Hours later Krista found the time to seek out her business partner and friend Judy Phillips. Night was closing in as she drove down the freeway in her silver Saturn, exiting at a Bloomington exit near the Mall of America, following the searchlights to Hawkson Motors.
Three salesmen jogged in her direction as she came to a stop in the large lot crammed with automobiles. With elbows up and feet flying she managed to dodge them for a dash to the brightly lit showroom.
Krista smiled her first big smile of the day. There among a circle of children stood Judy. The fragile fair-haired, fair-skinned woman was barely recognizable in a bright-purple wig, full face makeup, billowy dotted pantsuit and huge floppy black shoes.
She and Judy had been sorority sisters at Hamline University. They’d clicked their freshman year, discovering they shared many of the same interests. Both were ambitious and determined to earn a business degree. Working on campus on various volunteer committees they discovered they had a knack for promotion. With the aid of Krista’s Simona Says salary, they were able to start a business of their own right out of college.
Krista stood by patiently, while Judy shook hands with the last of the adults and gave hugs to the children with zeal, directing them over to a senior citizen named Mr. Duff, whom they’d hired from a temp agency to distribute helium balloons.
“It’s seven already? I need a cup of coffee!” Judy led Krista through the showroom to a private lounge in back, next to the parts department.
The room was stark and smelled faintly of motor oil. They sat on molded plastic chairs, balancing paper cups full of bitter coffee from a huge urn. Judy placed a small paper napkin on Krista’s blue skirt, then passed a clear plastic platter of small hard cookies with the aplomb of a duchess. “A sweeting, milady?” she said primly.
Krista laughed, taking a ginger cookie. “This reminds me of the sorority teas we gave to loosen up stodgy professors.”
“Remember the time the house mother asked you to make some Russian tea cakes?” Judy said, setting the platter back on the wooden table beside the urn. “They were worse than these little bombs.”
“They weren’t!”
Judy’s huge painted green eyebrows jumped on her creamed white face. “They were.”
Krista winced. “Maybe they were a little hard.”
“You just hate ever being less than perfect, ever losing control of a situation.”
“Speaking of losing control…” Krista pushed her glasses up her nose and glanced round the break room to make sure they were still alone. Satisfied, she went on to relate the aunts’ dilemma. Judy had been in on the charade from the start, encouraging Krista to be daring enough to take the role. She’d offered steady encouragement at every rough spot over the years.
“Surely you’ve got this Simona gig perfected by now,” Judy said, bending forward to pat the cold hands in Krista’s lap. “You’ll be fine.”
She smiled faintly. “I hope. The aunts have decided they don’t trust me an inch. I just got a fax at the office outlining any number of scenarios I may encounter with Doughman, and how I am to respond.”
“How is that?”
“It all boils down to outwitting him and appeasing him without admitting any wrongdoing or compromising Simona’s principles. They feel the man is a dud and expect me to fight their position to the death.”
“With what weapon?”
She blushed. “My sex appeal.”
Judy laughed. “Well, you are a knockout as Simona.”
Krista waved fingers in a fluster. “Thanks, but I intend to lead with brain power. On that I know I can rely.”
“At least be prepared for erotic combat. Have Romano himself do your hair and makeup.”
“Already set up a morning appointment. He’s charging me double, but he’s the soul of discretion and willing to make a house call.”
“Which Simona ensemble have you decided on?”
“I have only four. The black lace evening gown with slit up the thigh. The white satin blouse with long flowing skirt. The royal-blue sequined mini tunic. And the red knit shift with the metallic threads running through it. Plus the silver shawl that coordinates with everything.”
Judy gave the matter sixty seconds of consideration. “I suggest you wear the red shift. The color is so striking with your hair and the cap sleeves on the shoulder can be pulled down, in case of emergency.”
“I suppose I could. But I will be bringing along the shawl.”
“Chicken!”
“It’s the best I can do, feeling so out of place in that sort of slinky clothing.”
Judy stood up and put a reassuring hand on Krista’s head. “C’mon, it can’t get stranger than spending the day in a clown suit.”
Krista shifted in her chair to stare up at her partner. “Wish we could’ve traded places. I’d gladly have taken the clown role.”
“I love you, Kris, but you just don’t have the jolly carefree spirit for it.”
Krista grinned, but the observation hurt her, just a little bit. Did no one on earth appreciate her fun streak?
