Czytaj książkę: «Can't Say No»

One

“No.”

There was a disgusting catch in Audrey’s voice. She scowled at herself in the mirror. One simple, common, everyday word and she couldn’t get it out with any authority. Ridiculous. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin defiantly and tried again.

“No!”

This time the word rang out in the tiny motel room. It was firm, emphatic, convincing. Obviously it was not the tone she had used with her boss yesterday, or she wouldn’t have been spending the start of her vacation on an assignment that held all the appeal of mud wrestling.

“Audrey, I’ve got a little problem,” Harvey had said on Thursday morning. He’d said it early, before her first cup of coffee, when he knew her resistance was at its lowest.

She had promptly clamped her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to hear it. When you have a little problem, it means I have an even bigger one. I’m leaving on vacation in precisely thirty-two hours—” she’d glanced at her watch “—and seventeen minutes. Whatever problems you’re having will have to wait until I get back.”

“But this won’t wait and besides, you’re going to love it,” Harvey insisted, waving his unlit pipe in her direction and beaming at her. He wore a deceptively jovial look that usually spelled doom. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

Harvey Fielding wasn’t known as one of the best public relations men in the country for nothing. He’d joined the Blake Marshall Vineyards when they’d been little more than a field of grapes in the Napa Valley. Now it was one of the fastest-growing California wine companies, thanks to Blake Marshall’s genius for business and Harvey’s ingenious instincts for promoting it. He was a master at what Newsweek had described as “The Hyping of Napa Valley.” He’d been one of the first to offer tours of the winery, then gone on to add other enticements for visitors, including a moonlit champagne-and-classical-music concert series that had drawn thousands during the summer months.

Audrey had worked for the company for more than two years. She knew all about Harvey’s “once-in-a-lifetime opportunities.” The last one had plunked her in a rowboat in the middle of a freezing stream for eight solid hours with a clipboard in her shaking hands and water splashing all over her new sneakers, while a camera crew tried to shoot a thirty-second commercial that Harvey had assured her would be a snap. Not even the presence of one of television’s steamiest, most sensual actors had warmed her blood. At least they’d given him hip boots, a sexy brunette actress and a magnum of the finest champagne to hold on to. They hadn’t even offered her a sweater. She still couldn’t view the ad on television without getting goose bumps.

Harvey was not the steamroller sort of boss. He never made demands. Quite the contrary, he was subtle and persuasive. He knew exactly the right buttons to push—at least with her.

Yesterday morning, for example, his expression had sobered impressively and he’d settled his considerable bulk on the edge of her desk. He’d leaned toward her conspiratorially with that “you’re the only one who can handle this” gleam in his eyes, and Audrey automatically had tried to inch her chair out of his line of attack. Unfortunately, she couldn’t retreat to the next county fast enough. Besides, Harvey would have followed her. He was looking very determined.

“Look, I know you’re supposed to be going on vacation, but I swear I’ll make it up to you,” he said with enough sincerity to win votes from an opposition party.

“Supposed to be? I am going on vacation.” Even though she said it firmly, she could still hear the questioning lift in her voice. Damn.

Harvey hurried right on. “It’s just one of those things. Joe was supposed to handle this, but his wife—You know Kelly Marie, don’t you? A really sweet girl. Anyway, she’s expecting a baby....”

There had been this sinking sensation in the pit of Audrey’s stomach. She had sighed fatalistically and completed the sentence for him, “And Joe would never be able to forgive himself, if he weren’t around when she delivered.”

In retrospect, she knew that was the moment when she should have said no. Emphatically. Instead, thinking of poor Kelly Marie going into labor all alone, she had muttered resignedly, “Okay, Harvey, what’s the assignment?”

“The hot air balloon festival in Snowmass.” The words sort of ran together in a rush. When Harvey actually displayed overt signs of nervousness, it was definitely ominous.

“What about it?” she asked, eyeing him warily. “Are we providing the champagne? Am I supposed to pour five thousand glasses of our finest?”

Harvey scowled at her sarcasm. “No, it’s nothing like that. You won’t have to do a thing, really. Just be available. Blake’s entered in the race—it’s a damn crazy obsession for an executive, if you ask me—but we need one of the PR folks on hand to make sure the media gets anything they need about him or the company. The bio is all prepared. Joe even ran off a history of Blake’s record in these ridiculous competitions. Our boss is actually pretty good. He won down in Albuquerque this year and we weren’t around to capitalize on it. I don’t want that to happen again. All you’ll have to do is hand the press the prepared stuff and maybe do one quick release if he wins any of the events this time. I hear one of the networks will be there. You might try to set up something with them.” He peeked to check her reaction, then added, “I’d do it myself, but I’m scheduled to work that wine-tasting event in San Francisco.”

