Can't Say No (2 page)

He tried to make himself sound like a nominee for martyrdom, but Audrey wasn't buying it. She knew all about those wine tastings. Harvey's extraordinary talents would not be taxed. What she didn't know much about were balloon races. She tried to pin Harvey down on the details. “Simple, straightforward PR and that's it? You're absolutely sure? There are no hidden agendas, no arranging middle-of-the-night tête-à-têtes for the boss?”

“From all I've heard, Blake can handle those quite nicely on his own. As for you, you'll get an all-expenses-paid weekend in Snowmass or Aspen. Take your pick. I'll even consider throwing in a few extra days on the company, if you want to spend the rest of your vacation there. I hear it's great in the summer. You can go hiking, go to the music festival, whatever it is people do in those ski resorts when there's no snow on the ground.”

“And my nonrefundable ticket to Hawaii?”

“No problem. We'll cover it and you can reschedule the trip for whenever you like.”

Audrey regarded him warily. There was some little nugget of unpleasant information Harvey had yet to share with her. There had to be. He was still awfully edgy. “What's the catch?”

“There's no catch.” He made a little cross-my-heart gesture. Audrey noticed he didn't quite finish it, probably because he knew God would strike him dead on the spot.

“Harvey, I know you. You don't go tossing around paid vacations unless you know there's something I'm going to hate.”

Harvey regarded her indignantly. “Well, you will be delaying your vacation in Hawaii. I know how much you've been counting on it. Isn't that enough?”

“It is for me, but I have this funny little suspicion nagging at me that it's not enough to explain your sudden burst of generosity. What's the rest?”

“Well, you will have to get up a little early....” At the lift of her brows, he hurried on, “But it won't be so bad, really. It's just for a couple of days. You're a real trooper. You can manage.”

“Forget the snow job. How early?”

Harvey stared at the Monet print behind her desk, another ominous sign. Usually he could at least manage to look her in the eyes. Besides, he hated that print. He'd always said it was too “mushy.”

“Harvey!”

“You'll have to be at the rodeo grounds in Snowmass by six to keep an eye on what's happening.” He beamed at her again...unconvincingly. “But by noon you should have the rest of the day to yourself and it is only for the weekend. After that you can sleep all day, if you want to.”

“Six o'clock in the morning?” Audrey had asked in a horrified whisper. “Harvey, you know perfectly well that I can barely get my eyes open by nine. I certainly can't function before that. Do you want to trust Blake Marshall's public relations to a woman who's practically comatose?”

“You won't have to function exactly, at least not at that hour. You just have to show up, look things over, make a few contacts.”

“Sounds like functioning to me.”

“It'll be a breeze. I promise. You know Blake's reputation. He loves the limelight and the media gravitate to him. He'll do most of his own public relations.”

“Then why do I need to be there at all? He'll probably fire both of us, when he discovers you've hired a woman who can't talk in coherent sentences until lunchtime.”

“You're doing okay now.” Harvey had grinned at her and looked as though he might pat her on the head. If he had, she might very well have slugged him.

Instead, he simply said, “I want you there because Blake Marshall owns this winery. Sales are climbing and he's a hot story, if we play it right. If he wanted the entire public relations staff to fly balloons from Snowmass to the East Coast as a publicity gimmick, we'd all be climbing into those flimsy little baskets.”

Even Harvey, who claimed more than his share of unorthodox youthful adventures, had shuddered at that prospect. “Fortunately, he seems to be willing to do that part himself. All you'll need to do is put in an appearance and make sure the press and Blake get exactly what they need, a lot of solid PR for Blake Marshall Vineyards and his
Grapes of Wrath
balloon.”

“His what?”

Harvey grimaced. “I know. I didn't pick the name. Ask him about it. Maybe it has something to do with that notorious temper of his.”

“I hope it's because he reads Steinbeck,” Audrey had retorted, stalking off to make her plane reservations only to discover that Harvey, the smug creep, had already made them for her.

So, here she was on Friday at barely 5:00 a.m., with rain pouring down outside and the temperature hovering around 50 degrees. It was July, for God's sakes! This was definitely not Hawaii.

