file. It caught on the edge and fell to the floor. She looked down at the mess and started to laugh again. Life was so perfect. Last night she’d worked until midnight, scribbling out her one remaining idea for a storyboard. Today the Joubert people had not only agreed to the $300,000 in production costs, but also to the $4.5 millionplacement budget. And P.J. felt sure she’d finally clinched a partnership.
She scooped up the color markers and dropped them into the carousel beside her drawing board, then walked to the window and gazed out at the Manhattan skyline. From the forty-eighth floor, the spectacular view never ceased to energize her. She was forty-five years old, though most people judged her to be ten years younger. And today she felt younger, much younger. Because now she was, at last, among the best.
She took a deep breath, aware that she was smiling. It hadn’t been all that difficult. When P.J. had first come to Manhattan twenty years earlier, jobs for art directors were plentiful—plentiful when you could toss back your thick hair, bat your emerald eyes, and know just when to part your full lips into a winning smile. And the body, oh, yes, the body was ever-important. Five feet six with long, firm legs, God-given generous breasts, and not a pinch of fat to be found. She had looked the part, and she had played the game. Now she was ready for the final payoff: a full partnership in one of the most prestigious ad agencies on Madison Avenue.
“Yes!” she shouted at the skyline. “The city is mine!”
The door to her office swung open. Bob Jaffee looked in. “Is the new executive up for lunch?” He closed the door behind him and stepped inside.
P.J. snapped around. “What did you call me?”
Bob smiled. “I think you’ve got it.”
She strutted toward him, adrenaline racing. “Did they say anything?”
“Nope. But they smiled at each other and nodded.”
P.J. threw her arms around him. “Oh, Bob! Do you think so?” Though she knew what his answer would be, it never hurt to make a man feel superior. It was a ploy that had been working for two decades: the ultimate bluff that had catapulted her career upward.
Bob kissed her neck, chuckling softly. “I know they’ve gone for lunch together. And I know the only time they do that is when there’s important agency business to discuss.”
She pulled back and looked into his blue eyes—bluer, she knew, from his contact lenses. “But why aren’t you with them?”
He dropped his hands from her back and began to stroke her hips. “I think they consider it a conflict of interest.”
She checked to be sure the vertical blinds at the glass wall facing the outer office were closed. No sense in having the secretarial pool witness their foreplay. “But you’re a partner too!” She pouted.
“A prejudiced one.” He took a handful of her hair and kissed it.
They had been lovers for three years. Bob had been divorced six years; P.J. had never married. They shared their lives with no strings, no hassles, just as wonderful, lustful, caring lovers. And with each accomplishment in P.J.’s career, their relationship seemed to intensify.
She pulled back from him a little, relishing the pride in his eyes, the pride that was for her whenever she’d performed well. “When do you think they’ll decide?”
Bob broke away and scratched at the hair on his neatly combed, graying temple. “My, my, aren’t you the impatient one?”
“Bob!” P.J. responded to his teasing. “Tell me!”
He crossed her office and stood by the bookcase. He ran a finger over one of her Clios. There were seven of them from last year alone. “My guess is they’ll decide today. But I don’t think they’ll tell you until Monday.”
P.J. moaned, then walked to stand behind him. She slipped her hands into the front pockets of his gray silk pants and playfully massaged his groin. “But when do you think they’ll tell you? They do need your approval, don’t they?” she
She scooped up the color markers and dropped them into the carousel beside her drawing board, then walked to the window and gazed out at the Manhattan skyline. From the forty-eighth floor, the spectacular view never ceased to energize her. She was forty-five years old, though most people judged her to be ten years younger. And today she felt younger, much younger. Because now she was, at last, among the best.
She took a deep breath, aware that she was smiling. It hadn’t been all that difficult. When P.J. had first come to Manhattan twenty years earlier, jobs for art directors were plentiful—plentiful when you could toss back your thick hair, bat your emerald eyes, and know just when to part your full lips into a winning smile. And the body, oh, yes, the body was ever-important. Five feet six with long, firm legs, God-given generous breasts, and not a pinch of fat to be found. She had looked the part, and she had played the game. Now she was ready for the final payoff: a full partnership in one of the most prestigious ad agencies on Madison Avenue.
“Yes!” she shouted at the skyline. “The city is mine!”
The door to her office swung open. Bob Jaffee looked in. “Is the new executive up for lunch?” He closed the door behind him and stepped inside.
P.J. snapped around. “What did you call me?”
Bob smiled. “I think you’ve got it.”
She strutted toward him, adrenaline racing. “Did they say anything?”
“Nope. But they smiled at each other and nodded.”
P.J. threw her arms around him. “Oh, Bob! Do you think so?” Though she knew what his answer would be, it never hurt to make a man feel superior. It was a ploy that had been working for two decades: the ultimate bluff that had catapulted her career upward.
Bob kissed her neck, chuckling softly. “I know they’ve gone for lunch together. And I know the only time they do that is when there’s important agency business to discuss.”
She pulled back and looked into his blue eyes—bluer, she knew, from his contact lenses. “But why aren’t you with them?”
He dropped his hands from her back and began to stroke her hips. “I think they consider it a conflict of interest.”
She checked to be sure the vertical blinds at the glass wall facing the outer office were closed. No sense in having the secretarial pool witness their foreplay. “But you’re a partner too!” She pouted.
“A prejudiced one.” He took a handful of her hair and kissed it.
They had been lovers for three years. Bob had been divorced six years; P.J. had never married. They shared their lives with no strings, no hassles, just as wonderful, lustful, caring lovers. And with each accomplishment in P.J.’s career, their relationship seemed to intensify.
She pulled back from him a little, relishing the pride in his eyes, the pride that was for her whenever she’d performed well. “When do you think they’ll decide?”
Bob broke away and scratched at the hair on his neatly combed, graying temple. “My, my, aren’t you the impatient one?”
“Bob!” P.J. responded to his teasing. “Tell me!”
He crossed her office and stood by the bookcase. He ran a finger over one of her Clios. There were seven of them from last year alone. “My guess is they’ll decide today. But I don’t think they’ll tell you until Monday.”
P.J. moaned, then walked to stand behind him. She slipped her hands into the front pockets of his gray silk pants and playfully massaged his groin. “But when do you think they’ll tell you? They do need your approval, don’t they?” she
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