He tried to make himself sound like a nominee for martyrdom, but Audrey wasn’t buying it. She knew all about those wine tastings. Harvey’s extraordinary talents would not be taxed. What she didn’t know much about were balloon races. She tried to pin Harvey down on the details. “Simple, straightforward PR and that’s it? You’re absolutely sure? There are no hidden agendas, no arranging middle-of-the-night tête-à-têtes for the boss?”

“From all I’ve heard, Blake can handle those quite nicely on his own. As for you, you’ll get an all-expenses-paid weekend in Snowmass or Aspen. Take your pick. I’ll even consider throwing in a few extra days on the company, if you want to spend the rest of your vacation there. I hear it’s great in the summer. You can go hiking, go to the music festival, whatever it is people do in those ski resorts when there’s no snow on the ground.”

“And my nonrefundable ticket to Hawaii?”

“No problem. We’ll cover it and you can reschedule the trip for whenever you like.”

Audrey regarded him warily. There was some little nugget of unpleasant information Harvey had yet to share with her. There had to be. He was still awfully edgy. “What’s the catch?”

“There’s no catch.” He made a little cross-my-heart gesture. Audrey noticed he didn’t quite finish it, probably because he knew God would strike him dead on the spot.

“Harvey, I know you. You don’t go tossing around paid vacations unless you know there’s something I’m going to hate.”

Harvey regarded her indignantly. “Well, you will be delaying your vacation in Hawaii. I know how much you’ve been counting on it. Isn’t that enough?”

“It is for me, but I have this funny little suspicion nagging at me that it’s not enough to explain your sudden burst of generosity. What’s the rest?”

“Well, you will have to get up a little early....” At the lift of her brows, he hurried on, “But it won’t be so bad, really. It’s just for a couple of days. You’re a real trooper. You can manage.”

“Forget the snow job. How early?”

Harvey stared at the Monet print behind her desk, another ominous sign. Usually he could at least manage to look her in the eyes. Besides, he hated that print. He’d always said it was too “mushy.”

“Harvey!”

“You’ll have to be at the rodeo grounds in Snowmass by six to keep an eye on what’s happening.” He beamed at her again...unconvincingly. “But by noon you should have the rest of the day to yourself and it is only for the weekend. After that you can sleep all day, if you want to.”

“Six o’clock in the morning?” Audrey had asked in a horrified whisper. “Harvey, you know perfectly well that I can barely get my eyes open by nine. I certainly can’t function before that. Do you want to trust Blake Marshall’s public relations to a woman who’s practically comatose?”

“You won’t have to function exactly, at least not at that hour. You just have to show up, look things over, make a few contacts.”

“Sounds like functioning to me.”

“It’ll be a breeze. I promise. You know Blake’s reputation. He loves the limelight and the media gravitate to him. He’ll do most of his own public relations.”

“Then why do I need to be there at all? He’ll probably fire both of us, when he discovers you’ve hired a woman who can’t talk in coherent sentences until lunchtime.”

“You’re doing okay now.” Harvey had grinned at her and looked as though he might pat her on the head. If he had, she might very well have slugged him.

Instead, he simply said, “I want you there because Blake Marshall owns this winery. Sales are climbing and he’s a hot story, if we play it right. If he wanted the entire public relations staff to fly balloons from Snowmass to the East Coast as a publicity gimmick, we’d all be climbing into those flimsy little baskets.”

Even Harvey, who claimed more than his share of unorthodox youthful adventures, had shuddered at that prospect. “Fortunately, he seems to be willing to do that part himself. All you’ll need to do is put in an appearance and make sure the press and Blake get exactly what they need, a lot of solid PR for Blake Marshall Vineyards and his Grapes of Wrath balloon.”

“His what?”

Harvey grimaced. “I know. I didn’t pick the name. Ask him about it. Maybe it has something to do with that notorious temper of his.”

“I hope it’s because he reads Steinbeck,” Audrey had retorted, stalking off to make her plane reservations only to discover that Harvey, the smug creep, had already made them for her.

So, here she was on Friday at barely 5:00 a.m., with rain pouring down outside and the temperature hovering around 50 degrees. It was July, for God’s sakes! This was definitely not Hawaii.

Three alarm clocks strategically placed around the room and a wake-up call from the front desk were needed just to get her out of bed. She was still standing bleary-eyed in front of a cracked mirror—another ominous sign?—wondering once again why she didn’t have any of that noble strength her mother swore her name was supposed to impart. As near as she could recall, the last time she had said no effectively, she had been barely two and it was practically the only word in her vocabulary. According to her parents, it had been her favorite for quite some time. Maybe she’d used it all up.

