One Mad Night (2 page)

Chelsea's pulse was racing from fury and from a couple of sultry Ian Rafferty looks. It took a moment before she noticed Farrah, who had actually managed to lift her gaze from her phone. She was staring wide-eyed at Chelsea. “Wow. You don't
sound
very nice.”

“Oh my—will you just come on?” she said irritably and stalked off, yanking open the office suite doors, bound for her cubicle to review her pitch for any signs of Chrysler LeBaron Syndrome.

The
shot
is
long, a two-lane road wending its way
through the mountains. In the far distance, a car is approaching. It's red. A male voice-over: “You know what you need. Performance. Sex appeal.” The red Tesla speeds into view. Suddenly we're in slow motion—the driver of the car, a good-looking guy in his thirties, expensive shades, open collar. A blond with a great rack in the passenger seat, gazing adoringly at him, her hand on his chest. The car rolls by, and the man looks out his window, winks at the camera. “It's all right here, in one package. Looks. Performance. And it's good for you. It's good for the world. It's good for all of us.” The Tesla fishtails away onto a mountain road, and the blond lets something fly out the window. A bra. The picture fades to the Tesla logo: Tesla. Environmentally conscious sex appeal.

There it was, fifteen seconds of advertising genius. Chelsea was crazy—there was nothing adolescent about it. This was a campaign that would speak to the thirty- and forty-something hotshots looking for a cool car, but who also wanted to be on the cutting edge of alternative fuels and energy.

“Run it again,” Ian said to the kid in the back of the media room. The ad started up again, and Ian could feel a big fat smile spreading across his face as he watched it. When it was over, he looked at Zach Zimmerman, another account guy. “It's good, right?”

“It's better than good, it's
great
,” Zach said. “I'd buy that car. I'd
do
that car.”

“That's what I'm talking about,” Ian said and stood up; he tapped his friend on the shoulder with his fist. “You're going to be my wingman when I get the account.”

“I'd rather be your wingman at the W Hotel,” Zach said. “There are some hot chicks hanging around that lobby, and I could use you to lure them in.”

“It's a date. Just let me get past this presentation, and we'll do it.” Ian winked at his friend, gestured for the assistant to lock it all up, and went out, heading back into cube nation.

This presentation was more important than he let Zach—or anyone—know. They'd brought him into this firm because he was so good at what he did, and Ian could, with all due modesty, agree that he was one of the best. Grabber-Paulson had approached him several months ago and told him they wanted him to be the guy who took great ideas and kicked them across the Grand Canyon. They wanted him to be a pitch guy, the face of Grabber-Paulson. Brad Paulson and Jason Sung had wined him and dined him, made him some pretty grand promises about fast-tracking to partner, and paid him a hell of a lot of money to leave the Huntson-Jones Agency.

Over cocktails one night, they'd explained to him that he'd be the “it” guy, that there was only one other person in-house that was good, but still not as good as he was. Her name was Chelsea Crawford. “She's great at some things but not others,” Brad had said. “And we're not sure she's right for cars. That's where we want to go.”

“Yeah,” Jason said cheerfully as he popped some nuts into his mouth. “Chelsea's the type who does all the research and knows what the market is. But when it comes to sex appeal, she doesn't deliver.” He popped more nuts into his mouth.

Ian had pictured a middle-aged woman in sensible shoes, someone with thick glasses and a desk lamp to study the graphs and charts of market trends. He knew he could work rings around that faceless woman.

“You know what we need, Ian?” Brad had asked, leaning across the table to him. “We really need to step it up. Give consumers that thing they've never seen, that thing that makes them crazy, that thing that makes them think they
have
to have it. And we think you're the guy to deliver that
oomph
.”

In the end, Ian had been persuaded to take the job. He'd given no more thought to Chelsea the researcher until he met her, and damn it if the woman didn't knock his socks off. He wasn't expecting a dark-haired, green-eyed tall drink of water. He wasn't expecting her to have enticing curves and a pair of legs that he kept imagining wrapped around his waist. He didn't get why Jason said she didn't deliver on sex appeal, because in his eyes, she was oozing it.

