Amanda was more than a little relieved when the next day began a great deal more smoothly than the previous day’s kayak races. When team members woke to a cool, drizzling rain streaming down the windows that necessitated putting off the bike race until afternoon, she was prepared to switch gears.
Taking the indoor equipment from her store of supplies, she divided the teams into subgroups and put everyone to work building a helicopter from pieces of scrap paper, cardboard, rubber bands and Popsicle sticks. Although speed was of the essence, it was also important that the constructed vehicle manage some form of brief flight.
“I still don’t get the point of this,” Laura complained as yet another attempt fatally spiraled nosefirst into the rug.
“You’re blending science and art,” Amanda explained patiently yet again. “Advertising is a subtle, ever-changing art that defies formularization.”
“That’s what it used to be,” Luke Cahill muttered as he cut a tail rotor from a piece of scarlet construction paper. “Until the invasion of the MBA’s.” A rumpled, casual man in his mid-thirties, he possessed the unique ability to pen a catchy tune and link it with an appealing advertising idea.
Amanda had always considered Luke to be the most easygoing person working at the agency. She realized the recent stress had gotten to him, as well, when he glared over at Don Patterson, the financially oriented marketing manager, who stopped remeasuring the length of the cardboard helicopter body to glare back.
“However much you artsy types would like to spend the day playing in your creative sandboxes, advertising is a business,” Don countered. “I, for one, am glad to see this agency finally being run as a profit-making enterprise.”
“You won’t have any profits if the product suffers,” Luke snapped back. “Advertising is more than numbers. It’s our native form of American anthology.”
“He’s right,” Marvin Kenyon said. “Advertising—and life—would be a helluva lot easier if it could be treated like science—A plus B equals C—but it can’t.
“Life is about change, damn it. And advertising reflects that. The best advertising, the kind we used to do for C.C.C., can even act as an agent for change.”
Greg, who was sitting off to the side, watching the group, applauded, somehow managing to make the sound of two hands coming together seem mocking.
“Nice little speech, Kenyon.” He poured himself a drink—his second of the morning—and took a sip. “But if you’re not part of the solution you’re part of the problem. If you can’t get with the program, perhaps you don’t belong in advertising.”
“Not belong?” This from Julian. “You do realize that you’re talking to a man who has twenty-nine years’ experience creating witty, appealing, and totally original advertising that makes the sale through its ability to charm prospective buyers?”
As she heard the art director stand up for the head copywriter, Amanda felt a surge of excitement. As foolish as these games had seemed at first, something was happening.
Until the pressures brought about by first the mergers, then the takeover, C.C.C. had been viewed throughout the advertising world as a flourishing shop.
Unfortunately, because of the political machinations that were part and parcel of becoming a bigger agency, Marvin and Julian had started sniping at each other, causing morale to tailspin as sharply and destructively as Laura’s failed helicopter model.
But now, thanks to Greg’s threat, Julian had just felt the need to stand up for his former creative partner. And although she wondered if they’d ever regain the sense of “family” that had been the hallmark of Connally Creative Concepts, Amanda hoped such behavior was a sign that the creative members of the agency would resume encouraging each other, spurring their colleagues to even greater achievements, as they’d done in the past.
“We can’t ignore the fact that we’re in a service business,” she said. “Unfortunately, no matter how creative our advertising is, if we don’t possess the organization to effectively service our clients, we’ll fail.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to say,” Don insisted.
“On the other hand,” Amanda said, seeking a middle ground, “we could have the best media buying and billing system in the world but if creativity suffers because everyone’s getting mired down in details, we won’t have any clients to bill. And no profits. Which, of course, eventually would mean no salaries.”
She reached out and picked up the helicopter the blue team had just finished and held it above her head. When she had their undivided attention, she let it go. The copter took off on a sure, albeit short flight, ending atop a bookcase.
“That was teamwork, ladies and gentlemen,” she said with a quick, pleased grin. “Science and creativity, meshing into one efficient, artistic entity.”