More likely, she was just a sucker for a sob story. All that stuff about Joe’s pregnant wife, for instance, had gotten to her, played on her sympathy, just as Harvey had known it would. Five minutes after she’d left Harvey, though, she’d realized it was also so much hogwash. Kelly Marie was expecting a baby all right—in October, three months from now. She’d been sitting in her office muttering curses about her gullibility, when Joe had walked in to thank her. He’d looked worried sick.

“Kelly Marie’s been having problems,” he’d said, running his fingers through his wheat-colored hair. His freckles stood out even more than usual against his pale complexion. “The doctor wants her to stay in bed for the next three months. If she doesn’t, we could lose the baby. I just couldn’t go away, Audrey. I’m real sorry about your vacation, though. Harvey promised he’d take care of it.”

Audrey had immediately forgiven Harvey and thanked heaven that she hadn’t given him a rough time about it. It would only have made Joe feel guilty and he didn’t need anything more to worry about right now.

“You just take good care of Kelly Marie,” she’d reassured him. “I’ll work things out with Harvey. Hawaii will still be there, when I get around to it. Is there anything I can do for the two of you before I go?”

“No. Kelly Marie’s mom is helping out, too, so we’re okay. You just try to have a good time.”

She tried to tell herself that she’d instinctively sensed that Joe’s predicament was real, but that was utter nonsense. She’d said yes because being a good sport had gotten to be a habit. Her friends reminded her of that every time she crawled out of bed in the middle of the night to pick one of them up or drove across town in rush hour traffic to substitute for the baby-sitter who’d failed to show up.

Less than a week ago she had been lured into leading an entire troup of raucous Cub Scouts around Fisherman’s Wharf, and she still wasn’t quite sure how she’d gotten pulled into that! One of her friends had been a very fast talker. Putting her crying, hiccuping eight-year old on the phone to plead with Audrey had probably been the clincher.

“We knew we could count on you” was rapidly becoming a refrain that turned her stomach.

“Enough is enough,” she muttered, gesturing determinedly with her toothbrush. “No more Ms. Nice Guy. No more Understanding Woman. No more guilt when you turn down some outrageous request. Do you understand that, Audrey?”

“Got it,” she retorted sleepily and stepped into the shower. Maybe a week in Aspen wouldn’t be so bad after all. Maybe she could use the time to reread every book ever published on assertiveness. Maybe this time their message would sink in and she could go back to California with a new aggressive, stand-firm outlook. It was one thing to be a friend people could call on in a pinch. It was quite another to be a doormat.

By the time she’d made the twenty-minute drive to the Snowmass Village rodeo grounds, she was prepared to say an emphatic no to everything just for practice...with the possible exception of a large cup of very strong coffee.

* * *

A half hour later, with caffeine surging through her bloodstream, Audrey stepped gingerly from the shelter where a full-scale country breakfast was being served by volunteers from the Little Red Schoolhouse day care center. The rain had stopped, leaving the cool, damp air smelling crisp and pungent with the lingering scent of horses, though there wasn’t a single animal grazing in the sprawling meadow or roaming in the paddock. A sliver of bright blue sky sliced through the dark, low-hanging clouds, hinting that a spectacular dawn was about to break over the snowcapped mountains.

Pickup trucks and cars hauling trailers were pulling into the meadow, where the contestants were beginning to unload their equipment. Cursing the dampness, which was already seeping through her shoes, Audrey headed for the field in search of Blake Marshall.

She’d only met the man once and then very briefly. Yet the impression that remained fixed in her mind was of overwhelming masculinity, self-assurance that bordered on arrogance, and the startling blue eyes and curling dark hair of an Irish rogue. Even if she hadn’t seen dozens of newspaper and magazine clippings since then, she doubted she would have any trouble in spotting him. She’d need only to look for the largest circle of beautiful, adoring women dressed in the very latest color-coordinated sportswear, their flowing waves of sun-streaked hair pushed back by designer sunglasses.

As she worked her way toward the launch area, she was suddenly overcome with unexpected curiosity at the bustle of activity around her. She’d never imagined that this many people could be masochistic enough to rise before dawn. She paused as one of the contestants began to unload the cargo from a trailer.

Out came the gondola, which resembled an oversize wicker basket with an identifying number on the side. Then came a huge fan that reminded her of the kind that were once used to cool living rooms in a pre-air-conditioned era, followed by a dangerous-looking propane tank. Finally came a huge bundle of burgundy material. She eyed it skeptically. It didn’t look nearly sturdy enough to provide a means of transportation over the mountain range. In fact, it didn’t look like something that ought to get off the ground.

