Bringing Down Sam (2 page)

There were other instances, so many she couldn't remember them all. But this time she was standing firm. There was no way on earth she was going to try to set some guy up for a romantic fall. Not on a bet, not on a dare. It wasn't gonna happen.

She told herself that, again and again.

Yet, somehow, two hours later, Eve found herself nodding wearily as they went over the plan one last time. Even Diana, usually the voice of reason, had been sucked in and was agreeing with the ridiculous idea, and she had a lot more to lose than anyone else. Probably because she was also incredibly protective of Leanne.

"So, we're clear," Diana said. "You'll stay in the company condo here in Philadelphia for at least two weeks."

"I still don't see why I have to stay there," Eve said, still wondering how on earth they’d gotten her to agree. It was insane. It was risky. It was just plain stupid and juvenile.

But somehow, they’d gotten her to say yes. Maybe because she just couldn’t stand seeing the sadness in Leanne’s face any more and her agreement had made her best friend smile. Maybe because she’d had a couple of margaritas.

"Well, he's sure not going to buy you as a big world-traveling model if you stay at the Budget Inn, is he?”

“Probably not. And that’s about all I could afford.”

“And if you bunk with one of us, he might suspect something!"

"You're sure you're not going to get in hot water for letting me stay at the condo?"

"Absolutely not. The penthouse sits vacant forty weeks out of the year. It's for execs and high-profile visitors the magazine brings in. No problem whatsoever with you using it."

"Goody," Eve mumbled, reaching for the pitcher.

"I'll do my part. I can make sure Sam first sees you at just the right moment, and under the perfect circumstances." A secretive look crossed Diana's face, and Eve could only imagine what she had in mind. "Ruthie will supply all the aphrodisiacs needed. You get him to take you to her hotel for dinner and she’ll be sure to load him up on oysters and chocolate."

“And me on garlic and onions,” Eve muttered.

Diana shot her a dirty look. “Eve...”

“Well,” Eve insisted, “I said I’d make him want me, not that I’d let him have me!”

"What’s my job?" Leanne asked.

"You're on call to be my cheerleader," Eve said quickly, taking Leanne’s hand. "And to listen to me whine when Diana works me like a slave at the magazine office."

Diana smirked. "Sure, hon. We all know you just hate the thought of getting in front of a camera again."

Eve didn't know how she felt about that part of their plan. She understood the necessity. If she was going to get Sam Kenneman to fall for her, she had to be the ideal woman—the one he described in his book—no matter how personally unappealing. Playing ditzy model would help with that goal.

"So, Eve, do you think you can do it? Get this guy to go nuts for you, then drop him like a hot potato, in as public a way possible? Preferably with paparazzi witnesses?" Ruthie asked, grinning with wicked anticipation.

"She can do it," Leanne said, her eyes sparkling with humor.

It was the sparkle that made Eve nod her head in agreement. Leanne deserved vindication. So did every other American woman whose man had read
101 Ways To Avoid Commitment
and decided his successful, career-oriented girlfriend was too smart, too witty, too much a real woman to stick with.

Sam Kenneman had better look out. He was about to take a one-way drive straight down to dumpsville. And Eve Barret was going to be the one behind the wheel.

"Never date women who are too smart. It’s too easy for them to figure out you’re lying when you say you have to go on a secret mission overseas and won’t be calling for a while." -- from 101 Ways To Avoid Commitment

Eve groaned as she finished reading more of Sam Kenneman's book. Pitching the thing across the dressing room, she nodded with satisfaction as it careened off the edge of a makeup tray and hit the floor. "I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

The stylist spraying a ton of hairspray on her long curls shook her head. "Oh, no, honey, you're going to be fabulous."

The woman smiled, obviously thinking Eve was nervous about the impending photo shoot. If only that were true. Eve wished the bouncing in her stomach was merely a case of butterflies at the thought of being in front of a camera again. But it wasn't the photo shoot making her nervous. It was the live audience.

"I can't believe you've never done any modeling before," the stylist said. "With your looks, you could be huge."