Dane had slipped into the back of the room during the beginning of the argument. He’d convinced himself that Amanda wasn’t really happy in her work; that deep down inside, where it really counted, she was still the young girl who wanted to have babies and make a comfortable home for her family.
Now, having observed the way she’d deftly turned the discussion around, he was forced to admit that perhaps Amanda really did belong exactly where she was.
It was not a very satisfying thought.
Her spirits buoyed by the successful helicopter project, Amanda found herself thoroughly enjoying the excellent lunch of grilled sockeye salmon on fettucini, black bean salad, and fresh-baked sourdough bread, the kind that always reminded her of San Francisco’s famed Fisherman’s Wharf. Dessert was a blackberry cobbler topped with ice cream. The berries, Mary told the appreciative guests, had been picked from the bushes growing behind the inn; the ice cream, which was almost unbearably rich with the unmistakable taste of real vanilla beans, was homemade.
“It’s a good thing I’m only spending a week here,” Amanda said when she stopped by the kitchen to thank Dane’s mother again for helping make the week a success.
“Oh?” With lunch successfully behind her, Mary had moved on to preparing dinner and was slicing mushrooms with a blindingly fast, deft stroke that Amanda envied, even as she knew she’d undoubtedly cut her fingers off if she ever dared attempt to duplicate it. “And why is that, dear?”
“Because I’d probably gain a hundred pounds in the first month.” She still couldn’t believe she’d eaten that cobbler.
“Oh, you’d work it all off,” Mary assured her easily. “There’s enough to do around here that burning calories definitely isn’t a problem.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Amanda had awakened this morning to the sound of hammering. Although the sun was just barely up, when she’d looked out her window she’d seen Dane repairing the split-rail fence that framed the front lawn and gardens. “Dane certainly seems to be enjoying it, though.”
“He’s happy as a clam.”
“It’s nice he’s found his niche.”
“It’s always nice to know what you want out of life,” Mary agreed easily. “Even nicer if you can figure out a way to get it.”
“You must have been proud of him, though. When he was working for the Whitfield Palace hotel chain.”
Amanda had the feeling that if she’d made the life-style reversal Dane had chosen, her father would have accused her of dropping out. Amanda’s father remained vigilant for any sign that his daughter might be inclined to waver from the straight-and-narrow path he’d chosen for her—the one that led directly to an executive suite in some Fortune 500 company.
Never having been granted a son, Gordon Stockenberg had put all his paternal dreams and ambitions onto Amanda’s shoulders. And except for that one summer, when she’d fallen in love with a boy her father had found totally unsuitable, she’d never let him down.
“I’d be proud of Dane whatever he chose to do.” Mary piled the mushrooms onto a platter and moved on to dicing shallots. “But I have to admit that I’m pleased he’s come home. Not only do I enjoy working with my son, it was obvious that once he became a vice president at Whitfield, he began feeling horribly constrained, and—”
“Vice president?”
“Why, yes.” Mary looked up, seeming surprised that Amanda hadn’t known.
“Dane was actually a vice president at Whitfield Palace hotels?” After last night’s conversation, she’d realized he’d been important. But a vice president?
“He was in charge of international operations,” Mary divulged. “The youngest vice president in the history of the hotel chain. He was only in the job for a year, and Mrs. Deveraux—she’s the CEO of Whitfield—wanted him to stay on, especially now that she and her husband have begun a family and she’s cut back on her own travel, but Dane has always known his own mind.”
Once again Amanda thought of her boastful words about her window office and her lovely, expensive Italian-leather chair. Unfortunately, as much as she wanted to be irritated at Dane for having let her make a fool of herself, she reluctantly admitted that it hadn’t really been his doing. She’d been so eager to prove how important she was....
A vice president. Of International Operations, no less. She groaned.
“Are you all right, dear?”
Amanda blinked. “Fine,” she said, not quite truthfully. She took out her roll of antacids. Then, on second thought, she shook two aspirin from the bottle she kept in her purse.