Chelsea had been friendly, but at the same time, she'd given off a vibe of being too busy, too involved with her life to get to know him. That was cool, he understood it. When they first went up against each other to compete for the Zoot Restaurant account, he'd tried to befriend her. Ian didn't know why—he was competitive, sure, but he didn't live or die by winning an account. He'd thought Chelsea was of the same mind when she'd congratulated him after he landed the account.

But things between them changed, he noticed. She'd been a little cooler toward him after that. And then she'd gotten the Canon camera account, and Ian hadn't liked it. He'd believed his idea to be clearly superior and felt like Jason was throwing Chelsea a bone. It didn't help that when he stopped by her very neat and orderly cubicle to congratulate her, she'd said, “
Booyah!
I win!” And she'd laughed as she'd done a goofy little dance around her cubicle.

The gloves came off when they both went after the Allmen Insurance account. Ian had to hand it to Chelsea—her idea of a day in the life of a hapless American family was good—the family's accidents had touched on all the key selling points for Allmen. But Ian's idea was better, sharper, more in tune with today's society. His idea was to show a teenager who had just gotten his license plowing through a storefront when he forgot to pay attention. It was cute and it hit on that thing that everyone worried about—the cost of insuring teen drivers who were never without a phone.

He'd taken that account.

When Chelsea came around to congratulate him—begrudgingly, he noted—he'd given her a taste of her own medicine. “
Smoked
you,” he said. “Bada-bing, bada-boom.”

Chelsea had put her hands on her waist and glared up at him. “Nice,” she'd said. “Exactly what I would expect of a guy who plays to the lowest denominator.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Figure it out,” she'd said enigmatically as she tried to make an exit out of his cubicle. But Ian's wasn't as neat as hers, and his gym bag and basketball shoes were on the floor. She'd tripped on them and knocked into the wall, hitting her elbow. “
Ooouch
,” she'd said with a painful wince as she stumbled out of his cubicle.

“Serves you right,” he'd muttered.

Shortly after that, the Tesla account was dangled before him. Ian was definitely the man for it, and in fact, he wanted it so bad that he'd come up with three spots to show the partners, not just the one they'd asked for. His showpiece was the sex appeal with a conscience, but he also had a how-far-how-fast-can-you-go-on-a-charge spot and another one for the made-in-America spot. He wasn't going in with just one idea. He was going in with a
campaign.
A menu of genius for them to choose from, if you will.

Tomorrow was the pitch to the top dogs at the agency, and on Friday, the partners would announce which campaign they were presenting to Tesla. The word on the street was that this account was Grabber-Paulson's to lose, so it was assumed in the office that whoever the partners chose would win the account management.

He didn't know exactly what Chelsea had planned, but he'd heard some talk around the office that led him to believe he had this in the bag. That hadn't stopped him from baiting her every chance he got, mainly because he never failed to get a reaction and secondly because he really wanted the Tesla account and was not above a little gamesmanship. It wouldn't hurt to knock his competition off balance. And he wasn't going to cut her a break just because she was a woman. He was going to win, and he was going to crush his competition on the way.

He worked that afternoon on some other accounts, and at about three o'clock, he thought he'd get some coffee. As he walked toward the break room, he happened to notice Chelsea inside one of the conference rooms. All of the conference rooms had glass walls, the theory being that just seeing people be creative would spark creativity. That's why there were so many big toys lying around too—basketball hoops, pogo sticks, big balls to roll around. Creativity went hand in hand with play, so they said. Ian never had any brilliant advertising ideas when he dropped in on a game of basketball near his apartment, but whatever. He supposed it worked for some.

Chelsea was pacing in front of a blank projection screen, talking. What she was doing, practicing her pitch? Ian changed direction and headed for the conference room, strolling in through the open door.

It took a moment for Chelsea to notice him, which gave Ian a moment to admire her. He was going to crush her tomorrow, but that didn't stop him from appreciating a figure that guys like him dreamed about. Chelsea was wearing a skirt today. It hit about mid-thigh and was tight enough to show off all her curves. She looked a bit taller today too. He glanced at her feet and noticed the shoes. Chelsea was walking on stilts, and her legs, good God, her
legs
. She was smoking hot in that dress and those shoes.

