The Bare Facts (10 page)

And Dylan wasn't the best paid and most sought after ad exec at Westin, Mayer and Martin for nothing.

He got up from his chair and caught her as she tried to scoot by him. “Food really spooks you, huh? Did you have some traumatic experience in your childhood that made you afraid of dining, Miss Lawton? Did you spill your milk? Did the dish run away with the spoon?”

She cracked a smile, but quickly suppressed it. “I've got to write the column.”

“Likely story, but I think it's a cover-up. I know. Is it fish? Does it scare you? Are you afraid you're going to get…bones? My God. How can we stand the anxiety? Or is it beef?” He grimaced and brought his hands to his mouth, pantomiming horror. “Are you afraid of…mad cow disease?”

This time she laughed. “The fantasy's over…”

“Or is it chicken? Do you lie awake at night wor
rying whether it's free-range or coop? Oh, the pain of it.”

She hit him. “You are crazy.”

“I am, but I make a mean fettuccine Alfredo without a piece of meat in sight.”

“All right. But no wine.”

He smiled as he grabbed his suit coat off the back of his chair. “I promise. No wine.”

 

T
HIRTY MINUTES LATER
he was busy boiling water for the fettuccine and stirring the Alfredo sauce.

Dylan liked the tight black leggings with a big lime green and white polka-dot shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal her creamy arms. Haley had used his bedroom to change the moment they had arrived.

He'd changed, too, into a soft pair of black flannel lounge pants and a soft gray, well-worn long-sleeved T-shirt. Right now, she was tearing lettuce for a salad.

“So what have you come up with for this beer?” Haley asked, shooting him a sideways look.

“Lame ones, not even worth mentioning. The basic idea for a campaign is called the concept. We do something called concept testing before we waste time, effort and money on something that won't work. The way we find that intangible something is we sit around and brainstorm. We write all these ideas on a white easel. We have them typed up and sit around in another meeting trying to work them into a viable idea.”

“Then you test the concept with a focus group to prepare commercials?” She grabbed a tomato and be
gan to slice it into wedges, dropping them into the salad bowl.

“Yes to the focus group. No to the commercials. Thinking in terms of commercials alone is too narrow. We always think in terms of an ad campaign. Print media, TV and radio spots all mesh together with one thematic concept.” Dylan stopped stirring the sauce. He opened a box of noodles.

“Do you start with a slogan?”

“Sometimes, if it hits us we do. But maybe we're burned out.” The sauce began to boil. “Haley, could you stir this?”

She came over to the stove and picked up the spoon to stir the sauce. “Maybe you should try a spa getaway.”

“What do you mean?” He dropped the fettuccine into the boiling water.

“Go to a spa. Get pampered, massaged, manicured and wrapped. Like a mini-retreat.”

“Can't say the team wouldn't jump at the chance.” He wrapped his arms around her. She leaned against him; he could feel the heat of her skin radiating the excitement she felt; smell her delicate perfume and the special essence that was her.

“How about, ‘Green Dog Beer—It's for Everyone.'”

“Not bad for a thematic concept, since the Brits want to reach all markets, but it lacks some punch.”

She was silent for a moment and he swore he could hear the wheels twirling in her agile brain. “How about, ‘Green Dog Beer—It's Class-less.'”

Dylan smiled, giving her a quick squeeze to lessen his criticism. “We need a slogan that works both ways. ‘It's Class-less' has a negative connotation. Say you were working with a headline. Something that would be a play on words.”

“Mmm, a headline.” Again the short silence. “‘Green Dog Beer—It's in a class by itself'?”

“You've got the idea, but that slogan only works one way and singles Green Dog out. People would think that it was a high-priced beer, not one everybody would drink. So, you've got the idea, but you're not quite there yet.”

“So, if I use, say, ‘Green Dog Beer—It's a class act.' That would still be a one-way ad.”

“Right. Now you're cooking.” He took the spoon out of her hand so that she could get back to the salad.