Mary was looking at Amanda with concern as she handed Amanda a glass of water for the aspirin. “You look pale.”
“I’m just a little tired.” And confused. Not only did she not really know Dane, Amanda was beginning to wonder if she even knew herself.
“You’re working very hard.” The stainless-steel blade resumed flashing in the stuttering coastal sunlight coming in through the kitchen windows. “Dane told me how important this week is to you.”
“It is.” Amanda reminded herself exactly how important. Her entire career—her life—depended on the challenge week’s being a success.
“He also told me you’re very good at motivating people.”
“Dane said that?” Praise from Dane Cutter shouldn’t mean so much to her. It shouldn’t. But, it did.
“I believe his exact words were, barring plague or pestilence, you’ll have your promotion by the end of the week.”
“I hope he’s right.”
Mary’s smile was warm and generous. “Oh, Dane is always right about these things, Amanda. He’s got a sixth sense for business and if he says you’re going to win your creative director’s slot, you can count on it happening.”
It was what she wanted, damn it. What she’d worked for. So why, Amanda wondered as she left the kitchen to meet the members of the team, who were gathering in the parking lot for their afternoon bicycle race, did the idea leave her feeling strangely depressed?
The mountain bikes, like the team-challenge T-shirts and accompanying slickers, were red and blue.
“At least they look sturdy,” Julian decided, studying the knobby fat tires.
“And heavy,” Kelli said skeptically. “What’s wrong with a nice, lightweight ten-speed?”
“Kelli has a point, Amanda,” Peter interjected with what Amanda supposed was another attempt to make points with the sexy public-relations manager. “Why can’t we just use racing bikes?”
“In the first place, you’re not going to be sticking to the asphalt.” Amanda handed everyone a laminated map of the course. “You’ll need a sturdy bike for all the detours over gravel and dirt roads and creekbeds.”
When that description earned a collective groan, Amanda took some encouragement from the fact that everyone seemed to share the same reservations. That, in its own way, was progress.
“Think of it as touring new ground,” she suggested optimistically.
“That’s definitely pushing a metaphor,” Marvin complained over the laughter of the others.
Amanda’s grin was quick and confident. “That’s why I leave the copywriting to you.”
She went on to explain the rules, which involved the riders leaving the parking lot at timed intervals, following the trail marked on the maps, then returning to the inn, hopefully in time for dinner. She would ride along as an observer and, if necessary, a referee. Once everyone was back, the collective times would determine which team had won.
“Any questions?” she asked when she was finished.
“I have one.” Laura was adjusting the chin strap on her helmet with the air of someone who’d done this before. “Since it’s obvious you can’t be at every checkpoint, how are you going to ensure some people don’t skip a segment?”
“Are you accusing people of not being honest?” Don complained.
“You’re in advertising marketing, Don,” Luke reminded. “I’d say a lack of forthrightness goes with the territory.”
When everyone laughed, Amanda experienced another surge of optimism. Only two days ago, such a comment would have started a fight. Things were definitely looking up!
“Not that I don’t trust everyone implicitly,” Amanda said, “but now that you bring it up, there will be referees at all the checkpoints to stamp the appropriate section of your map.” She had arranged with Dane to hire some of his off-duty employees.
“Is Mindy going to be one of those referees?” Peter asked hopefully.
“Mindy Taylor will be working the second segment,” Amanda revealed.
“There go our chances,” Don grumbled as he pulled on a pair of leather bicycle gloves. “Because with Miss America working the second checkpoint, Peter will never get to number three.”
There was more laughter, and some good-natured teasing, along with the expected complaints from Peter, which only earned him hoots from his fellow teammates and the opposing team.
“Well,” Amanda said, glancing down at her stopwatch, “if everyone’s ready, we’ll send off the first team.”