IT WAS DRIZZLING LIGHTLY the following morning as Krista, a.k.a. Simona, alighted from a cab along Marquette Avenue at the entrance of the Minneapolis Monitor Building. Under an awning stood her anxious aunts Beverly and Rachel, dressed in raincoats and plastic hats to protect their stiff sprayed hairdos, as well as Rachel’s managing editor boyfriend, Bob Freeman, in sports jacket and slacks.
Bob didn’t look like a ladies’ man with his balding head, thick waistline and ill-fitting clothing. But he had a remarkable personality and gentlemanly manner. He wasted no time moving across the sidewalk to pay the driver.
He guided Krista to the aunts as if she were some kind of precious commodity. “Here she is, safe and sound. Looking adorable.”
Adorably trapped perhaps, one white-knuckled hand gripping a tote bag, the other at the collar of her buttoned-up raincoat. A part of Krista still could not believe she’d agreed to this.
“There’s little time to lose,” Bob said brusquely, handing the ladies their visitor ID badges. “Rach, get our captivating Simona up to room 1411. I’ve made arrangements to meet Michael Collins in the lobby.”
“That is Doughman’s name,” Rachel explained to Krista as they whirled through the revolving doors on a human wave.
Krista thought she saw a couple of women with Minneapolis Monitor ID badges in hand come to attention at Bob’s mention of Simona, but she couldn’t be sure. She understood that Bob was nervous about the whole affair, but he shouldn’t have made the slip. Krista was an enigma at the newspaper. No employees had ever seen her up close.
The three Mattson women crowded into an elevator car, which emptied by the time it reached the exclusive executive floor. Rachel knew exactly where they were going and steered them down a maze of corridors.
Room 1411 was upscale with decorated leathers, polished oak and rich blue carpeting. Both aunts gratefully tore off their damp rain gear, but Krista resisted. Her small outfit was…chilly.
“This space belongs to a vice-president on vacation,” Rachel explained with a tinge of self-importance. Then she scampered over to the desk on her high heels. “Quick, Krista, let me show you how the phone system works.”
Krista glared at the console full of buttons. “Does it matter?”
“Yes, oh, yes.” Rachel used a long red nail to depress a large button at the top of the console. “This is the intercom. You want to keep it on.”
“Why?”
Rachel was exasperated. “So we can listen in the room next door.”
Beverly, standing by with a hand on her ample hip, agreed. “And give you a jingle if you get off track.”
Krista balked. That wasn’t part of the deal!
Before she could protest, the phone gave a single sharp ring. “That’s Bob’s signal,” Rachel trilled, pushing her sister toward a connecting door on the opposite wall. Together they called out parting instructions.
“Ooze with charm, dear.”
“Try and be sexy. Best you can, anyway.”
MEANWHILE, IRRITATED CHICAGOAN Michael Collins was getting the VIP treatment from Bob Freeman, who was escorting him through the lobby to a private elevator. As they whizzed smoothly upward in the paneled car he felt a little sorry for the Variety department managing editor he’d tussled with by telephone. Freeman was being so gracious, just as he’d been on the wire when Michael had been spouting off at the top of his lungs. But it had rankled Michael that Simona hadn’t called him personally. For the second time, Freeman was apologizing for that, taking the entire blame, claiming Simona gladly would have contacted Mr. Collins if asked to. But Freeman was in the habit of protecting Simona from the public. Most cranks—er, ah, complaints—held not a fraction of significance.
Michael once again assured him that his complaint was serious, indeed. As was his threat to sue anyone in sight. His future was in the balance.
The car stopped on floor fourteen, with Bob leading the way. Offices located in the core of the building had long windows on the corridor walls to give them a less claustrophobic feel. Room 1411 was one of these rooms.
As the men glanced through a pane with mini-blinds at half-mast, Krista was facing the opposite way, slipping a damp black raincoat off her shoulders to reveal a svelte figure in a little red dress. The dress hemline rode high to reveal long legs sheathed in dark hose, the backline plunged low to reveal a length of ivory spine.
Completely unaware of her audience, she flung her coat on a nearby chair and shook the raindrops from her loose black hair. Then she sauntered over to the desk holding her tote bag and did a supple deep bend, pulling out a long silver shawl, which she draped ever so gently over her shoulders.