Three alarm clocks strategically placed around the room and a wake-up call from the front desk were needed just to get her out of bed. She was still standing bleary-eyed in front of a cracked mirror—another ominous sign?—wondering once again why she didn't have any of that noble strength her mother swore her name was supposed to impart. As near as she could recall, the last time she had said no effectively, she had been barely two and it was practically the only word in her vocabulary. According to her parents, it had been her favorite for quite some time. Maybe she'd used it all up.

More likely, she was just a sucker for a sob story. All that stuff about Joe's pregnant wife, for instance, had gotten to her, played on her sympathy, just as Harvey had known it would. Five minutes after she'd left Harvey, though, she'd realized it was also so much hogwash. Kelly Marie was expecting a baby all right—in October, three months from now. She'd been sitting in her office muttering curses about her gullibility, when Joe had walked in to thank her. He'd looked worried sick.

“Kelly Marie's been having problems,” he'd said, running his fingers through his wheat-colored hair. His freckles stood out even more than usual against his pale complexion. “The doctor wants her to stay in bed for the next three months. If she doesn't, we could lose the baby. I just couldn't go away, Audrey. I'm real sorry about your vacation, though. Harvey promised he'd take care of it.”

Audrey had immediately forgiven Harvey and thanked heaven that she hadn't given him a rough time about it. It would only have made Joe feel guilty and he didn't need anything more to worry about right now.

“You just take good care of Kelly Marie,” she'd reassured him. “I'll work things out with Harvey. Hawaii will still be there, when I get around to it. Is there anything I can do for the two of you before I go?”

“No. Kelly Marie's mom is helping out, too, so we're okay. You just try to have a good time.”

She tried to tell herself that she'd instinctively sensed that Joe's predicament was real, but that was utter nonsense. She'd said yes because being a good sport had gotten to be a habit. Her friends reminded her of that every time she crawled out of bed in the middle of the night to pick one of them up or drove across town in rush hour traffic to substitute for the baby-sitter who'd failed to show up.

Less than a week ago she had been lured into leading an entire troup of raucous Cub Scouts around Fisherman's Wharf, and she still wasn't quite sure how she'd gotten pulled into that! One of her friends had been a very fast talker. Putting her crying, hiccuping eight-year old on the phone to plead with Audrey had probably been the clincher.

“We knew we could count on you” was rapidly becoming a refrain that turned her stomach.

“Enough is enough,” she muttered, gesturing determinedly with her toothbrush. “No more Ms. Nice Guy. No more Understanding Woman. No more guilt when you turn down some outrageous request. Do you understand that, Audrey?”

“Got it,” she retorted sleepily and stepped into the shower. Maybe a week in Aspen wouldn't be so bad after all. Maybe she could use the time to reread every book ever published on assertiveness. Maybe this time their message would sink in and she could go back to California with a new aggressive, stand-firm outlook. It was one thing to be a friend people could call on in a pinch. It was quite another to be a doormat.

By the time she'd made the twenty-minute drive to the Snowmass Village rodeo grounds, she was prepared to say an emphatic no to everything just for practice...with the possible exception of a large cup of very strong coffee.

* * *

A half hour later, with caffeine surging through her bloodstream, Audrey stepped gingerly from the shelter where a full-scale country breakfast was being served by volunteers from the Little Red Schoolhouse day care center. The rain had stopped, leaving the cool, damp air smelling crisp and pungent with the lingering scent of horses, though there wasn't a single animal grazing in the sprawling meadow or roaming in the paddock. A sliver of bright blue sky sliced through the dark, low-hanging clouds, hinting that a spectacular dawn was about to break over the snowcapped mountains.

Pickup trucks and cars hauling trailers were pulling into the meadow, where the contestants were beginning to unload their equipment. Cursing the dampness, which was already seeping through her shoes, Audrey headed for the field in search of Blake Marshall.