“Oh, look!” Kelli exclaimed, pointing toward the inn. “Here comes Dane.” Amanda found the public-relations manager’s smile far too welcoming. “Hey, coach,” Kelli called out, “any last advice?”
Since the course was easily followed and everyone knew how to ride a bike, Amanda had decided it wouldn’t be necessary for Dane to come along. He was, however, scheduled to lead the upcoming backpacking trip and rock-climbing expedition.
“Just one.” He rocked back on his heels and observed the assembled teams with mild amusement. “Watch out for logging trucks.”
Marvin frowned. “I didn’t realize they were logging this part of the coast.”
“Well, they are. And those drivers aren’t accustomed to sharing the back roads. Stay out of their way. Or die.”
With that ominous warning ringing in everyone’s ears, the teams pedaled out of the parking lot.
She was going to die. As she braked to a wobbly stop outside the inn, Amanda wondered if she’d ever recover the feeling in her bottom again.
“You made good time,” Dane greeted her. He was up on a ladder, painting the rain gutter. He was wearing cutoff jeans and a white T-shirt. “Considering all the extra miles Kelli said you put in riding back and forth between teams.”
“You’d think adults could conduct a simple bike race without trying to sabotage one another, wouldn’t you?” Amanda frowned as she remembered the fishing line members of the blue team had strung across a particularly rocky stretch of path.
“You wanted them working together,” he reminded her. “Sounds as if that’s exactly what they were doing.”
“I wanted them to cooperate,” she muttered. “Not reenact Desert Storm.” The red team had, naturally, sought to retaliate. “Thanks for the suggestion to take along the extra tire tubes. I still haven’t figured out where they got those carpet tacks.”
“I’ve got a pretty good guess.” Dane had found evidence of someone having been in the workshop.
“Well, other than a few bumps and bruises, at least no one got hurt,” Amanda said with a long-suffering sigh. “You were also right about those trucks, by the way. They’re scary.”
“Like bull elk on amphetamines.” As he watched her gingerly climb off the bike, Dane wiped his hand over his mouth to hide his smile. “You look a little stiff.”
How was it that she had no feeling at all in her rear, yet her legs were aching all the way to the bone? “That’s an understatement.” She glared at the now muddy mountain bike that had seemed such a nifty idea when the original challenge coach, who’d conveniently managed to avoid taking part in the week’s activities, had first suggested it. “I swear that seat was invented by the Marquis de Sade.”
“If you’re sore, I can give you a massage. To get the kinks out,” he said innocently when she shot him a stern look. “I’ve got pretty good hands. If I do say so myself.” He flexed his fingers as he grinned down at her from his perch on the ladder.
Amanda had firsthand knowledge of exactly how good those hands were. Which was why there was absolutely no way she was going to take Dane up on his offer.
“Thanks, anyway. But I think I’ll just take a long soak in a hot bath.” Suddenly uncomfortably aware of how dirty and sweaty she must look, she was anxious to escape.
“Suit yourself.” He flashed her another of those devastating smiles, then returned to his painting.
She was halfway up the steps when he called out to her.
“Yes?” She half turned and looked up at him. He was so damn sexy, with that tight, sweat-stained T-shirt and those snug jeans that cupped his sex so enticingly. He reminded her of the young Brando, in A Streetcar Named Desire. Rough and dangerous and ready as hell.
It crossed Amanda’s mind that if Eve Deveraux had ever seen her vice president of international operations looking like this, she probably would have offered to triple his salary, just to keep him around to improve the scenery.
“If you change your mind, just let me know.”
“Thank you.” Her answering smile was falsely sweet. “But I believe that just might be pushing your hospitality to the limit.”
“We aim to please.” The devilish grin brightened his dark eyes. “Service With a Smile. That’s our motto here at Smugglers’ Inn.”
She might be confused. But she wasn’t foolish enough to even attempt to touch that line. Without another word, she escaped into the inn.
Enjoying the mental image of Amanda up to her neck in frothy white bubbles, Dane was whistling as he returned to work.