The males, suddenly bonded in male appreciation, didn’t spare a breath between them.
Bob Freeman snapped back to reality first, clearing his throat, touching the rim of hair above his ear.
Michael wasn’t so quick on the rebound. He swallowed hard, hoping to clear his ringing ears. Simona was exquisite! Her grainy photo in the newspaper didn’t begin to do her justice.
His body’s instant response to her charms was frustrating. But it was a natural reaction. Simona was most desirable, at least behind the safe wall of glass.
With effort he stiffened his back. He would do well to remember his anger, his outrage. Beautiful women like Simona used men as chew toys, then tossed them away! Even men she didn’t know got the treatment—through that wretched column of hers.
Oddly, Bob Freeman also seemed affected by their unintentional window peeping. He had to be accustomed to Simona’s moves and he was her boss. But there was no mistaking Bob’s slow recovery as he grasped the doorknob, swung in the heavy paneled door and plunged inside with the finesse of a chubby schoolboy.
“My favorite columnist,” Bob said a bit too jovially.
She spun round then, regarding them with surprise, instinctively tightening the shawl on her shoulders.
Michael was dumbfounded. Caught in an unguarded moment, she emitted a dizzying swirl of vibes: vulnerability, modesty and, remarkably, a twinkle of intelligence. Qualities in direct conflict with the sloppy gooey advice she doled out each and every day in her column.
As if recovering, a protective mask fell into place over her face, concealing anything of value. “Thanks, Bob.” It was a throaty dismissal, which Bob obeyed with a hasty exit.
Suddenly the couple was alone, in a room alive with electricity.
Michael took a good hard look at his nemesis. Her dark eyes were a rather unusual shade of midnight blue. Her mouth was a pleasing size, with just a flash of white teeth. Her complexion was bronzed to an exotic hue, expertly blended with a number of earth tones.
This was going to be a battle of the sexes. A heated, intense battle.
To his credit, Michael had never suffered from any complaints about his own looks, with a towering build, thick blond hair and dark-gray eyes. He was representing himself well today, in a new gray suit, hair clipped short and neat. He sensed a note of approval in Simona’s gaze. No matter how unconscious her gesture, it felt good, considering the stinging slap his ex-fiancée’s letter and Simona’s reply had caused him.
“I’m Michael Collins,” he said formally, extending a hand.
Krista slid her hand into his larger one, offering him a grip firm enough to make his brows jump. “I am Krista Mattson.”
“So you don’t care to be addressed as Simona?”
She shook her head, causing her loose mane to sway. He couldn’t help noting the henna highlights in her hair were similar to the metallic threads in her dress.
“I’m guessing you don’t care to be called Doughman, either.”
“No, I don’t. In fact, I prefer to keep that particularly humiliating tag between you, me and Irritating In Illinois.”
“You mean, Irritated In Illinois.”
“Depends upon your perspective,” he grumbled.
“Well, if you insist on a lawsuit, all will come out.” She flashed him an infuriating smile.
“Maybe we can avoid opening the floodgates on our personal business,” Michael acquiesced.
“Have a seat, Mr. Collins.” She gestured to one of the huge leather chairs fronting the desk. “Let’s see what we can do.”
Michael bristled. Was the directive to sit the kind of deliberate ploy often used in business to gain the upper hand? How would an airhead like Simona know of such things? Out of pride and curiosity he sat down in the chair adjacent to the one she’d selected for him. And she noticed. A frown marred her lovely features as she took her place behind the desk.
Krista settled back in the leather desk chair, which seemed too large and low for her. “Please, carry on.”
“Believe me, I wouldn’t be here at all if your stupid advice to my fiancée hadn’t completely wrecked my life, put a strain on my future success!”
Her artfully shaped brows arched. “Exactly how did I accomplish all this?”
He shifted in his own chair, which seemed too small for his towering posture. “Well, I own a Decadent Delights franchise in Chicago, am set to attend their upcoming convention.”
“Ah, the doughnut company.” Krista’s tone held appreciation. “Though the chain hasn’t reached the Twin Cities, I’ve tasted them several times on trips to Manhattan. The shops are bright and inviting, done in pristine green and white tile. The air is warm and sweet, a virtual sugar dough heaven.”
“Sounds like you can appreciate a good doughnut and a well-run place.”
Her smile suggested as much.
