellent chance of becoming the next director.
And Marissa wanted the position more than she wanted to breathe.
For three years she’d been gunning for the job ever since she’d made the switch from systems liaison to marketing and joined the small but up-and-coming Manhattan software company with a very promising future. To that end, she’d done everything in her power to cultivate the right image.
Her goal?
Ooze success and convince everyone around her that she was a winner. If she looked and acted the part, sooner or later she was bound to get what she wanted.
Marissa kept her blond hair cut in a sleek, easy-to-manage, chin-length bob. She spent an hour a day at the gym to maintain the size eight figure she’d had since high school. She knew she wasn’t a ravishing beauty with her too-small eyes and her too-wide forehead but she had good cheekbones and she pampered her complexion with a plethora of beauty creams and potions.
And even though it required running up her credit cards a bit, she wore exquisitely tailored suits and look-at-me leather stilettos. Clothes might make the man, but in Marissa’s estimation the right footwear—from Manolo Blahnik to Jimmy Choo to Dolce and Gabbana—made the woman. Not that she was a true shoe-aholic in the vein of some women. It wasn’t the shoes themselves that set Marissa’s heart aflutter, but rather what those high-fashion accessories whispered to her.
See, Daddy, I am a winner.
So far, her attention to detail had paid off. Her last year’s productivity bonus equaled a fourth of her yearly salary. But her success only whet her appetite for bigger and better things. If she got the promotion and made a huge splash as Pegasus’s account director, she would enhance her cache with larger software firms. Marissa was determined to eventually become the most respected software-marketing director on the East Coast.
“Could you please elaborate about this whole whimsy thing, Francine? I want to make absolutely sure I have a handle on your proposed project.” Dash grinned at the Baxter and Jackson clinician, putting all four of his cheeky dimples into the smile.
Suck-up. Marissa flashed him the message with her eyes.
Don’t you know it, he flashed back.
“Why, certainly, Dash. Our extensive two-year study group has shown that a sense of fun is the key to long-term monogamous sex. And you would be surprised at how many couples don’t recognize their inner need for spontaneous, impulsive sex play.”
What a load of malarkey, Marissa thought. Playing pinch and tickle in the bedroom no more kept a marriage together than holiday traditions. What made a marriage succeed was hard work and dedication and facing problems head-on.
In her personal opinion the Baxter and Jackson research project oversimplified relationships, but hey, they were the clients. She wasn’t paid to have a personal opinion. She’d buy into anything they wanted her to buy into.
“Very informative,” Dash said. “And your theory explains why Marissa has trouble holding on to a man. She wouldn’t know fun if it bit her on the butt.”
“I don’t…” Marissa almost rose to the bait but then quickly clamped down on her tongue.
If Steve hadn’t just walked out on her, Dash’s comment wouldn’t have rankled. Normally his digs rolled right off her back, but today she yearned to wrap her hands around his neck and throttle him merely for the enjoyment of watching his eyes pop out.
From the opposite end of the conference table Judd Thompson cleared his throat. Judd was in his midfifties, although he looked ten years younger. He had once worked for the largest, most successful software company on the planet, and was the most computer-savvy man Marissa had ever met.
Judd expected a lot from his employees, but he wasn’t as demanding as her father. Naturally, he had a more civilian approach to life than the General, but like her old man, he prized achievement. She eagerly turned herself inside out to engender his accolades.
When Judd was happy with her performance, Marissa was happy.
“Pipe down, you two,” Judd chided with a frown. “Could we put the petty one-upmanship aside for at least a few minutes and allow Francine to finish detailing her requirements?”
Marissa nodded, sat up straighter and purposefully avoided looking at Dash.
“Thank you, Judd,” Francine said. “What we want from Pegasus on this project is a bit different from the software you’ve created for us in the past.”
“How so?” Dash asked.
“We’re interested in producing a virtual-reality video game promoting sex play among couples who’ve found their love life stagnating. An aid, if you will, for our patients who have difficulty letting their hair down and having fun.”
“But we don’t design video games,” piped up one of the programmers. “Especially virtual reality. That requires a completely different set of skills.”
“I’m sure we can find a way around that small obstacle,” Marissa said, knowing full well the obstacles were anything but small. “I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to keep Baxter and Jackson satisfied.”
Take that, Dash.
“I know a freelance designer,” Dash interrupted. “I’m sure if you selected me to manage your account I could wrangle a very good deal for you.”
“Actually.” Francine smiled. “We already have a designer in mind.”
“Oh?” Dash looked taken aback.
Marissa very professionally resisted the urge to pitch him a gloating smirk.
“Beau Thibbedeaux,” Francine said. “I’m assuming you’re all familiar with his work.”
A hushed, reverential silence fell over the room. Everyone in the software industry had heard of Beau Thibbedeaux. He was, arguably, the best video-game design architect ever to code a script.
Or at least he used to be.
Dash, Judd, the system liaison and the four programmers exchanged a look. Marissa didn’t know the whole story of the Beau Thibbedeaux scandal but apparently it had been a doozy.
The guy had been the biggest star at the largest video-game design company in the country. Hailed as a creative genius, he was a visionary far ahead of his time. From what she could gather through the industry grapevine, Thibbedeaux hated being rushed or pressured.
The rumor was he’d run afoul of a very influential, very impatient overseas client. Beau had simply walked away from the project with an unfinished design left on the table.
Marissa figured Thibbedeaux must have suffered some kind of mental or emotional meltdown because she could not fathom any other reason why the man would hightail it back home to Louisiana and leave the company stranded. Personally, she would rather lie down and die than disappoint her employer no matter how difficult the project or the client.
“Beau’s no longer in the business,” Judd said, but Marissa could tell from the speculative expression in his eyes that he would love to be responsible for luring Thibbedeaux back to Manhattan.
“I heard he’s a complete recluse,” another programmer added.
“The guy retired over two years ago,” Dash supplied. “Last I heard he owned a B and B or a restaurant