“Hey!” she said sharply, her voice full of accusation.

Ian's head snapped up. “Hey,” he said congenially. “Practicing your pitch?” He settled one hip onto the conference table.

“Do you mind?” She gestured to the door in a be-off-with-you way.

“If you want, I could listen and give you some feedback.”

Chelsea's mouth dropped open. And then her green eyes narrowed into little slits. “You have got to be the most arrogant man I've ever met.”

Ian smiled and shrugged.

“You can go, Ian,” she said, marching around the conference table to usher him out. “I think I've got it.”

“Suit yourself.”

“I
will
.”

“So hostile,” he said with a wink as he stood up. “I'm just trying to help. It never hurts for someone to hear the pitch, right? You've had someone listen to you go through it, right?”

“Yes, I've had—Hey,
hey
,” she said, poking him in the chest. “Are you trying to play me?” she demanded. “Because it won't work. I'm not some junior account person, you know. You can't intimidate me.”

“Well, obviously,” Ian said and poked her back. “You wouldn't be pitching at all if you were a junior account person. I know I can't intimidate you. It wasn't a declaration of war, you know; it was an offer to help.”

“It wasn't a let-me-help, best-friends-forever offer, either. I'm not playing games with you. This account means a lot to me—”

“Me too.”

“Oh yeah?” she said, shifting closer. “Well, don't get too attached to the idea. I've got seniority, you know.”

“So why are you so afraid to show me what you've got?”

“Because it's none of your business.”

“On the eve of the championship, it's okay to go out and shoot some hoops with your competitor. It's not going to affect tomorrow's big game. It's not like I can go out and change weeks of work overnight if I see you've got something better.”

She laughed. “Good try, Rafferty, but I think maybe the reason you want to see
my
pitch is because you're worried about the strength of
your
pitch. Is it a little rough? Maybe I should listen to you.” She winked, and her green eyes shone with pleasure at her comeback.

“I'm definitely
not
worried about my pitch.”

“No? Seems to me if you're presenting three,” she said, holding up three fingers and wiggling them at him, “then you must be uncertain which one is the winner.” Her smile broadened into sheer triumph, as if she thought she'd really zinged him.

She hadn't zinged him, but Ian did wonder how she knew what he had…
Zach.
Of course. That rat bastard. “Have you been talking to Zimmerman?” he asked accusingly.

She shrugged and studied her manicure. “Maybe. Does it matter? I thought we were doing the let's-help-each-other thing. But if we're not, would you mind toddling off? I have a lot of work I need to do before tomorrow. I plan to hit the ground running with this account on Monday.”

She was amazingly and annoyingly confident. Ian was generally a confident guy, but she was making him a teensy bit nervous. “You really think you're going to get this, don't you?”

“I don't think, I
know
,” she said, looking up.

He tilted his head to one side to study her. “Isn't it obvious to you why they brought me in?”

“I don't know—I haven't given it the slightest bit of thought.” She lifted her chin, and Ian realized she lied about as well as she engaged in verbal volleyball. “I've been promised that this account is as good as mine. Didn't they tell you
that
when they brought you in?”

A bit more of Ian's confidence leaked out of him. He'd been in New York advertising long enough to know that the industry was full of snakes. He wouldn't put it past anyone to feed him a bunch of half-baked promises to get him to commit. “Who told you?”

She grinned. “None of your beeswax.”

“Come on, tell me—” His phone rang, distracting him momentarily. He fished it out of his pocket and noticed the number was the Grabber-Paulson main number. That was weird. “Listen, I'll just say this,” he said, clicking off the phone. “Don't be so sure of things. People say things they don't mean, especially in this industry.” He started for the door.

“Uh-huh, I know. And I would offer you the same advice, Mr. Rafferty,” she said in a singsong voice, and she flashed a dazzling smile, full of straight white teeth.

“Cocky too. I like that about you,” he said. “I'll keep it in mind when I make partner.” He winked at her, smiled as if he was completely unbothered, and went out of the conference room. He paused just outside the door and hit the button to return the phone call. Hadeetha, the receptionist, picked it up. “Hi, Hadeetha,” Ian said. “Did someone call me from this number?”