Michael started as he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. His head snapped sideways to find a group of spectators at the double windows along the corridor. “You sell tickets to our show?”
Krista followed his gaze with open dismay as at least twelve people, an equal balance of male and female, peered inside the room without a qualm. So, the women in the lobby had overheard Bob Freeman. Bracing herself, she gripped her shawl closed and rose fluidly. Navigating her sinfully high heels as best she could, Krista sauntered to the windows and snapped down the mini-blinds on the dozen agog faces. Taking a steadying breath she returned to her chair.
“Do you ever sacrifice a chance at the limelight?”
She hesitated, then smiled slyly. “Can I help it if the public is interested in me?”
“I would have thought that a matter this serious would warrant your complete attention.”
“It does!” She resumed her place at the desk, wearing an expression of polite concern. “Now, please, tell me about your situation.”
Appearing rather disconcerted, he continued. “It’s difficult to explain the importance of these conventions to an outsider. But to franchise owners like me, it is the rare chance to shine for company founder Gerald Stewart. He hosts a lavish convention for his employees every few years in his hometown of Las Vegas. I’ve been attending regularly since I started working part-time for shop owners Norah and Allen Larkin, then on through my culinary school years, ultimately to the opening of my own franchise. With every convention, I made it my business to interact with Mr. Stewart. Year after year, I’ve played the DD game by routinely sending in a personal anecdote for his monthly newsletter.”
“Is the newsletter a big deal?” she asked.
“It’s the electrical current running through the company. Gerald Stewart is big on family values and the newsletter is his way of humanizing his huge corporation. Unable to have children, he chose to adopt his employees nationwide to make up his extended family. The unfortunate death of his wife several years back has made him all the more sentimental about his people. It isn’t easy for a private man like me to reach out with folksy anecdotes. But it’s a system that works, that I can respect.”
Krista found herself following his logic, approving of his business tactics with nods of understanding. When she realized she was slipping out of character, she tossed her head back and fluffed her hair.
He leaned over the desk in urgency. “In short, I’ve tried to make mine the best Decadent Delights franchise possible. I love my job. I’m proud of my success.”
“As you should be, Mr. Collins,” she managed to say.
He appeared buoyed by her support.
She leaned back in her chair, heady with seeing her earlier suspicions confirmed. This masculine hunk was born in her own image—a male version of her!
It was all too tempting to imagine what it would be like to be in Irritated’s place, dating such a dynamic go-getter. The idea of discussing one’s dreams and the challenges of the day over a variety of Decadent Delights doughnuts was so very appealing.
Michael Collins was very appealing, indeed.
A sharp peal brought her back to reality. She glanced at the telephone console. Button three was lit up. It had to be the aunts, primed with complaints.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.” It rang five more times, though. She finally picked up the receiver. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop the ringing. Krista pushed some buttons at random but couldn’t figure out what was wrong. In her defense, the system didn’t resemble her own at Bigtime Promotions.
“This system appears similar to mine.” He stood up and examined the console. “Oh, you seem to have the intercom on. That’s the problem.”
“I didn’t even notice,” she rallied. “Must have been the cleaning staff’s mistake.”
He jabbed the black button, then the glowing white one. The ringing stopped and he sat down again.
Beverly’s voice boomed in her ear. “This isn’t an A & E Biography special. Listening to this dud’s résumé is a precious waste of our time.”
“This particular recipe is more complicated than you know, Aunt Beverly,” she improvised cheerily. “You have to start with a dollop of honey. Now I know you aren’t especially fond of anything sweet, but—”
“I’m a regular sweetie pie when I need to be. Got all my lessons from an expert tart named Rachel a long time ago. We both want you back on track, bringing this man to his knees, begging your forgiveness! Now cut short the businessman’s special and do it the old-fashioned way. Drop that shawl, give those cap sleeves a tug south!”
“Maybe I already have.”
“Don’t kid a kidder. Now get to it—and push the intercom back on!” Click and buzz. It took Krista a moment to recover from the scolding and surreptitiously nick the intercom button with her knuckle. Michael Collins really couldn’t see the phone console clearly unless he stood up. “Aunt Beverly’s making a new bread recipe,” she offered lamely.
Michael expressed interest. “You from a family of cooks, then?”
“We dabble,” she laughed. They enjoyed a comfortable moment. She felt secure enough to let the shawl slide to her elbows. Michael appeared frozen in appreciation. “As you were saying?”