Eve nearly laughed. Not done any modeling? Good grief, she'd been stuck in front of a camera when she was a year old! She'd done ads for baby food, diapers, dolls, clothes, anything a pretty child could be forced to pitch.

She'd never, ever expected to model again. Not even for a prank. It wasn't because she hadn't liked it. She'd found in the years since she'd walked away from her career that she missed the excitement and the fun of pretending to be someone else. But the bitter feelings of being used had tainted the memories.

The stylist finished and left the room, leaving Eve alone. She sat in a tall chair, before a mirror-covered wall. Eve had an uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu, remembering the days of makeup and hairstyling, of photo shoots and filming. All the nights of crying, wondering why her father couldn't just let her play with other kids for a change.

How funny that her three dearest friends, who'd given her the strength to walk away from that life at eighteen, were the ones who'd managed to cajole her back into it.

"It's crazy," she whispered. But she'd promised. And Eve Barret never went back on her word. So she'd try to do the impossible— bring down Sam Kenneman.

A soft knock sounded on the door of the dressing room. Glancing up, Eve saw Diana enter the room. Her dark-haired friend bit the corner of her lip, an unfamiliar sheepish look on her face.

"It's all right." Eve sighed. "I'm not backing out."

"You can if you want to," Diana assured her. "I mean, it all sounded just fine last Tuesday after a few drinks, but now, well, I will understand if you don't want to do this."

Eve hesitated, then said, "I don't
want
to do this."

Diana looked disappointed. "Okay."

She let Diana sweat before continuing, "But I'll do it, anyway. I read a bit of his book. And I have some firsthand knowledge of how it's affecting some women's lives. Sounds like someone needs to teach the jerk a lesson. I just wish he liked brassy brunettes like you, or elegant angels like Leanne."

"But he doesn't. He likes drop-dead gorgeous, big-boobed bimbos."

Eve groaned. "That's what bugs me. I don't know about this whole bimbo angle."

"We told you. Over and over in the book he talks about never getting involved with brainy women. He won't go for someone who has anything between her ears, especially not an English teacher from tiny-town Pennsylvania, no matter how stunning she is!"

Eve nodded. Diana was right. Eve was not a bit ashamed of who she was, or what she did. She loved teaching and was proud that her students seemed to flourish in her classes. She wouldn't trade her days with a room full of fifteen-year-olds for a bunch of directors or photographers. But a man like Sam Kenneman obviously went for flash and style, not depth and substance. The realization was another nail in the man's coffin.

"It's stupid, it's immature, it's juvenile, but I promised you I'd give it a shot, and I will."

Diana grinned. "I knew it. Let's go."

Eve took a deep breath. Glancing at the clock, she noticed it was nearly nine. Just about show time. "Hope the big guy's prompt," she muttered as they walked out of the dressing room.

Sam was running late. He swung his car into a parking garage across from the magazine's downtown office building and yanked a ticket out of the machine. Of course, there was not one vacant spot on any of the first four levels. Typical.

Reaching into his briefcase, he grabbed his digital voice recorder and brought it to his mouth. "Chapter eight, keeping the sparkle in her eyes and the spark in your relationship. Pull out the
His World
article from June '04 for the survey on what women really want in the bedroom."

Clicking the recorder off, he slid it into the pocket of his tailored suit. He always carried the thing with him because when hit with an idea or question about his writing he had to catch it right away. If he didn't, often the exact wording was lost when he tried to think back on it. His new book, which he tentatively called
Keeping Her Satisfied
, was rolling right along, but he still needed to keep track of his thoughts.

He wondered what the public would think of it. Most of his readers expected a follow-up to his commitment book. Not many of them knew he'd written two other humorous books on relationships prior to that one. They hadn't sold well, but he'd sure as hell liked them better than his last one, which seemed to have sparked a controversy no one, himself included, had ever anticipated.

Even his sister and female friends chided him about it, and they knew better than anyone that the book was a joke. All right, he was willing to concede, it was possibly inspired by a break-up with his last girlfriend. And yeah, maybe the fact that she'd decided a potential career with an ad agency in New York was more important than a two year relationship with Sam had given him a great deal of inspiration. But, all in all, the thing was still a joke. Why couldn't the rest of the world get it?