“Hey, you! You in the burgundy shirt.”

The husky, masculine voice came from about fifty feet away and had an imperious tone that immediately made her hackles rise. She whirled around to encounter the scowling features of Blake Marshall, hands on slender, denim-clad hips, a bright blue windbreaker stretched taut across broad shoulders. Fully prepared to offer some snappy retort, she found herself simply trying to catch her breath. He was far more for midable than she’d remembered and as sexy as the most lurid tabloids had portrayed him.

“You work for me, right?”

“Yes. I’m Audrey Nelson. I work—”

“Never mind all that,” he said impatiently. “Just get over here.”

Audrey wanted to believe that the man had an incredible memory for the faces of each and every one of his employees. In fact, for an absurd, fleeting instant, she wanted to believe he’d never forgotten their one brief encounter in Harvey’s office, but she suspected his recognition had more to do with her burgundy-colored “Marshall Arts” sweatshirt. They’d been given to members of the company softball team. The pun of its name hadn’t been the only thing wrong with that team. It had been neither strong, nor particularly adept. The mere fact that she was even on it had been a bad omen. She had reluctantly volunteered, after Harvey had told her that they were desperate—“really desperate”—for one more player to substitute in emergencies. He’d spent the first three games patiently trying to explain the rules. Fortunately she’d never had to go to bat.

“You’re late,” Blake announced as she strode slowly toward him, feeling a sudden surge of adrenaline that had nothing at all to do with the coffee. She wasn’t wild about his attitude, but that smoldering look in his eyes was something else. “I wanted the crew here at six.”

There was something wrong with that sentence, but she was too sleepy to put her finger on it. “I was here at six. I stopped to get some coffee. Is there something in particular you’d like me to do for you, Mr. Marshall?” She was deliberately cheerful and cooperative. The man was her boss, after all. There was no point in antagonizing him. Harvey had warned her he took this balloon race nonsense seriously. Maybe the media had been bothering him and he was looking for someone to act as a buffer. She wasn’t sure she was alert enough to fend off flies, much less a pesky reporter, but she was willing to try.

“You can start by opening the envelope,” he said briskly. “John will help you, if you need him.” Then he turned his back on her and went back to doing whatever mysterious task he’d been doing before he spotted her.

“I beg your pardon.” Maybe this envelope of his contained important instructions, but she didn’t see one lying around. Nor did she have the vaguest idea who John was.

He glanced over his shoulder and regarded her quizzically. “You do know how to unroll it, don’t you?”

“Not exactly.” She still didn’t even know what it was, but saw no point in giving away too much about her ignorance. It was bad enough that she was having to delve through mental mush to come up with words that made sense.

Blake shot a disgusted gaze heavenward, then grabbed the balloon—so that’s what it was—and began demonstrating. “That’s all there is to it. Even a novice should be able to do it. Where the hell did you take your lessons?”

Audrey shot him a horrified look. “But that’s not what I’m here for.” What if the damn thing got all tangled up and crashed because of something she’d done? She’d be responsible for the death of the man Fortune had described as California’s brightest young entrepreneur, one of the men to watch in the coming decade. If the courts didn’t get her, Harvey surely would. “Wouldn’t you rather I go look for some of the media?”

“What do I need with the media? They’ll be crawling all over the place once the race is over. Now, let’s haul it, woman. We haven’t got all morning. We have to get the balloon launched and out of the way, so the next group can get into the area.”

Audrey looked at the dark burgundy bundle, then glanced around at the other workers. A grizzled old man shot her an encouraging, sympathetic smile. Audrey gave him a wobbly grin and shrugged her shoulders. If Blake Marshall wanted to entrust his life to the hands of an amateur, who was she to argue? Surely she could manage a simple task like unrolling this stupid thing.

The old man moved to her side and introduced himself as John Harley. “Don’t mind Blake, missy. He’s always a little jumpy before he takes off. Just follow his directions and you’ll do just fine. He’s one of the best around at this.” He winked at her. “But if he gets too pushy, tell him off. Won’t hurt him none to be put in his place, especially by a pretty young gal like you.”

“Thanks, I’ll remember that.” It was advice she ought to hang on to. Blake Marshall had a definite arrogant streak that needed taming. Then again, she had no business being the one to try it. “Could you give me some clue about handling this thing?”

“I’d be happy to, missy.”