He cleared his throat to recover. “Anyway, this year’s convention starts next week. It’s the most important convention yet, the stakes are unusually high.” Closing a hand he gave his chest three self-righteous beats. “I had my plans set, was geared up for the challenges. Everything was perfect—” he took an incensed breath “—until you butted in!”
“Exactly how is this convention so different from previous ones?”
“There’s a big contest among about fifty franchise owners to make the next DD doughnut flavor to be distributed nationwide. The winner gets a hundred thousand dollars and a fair amount of fame, with his photo displayed in every store. Without question, this is the highest honor ever offered by Gerald Stewart.” His expression could only be described as reverent. “We contestants are to gather in a kitchen at the convention site to prepare our recipes. A small elite panel of chefs will judge the entries, with Gerald Stewart himself having the final say.”
Behind her lashes she could envision a kitchen full of sweet smells and the sharp scent of keen competition. She couldn’t bake her way out of a nursery school with an Easy-Bake Oven, but she still understood the spirit of it all. What she didn’t understand was how his jilted fiancée affected the convention.
“Are you trying to tell me you can’t cook without this woman at your side? Is she your inspiration or what?”
“I’ve explained!”
“Not about her you haven’t.”
“Oh? Guess it’s really simple. With Gerald Stewart’s family values policy, no unattached bachelor has a chance of winning that contest.”
The business angle again. Not what Krista expected to hear from a crushed Romeo. “Rather than condemning Simona Says, maybe you should be threatening to sue Gerald Stewart for rigging a contest for discrimination,” she suggested helpfully.
He waved off the idea. “It isn’t blatant discrimination that I can prove. And Gerald Stewart doesn’t mean any harm. He just has a soft spot for family. Let’s just say the odds are against a bachelor winning.”
“I’ve read about Gerald Stewart,” she admitted. She knew Simona probably wouldn’t have, but it seemed a necessary admission to back up her point. “He sounds like a shrewd straight-shooter. If your doughnut recipe is good enough, you will win on your own merit, despite your single status. Plainly, you’ve managed quite nicely within the system so far as a bachelor.”
“Being a bachelor has been fine. I guess. But things have changed. To Mr. Stewart, to the whole corporation, I am as good as married.”
“Why?”
He hesitated briefly. “I impulsively sent in a brief teaser to last month’s company newsletter, announcing my upcoming nuptials.”
“You’re a fast worker, calling attention to your rushed engagement to a calorie-conscious whiner.” Krista’s midnight-blue eyes rolled.
He made a defensive squawk. “At the time it seemed wise. I wanted Gerald Stewart to acknowledge my engagement come convention time. And it worked beyond my wildest expectations. He’s honoring Irritated and me, among others, at the convention’s kickoff cocktail party. Who knows how much trouble he’s gone to. Plainly, he’ll be annoyed to learn his efforts were for nothing, that I couldn’t hang on to my woman. I’ll be much worse off than the average bachelor contestant, let me tell you.”
“You will appear the bungler,” she said, half under her breath.
“Thanks a lot.” Then he gave a wave. “Oh, what’s one more insult? You’ve already called me a dud in your syndicated column.”
Krista was especially sorry that the aunts had resorted to such name-calling. Michael, or any man for that matter, deserved a chance to prove himself more than a dud. As it was, his intense silver gaze searing clear through her scanty costume and minuscule lingerie made the man and the moment far from dull.
Despite family loyalties, salaries and skating lessons, she felt a magnetic pull over to his side. It took effort to keep in mind her aunts’ position. “As much as I might appreciate your dilemma, I must say your fiancée had no business taking the column so literally. It is an entertainment piece. Showbiz. Simona’s remarks are meant to stimulate and titillate rather than educate or inform. There are other columns more grounded in reality—”
“But my girl chose yours! Like hundreds of other Americans must do every day. Though I can’t think why. I went to the library to examine some of your previous columns and was appalled by the glib, romantic gibberish you dole out time after time.”
“It’s all done in the spirit of fun. Maybe that’s what is lacking in your life. A spirit of fun.”
“I can be. Fun.” Despite his claim, he erupted in a very ill-humored growl. “I’ve worked so hard to build a solid life plan here. Then to have a ditz like you come along and pull out a linchpin. Have you no conscience about that?”