Haley walked to the counter and continued to chop, her face pensive. “How about, ‘Green Dog Beer—It's full of class.'”

“Catchy. Works both ways. By George, I think she's got it.”

“Really?” She looked up into his face.

She had such delicate features that always took his breath away. He got lost in the blue of her serious eyes. “Really. I never shoot down an idea. Always build on it. You never know where the ideas will come from or how they'll flesh out. Sorta like a story, I guess. What do you envision going on with the slogan?”

She came around the counter and wiped her hands on a dish towel. “It's beer, so I guess a bar scene
would be something everyone would recognize, and it would instantly promote camaraderie. Even rich guys have friends and go to bars.”

“Good.” He reached out and captured a lock of her hair, absently wrapping the curl around his finger.

“How about something on the theme of that old joke ‘A guy walks into a bar…'”

“In what way?” He reached over and turned off the sauce.

“Well, to indicate that everyone drinks Green Dog. Some way to concretely show that it's a beer for the masses. How about this—a chef, a punk rocker and a magician walk into the bar…”

“Oh. I see where you're going.”

“A dog is sitting on a bar stool.”

He smiled. “A dog. What kind of dog.”

“One of those little, um, English terriers, to show it's an English import?”

He nodded. “So far so good.”

“Wait. Not just a dog, a green dog. And the bartender says to him, ‘A chef, a punk rocker and a magician come into a bar…' and the dog looks at the camera, rolls his eyes and says, ‘I've heard this one…' Then the bartender laughs and slams down a frothy mug of Green Dog and the announcer says, ‘Green Dog Beer—It's full of class.'”

Dylan stood there staring at her, realizing that she'd just pulled his keister from the fire. “Haley. That's great.”

“You really think so?” She looked so pleased, he had an irresistible urge to kiss the soft curve of her
cheek and run his tongue along the soft inviting skin of her neck.

“Yeah, let me get this down on paper.” Creative energy made his insides jumpy, and his hands itched for paper and a pencil.

While Dylan was searching, Haley put together plates and came into the living room. She had this feeling of euphoria that she'd been able to help him with his work. She set the plates on the coffee table. After a second trip into the kitchen, she brought two glasses filled with mineral water.

She sat down and watched while he sketched. The intensity on his face made her sit closer to him so she could see what he was doing. She watched as her idea came alive on paper.

She picked up a plate of fettuccine and took turns shoveling food into her mouth and his while he concentrated on the pad in front of him.

“Since this is a campaign,” Haley said after swallowing a delicious mouthful of Dylan's noodles and sauce, “I think you should build on the first ad. You know, have more outlandishly dressed people. Say, a showgirl, a cowboy and a clown, illustrating people from all walks of life.”

“What would the dog say?” he asked as his hand moved over the sketch pad and the scene came to life.

“Who's the clown?”

Dylan's soft husky laugh seemed to slide inside of her and act as a potent agent to heat her blood.

There were times like this when she felt herself backsliding. He seemed so down to earth, so sincere.
Perhaps he had gone against his family's wishes and gone into advertising.

“Is this what your family wanted you to do?”

“No.”

“So you went against your father's wishes?”

“My dad thinks that there's nothing outside of Wall Street. I think he still expects me to get sick of advertising and join him someday in the firm. It isn't going to happen.”

“You said that he wanted you to go to Brown, but you wanted to go to NYU. Why?”

“I'd been in Ivy League schools most of my life. I was tired of it. I wanted to…”

“See how other people lived?”

“It sounds like you don't have a high opinion of me.”

“You were the one who said image is everything.”

“Yeah. You're right not to have a high opinion of me. It's safer for you that way. I had it drilled into me since I was little how important it was to be a Malone.”

“Are you going to tell me why you went to NYU?”

“I went to NYU because I wanted to feel normal. Not Roger Malone's son. But even at NYU I couldn't escape my family duties.” He reached down and picked up the storyboard.