He'd be glad when the furor over this book died down, hopefully with the re-release of his first one, which was called
A Poor Sap's Guide To Making Amends.
It was also a tongue-in-cheek relationship book, but focused more on what idiots men could sometimes be and the best ways to get a woman to forgive and forget. Apologies and foot rubs being his top recommendations.

Hurrying out of the garage, Sam dodged traffic and ran across busy Chestnut Street. Pushing through the glass-paned double doors at the entrance to the ten story office building, he paused at the receptionist's desk. "Diana Gerard scheduled a photo shoot for this morning...do you know which studio?"

The woman told him where he was expected, giving him a friendly smile, accompanied by a quick batting of her eyelashes. Sam sighed. Lately he only ever met two types of women—those who hated his guts and wanted to send out the hit squad. And those who wanted to cure him of his wicked ways, wanted to prove to Sam Kenneman that commitment was not a four-letter word. As if he had ever really thought it was.

Sam knew plenty of guys who were happily married, faithful, devoted. Just because he couldn't picture himself being one of them did not mean he didn't believe they existed. His bachelor status he attributed directly to one factor—he just hadn't met the right woman. But he'd know when he did. And she'd be just about the diametric opposite of the woman he'd jokingly touted in his commitment book. No blonde, built, empty-headed nympho for him. Nor would he make the mistakes his father did and marry the right kind of woman for all the wrong reasons.

Sam took the elevator up to the fourth floor and made his way to the studio. Pausing outside the door, he glanced down and did a quick mental evaluation. Suit was pressed, shirt was clean, tie was straight. He looked presentable. Good enough for a photo shoot with a bunch of other guys the magazine called
Real Men Of The New Millennium
.

Sam wasn't surprised the magazine had chosen him for the feature. With a dozen other publications competing for the same health conscious, modern male reader,
His World
was looking for anything to boost sales, and their own columnist had a best-selling book out right now. Why not exploit him?

Sam ran a quick hand through his short, thick hair, then entered the studio, but nearly stumbled on his feet when he saw who was occupying it. “Whoa," he murmured.

The half-naked blonde was about the most stunning woman he'd ever seen. Sam froze just inside, wondering if he'd wandered into the wrong place. He glanced at the sign on the door as it slowly closed behind him. No, the receptionist had told him the photo shoot would take place in studio four, right where he was. But, obviously someone had made a mistake. A photo shoot was already in progress. "Lucky me," he whispered as he watched in silence.

The model was tall. He shouldn't have been able to tell, because she was reclining on her side on a chaise lounge. But her legs...well, as his father's old chauffeur Clyde would have said, they stretched from heaven clear down to the ground and would tempt a saint to be a sinner.

"Okay, sweetheart, almost there, give me the look, you know the one I mean, show me what you want."

Sam listened as the photographer coaxed the model and wondered what it was the woman
wanted
. He didn't have to wait long to find out. The blonde rose slightly, lifting one shoulder and her neck so her back was arched and her head tilted. She thrust her chest out and held her body in a physical invitation to anyone who saw her. Sam hissed through his teeth, and shifted in his pants.

"Never get caught with a hard on in public just from seeing a hot blonde in a white silk negligee," Sam muttered, wondering why he hadn't thought to put that instruction in his book. He nearly pulled out his digital recorder to whisper the comment, wondering if there might come a time in the future when he'd be able to use it.

The blonde didn't seem to hear his whispered comment. No one did. So Sam continued to stare.

She was a virgin bride on a wedding night, who looked like she knew the secrets of a French Madame. Though her gown was pure, innocent white, her heavy-lidded eyes and pursed lips told an entirely different story.

Her negligee was definitely silk and undoubtedly soft and sensuous. Sam was something of a connoisseur, especially after the in-depth article he'd done last year on the allure of expensive lingerie, and could tell because there were no telltale snags which would have hinted at a cheaper nylon. It had thin spaghetti straps, one of which had fallen loosely over the shoulder she had curled forward for her pose. The neckline was low, the beaded bodice not covering much of her full breasts.