As Audrey set to work, fumbling over the routine task, Blake’s black eyebrows knit together in a puzzled frown. It wasn’t like his partner to send him an inexperienced crew member, not for a race as important as this one. Why the hell couldn’t he remember the name Cal had given him? Had it been Audrey? The woman had said she worked for him and she was wearing one of the company shirts, so she must be the one. Though he’d caught the tiniest glimmer of fear in her eyes when he’d assigned her the task of opening the envelope, while he went over the propane tanks and gondola.

As he completed his checks, he studied her. She was working gamely at the assigned task, and he noticed that John Harley had gone to her assistance and seemed to be giving her one of his special pep talks. No wonder. She had a helpless, if determined, look about her that appealed to something deep inside him that he’d thought had died long ago. Its sudden reawakening might have convinced him to get to know her better, if he’d met her on any other day.

Not this morning, though. Now he had to focus all his attention on getting the balloon into the air so he could judge the wind direction and speed at several altitudes. The first day’s competition was a distance race to Glenwood Springs and he wanted to win it. From the moment he had started ballooning seriously, he’d wanted to be the best. He was closing in on his goal now, but to reach it he needed a support team as skilled and intuitive as he was. This Audrey had better know what she was doing or he’d have Cal’s hide.

He shrugged and dismissed his concern as he began the task of hooking the balloon to the gondola, then turning on the fan’s generator to begin the slow inflation process. As cold air filled the huge balloon, it unfurled to reveal a graceful trail of grapes winding across the wide expanse as it might along an arbor. Grapes of Wrath was written in white, three-foot-high script around the base of the balloon. He had spent nearly twenty thousand dollars for the design and construction, and it still sent a thrill of pleasure through him when it was displayed in all its colorful majesty.

He glanced over and saw the woman was staring at the huge balloon with a spark of excitement in her eyes that hadn’t been there when she’d first joined him. With a jolt, it occurred to him that it was the expression of someone who’d never seen a balloon up close before. Dear God, surely that couldn’t be.

“What do you think of it?” he asked.

“It’s incredible,” she said with a satisfying note of awe. He told himself it was the admiration of another enthusiast for a beautifully designed, well-constructed balloon and, though he was still troubled, he dismissed his doubts again.

He couldn’t tear his gaze away from her face quite so easily, though.

Wide-eyed, she was glancing around the meadow at the splash of vibrant colors that would soon fill the sky. For the first time, Blake noted the startling violet shade of her eyes, the fringe of thick dark lashes and the gamine face with its pert nose and surprisingly full, sensual lips. They were ripe lips that tempted and lured. He immediately experienced an unexpected and disturbing tightening in his loins. With a sheer effort of will, he determinedly turned his attention to the rest of his ground crew.

“Are we all set?”

“It looks good, boss,” John Harley said. “I’ve been scouting around a little, too, and there ain’t no reason I can see why you won’t walk away with this one.”

“It’s not walking I’ll be doing,” Blake reminded the older man, who’d taught him everything he knew about balloon competition. “We’ve got to make this baby soar if I’m going to beat Larry Hammond. According to the weather service there should be some terrific air currents. All I have to do is find ’em and then hang on for the ride.”

“I wish I weren’t too damn old or I’d be up there with you. This old ticker of mine can’t take the altitude anymore. Some days I miss it worse ’n not having a woman around.”

Audrey listened to the two men talking and caught some of their enthusiasm. For the first time since she’d risen at such an ungodly hour, she felt terrific, even invigorated. It had a lot to do with the day, which had fulfilled its early-morning promise by whisking the last of the clouds away beyond the mountain range. The sun was burning off the morning chill and the azure sky was a postcard-perfect backdrop for the bright yellows, reds, greens and blues that were billowing to the height of tall buildings as they filled with cool air. Her exhilaration also had just a little to do with the man who’d been working side by side with her and John Harley. Blake’s instructions had been crisp and precise, but after his initial sternness he’d flashed her a few unexpected and thoroughly devastating smiles that had made her pulse skip erratically.

Now he hopped over the edge of the gondola and began checking the equipment for a second time, sending a stream of fire upward to heat the air in the balloon, which tugged against the tethers holding it to the ground. His concentration was intense, his finely chiseled mouth was set in a line of determination.

Audrey had never met a man who seemed to thrive so on what she considered such a frivolous challenge. She’d met ambitious men, who viewed success as the ultimate achievement with money as the only measurement. She’d met womanizers who thrilled only to the chase and left behind a wake of broken-hearted lovers. She supposed she’d even met a few men who took their games—tennis, golf, even poker—seriously. But there was a fierce, single-minded edge to Blake Marshall’s drive to win that was a bit frightening in its intensity.

It also piqued her curiosity. What made such a man tick? Why wasn’t he satisfied with the professional acclaim, the growing wealth, the well-publicized social whirl?