She wanted to ask him why he had such pain in his voice when he talked about family duties, but she didn't dare. She was already too close to him.

“This was great. I got to see a master in action,” Haley said.

“I'll present this to the team tomorrow.”

She bent over all the sketches and notes Dylan had made, her face inches from his lips. She felt the intense attraction to this powerful and creative man.

Time to move. She got up and walked to the bank of windows and looked out. “You have a great view here for people watching.”

“I sure do,” he said.

Haley glanced over her shoulder. Dylan had followed her into the dim interior of the room. The track lights cast his features in shadow. He was leaning against one of his bookcases, his arms folded over his chest. He'd been running his hands through his hair. It was mussed and fell over his forehead.

It was more than she could resist, so she turned back to the window. “You know. We're not really that different in what we do.”

“How are our jobs the same?”

“We're both trying to fill up white space and inform and entertain. We just go about it in our own individual way with our unique and individual minds.”

“And a very lovely mind it is.” He was there, the palm of his hand sliding down her bare forearm.

She turned to him and in that place between shadow and light, Haley wavered. That wonderful gray limbo where she could either shatter or shiver.

She reached up, giving in to her need to touch him. Brushing the silky hair from his forehead, she felt hot
inside when he leaned into her touch and closed his eyes in pleasure.

She drew her fingers down his cheek, fascinated by the faint prickly stubble there. How exotically, wonderfully different he was to her. She touched his mouth, traced his lips with the tip of her finger. “
You
are so beautiful,” she whispered as his lips tilted beneath her questing finger. “Hold me.”

She was so weary of fighting against her instinct to nuzzle against him. And it would feel so good to be held in his arms right now. Later she would pull herself back together; later she would focus on being strong. Right now she wanted to be held in Dylan's arms. To be soothed by his strong heartbeat. He enfolded her in his embrace, and the heady, exotic scent of him surrounded her. She pressed her head to his chest, and his heart sounded steadily beneath her ear. In the gray limbo she chose to both shiver and shatter.

He undressed her as he guided her into his bedroom and onto the comfortable, beautiful sleigh bed.

She heard one faint warning voice dimly in the back of her mind when her eyes fluttered open to see him gazing down at her, hard masculine intent stamped on his features. But before she could interpret the voice, he was on the bed with her, kissing her again, and the fire they had started became a conflagration. He rolled them both so they were on their sides facing each other. His shirt disappeared along with other pieces of clothing until he was hot and naked against her.

“Damn,” he said softly. “I need to get protection.”

“Okay,” she heard herself say as if from a distance, and came fully conscious as she felt his weight leave the bed.

She sat up as he strode quickly from the room, and even as the sensation he evoked in her remained, she felt her sanity resume. What was she doing? Haley shook her head. For the first time she'd become highly aware of the sensual abandon she felt stretched out against the silky sheets. She'd be sorry if she went through with this, a rational voice told her. She knew what Dylan Malone was, and how he felt about her. She couldn't possibly expect to vie with the multitude of other women in his past, his present and, she was sure, his future. She suddenly knew that would be a no-win situation.

She slipped her legs over the side of the bed and slid out, astonished at how unsteady they were. Quickly she scanned the room and, strewn on the floor, close to the door, she saw her suit jacket and decadent bra. She rushed over and quickly picked them up, feeling a presence behind her. She turned. Dylan was in the doorway, so close to her she could feel his heat. Stunned by his magnificent form, Haley swallowed, even as she clutched the clothing to her.

Her eyes traveled over the impressive length of him, and she closed her eyes in wonder. He was exquisitely formed, muscular, and the evidence of his desire in the condom made it perfectly clear that he
found her just as desirable. He was marvelous, and Haley suddenly knew that she could not bear to leave him. She wanted him and he wanted her. There were no more questions and no more doubts. She pushed away the uncertainty of how she would recover when the fantasy was over.

“Did you change your mind?” he whispered in a voice laced with hot, slow promise.

“Almost,” she replied honestly.