She'd only met the man once and then very briefly. Yet the impression that remained fixed in her mind was of overwhelming masculinity, self-assurance that bordered on arrogance, and the startling blue eyes and curling dark hair of an Irish rogue. Even if she hadn't seen dozens of newspaper and magazine clippings since then, she doubted she would have any trouble in spotting him. She'd need only to look for the largest circle of beautiful, adoring women dressed in the very latest color-coordinated sportswear, their flowing waves of sun-streaked hair pushed back by designer sunglasses.

As she worked her way toward the launch area, she was suddenly overcome with unexpected curiosity at the bustle of activity around her. She'd never imagined that this many people could be masochistic enough to rise before dawn. She paused as one of the contestants began to unload the cargo from a trailer.

Out came the gondola, which resembled an oversize wicker basket with an identifying number on the side. Then came a huge fan that reminded her of the kind that were once used to cool living rooms in a pre-air-conditioned era, followed by a dangerous-looking propane tank. Finally came a huge bundle of burgundy material. She eyed it skeptically. It didn't look nearly sturdy enough to provide a means of transportation over the mountain range. In fact, it didn't look like something that ought to get off the ground.

“Hey, you! You in the burgundy shirt.”

The husky, masculine voice came from about fifty feet away and had an imperious tone that immediately made her hackles rise. She whirled around to encounter the scowling features of Blake Marshall, hands on slender, denim-clad hips, a bright blue windbreaker stretched taut across broad shoulders. Fully prepared to offer some snappy retort, she found herself simply trying to catch her breath. He was far more for midable than she'd remembered and as sexy as the most lurid tabloids had portrayed him.

“You work for me, right?”

“Yes. I'm Audrey Nelson. I work—”

“Never mind all that,” he said impatiently. “Just get over here.”

Audrey wanted to believe that the man had an incredible memory for the faces of each and every one of his employees. In fact, for an absurd, fleeting instant, she wanted to believe he'd never forgotten their one brief encounter in Harvey's office, but she suspected his recognition had more to do with her burgundy-colored “Marshall Arts” sweatshirt. They'd been given to members of the company softball team. The pun of its name hadn't been the only thing wrong with that team. It had been neither strong, nor particularly adept. The mere fact that she was even on it had been a bad omen. She had reluctantly volunteered, after Harvey had told her that they were desperate—
“really desperate”
—for one more player to substitute in emergencies. He'd spent the first three games patiently trying to explain the rules. Fortunately she'd never had to go to bat.

“You're late,” Blake announced as she strode slowly toward him, feeling a sudden surge of adrenaline that had nothing at all to do with the coffee. She wasn't wild about his attitude, but that smoldering look in his eyes was something else. “I wanted the crew here at six.”

There was something wrong with that sentence, but she was too sleepy to put her finger on it. “I was here at six. I stopped to get some coffee. Is there something in particular you'd like me to do for you, Mr. Marshall?” She was deliberately cheerful and cooperative. The man was her boss, after all. There was no point in antagonizing him. Harvey had warned her he took this balloon race nonsense seriously. Maybe the media had been bothering him and he was looking for someone to act as a buffer. She wasn't sure she was alert enough to fend off flies, much less a pesky reporter, but she was willing to try.

“You can start by opening the envelope,” he said briskly. “John will help you, if you need him.” Then he turned his back on her and went back to doing whatever mysterious task he'd been doing before he spotted her.

“I beg your pardon.” Maybe this envelope of his contained important instructions, but she didn't see one lying around. Nor did she have the vaguest idea who John was.

He glanced over his shoulder and regarded her quizzically. “You do know how to unroll it, don't you?”

“Not exactly.” She still didn't even know what it was, but saw no point in giving away too much about her ignorance. It was bad enough that she was having to delve through mental mush to come up with words that made sense.

Blake shot a disgusted gaze heavenward, then grabbed the balloon—so that's what it was—and began demonstrating. “That's all there is to it. Even a novice should be able to do it. Where the hell did you take your lessons?”

Audrey shot him a horrified look. “But that's not what I'm here for.” What if the damn thing got all tangled up and crashed because of something she'd done? She'd be responsible for the death of the man
Fortune
had described as California's brightest young entrepreneur, one of the men to watch in the coming decade. If the courts didn't get her, Harvey surely would. “Wouldn't you rather I go look for some of the media?”