Jacquie ’Alessandro - Just Trust Me…

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The second book in the Adrenaline Rush series, 2006

KAYLA WATSON hurried through the Miami airport, cursing the high heels that prevented her from breaking into a dead run. Of course her gate was at the very end of this seemingly endless concourse. Damn it, if she missed her flight-

She cut off the thought, refusing to consider the havoc that would wreak with her already insane schedule. Her cell phone rang and she shot it an impatient glance, grimacing when the name Nelson Sigler showed on the caller ID. As much as she didn’t feel like talking to her boss at the moment, he was the CEO and expected her to answer the phone when he called.

“How’d the photo shoot go?” Nelson asked without preamble.

Exhausting. But, as the director of public relations at the New York office of La Fleur, the world’s most innovative cosmetics company, Kayla was well-acquainted with putting a positive spin on things. Especially headache-inducing photo shoots that pitted cranky, moody models against impatient, moody photographers.

“Fine,” she answered, forcing a cheery note into her voice as she wove through the crowd. “The photos will be fabulous. Perfect for the new ad campaign.” Right. Just don’t ask how much finessing and cajoling and feather-smoothing it took to make certain of that.

“Good. No problem with Alicia?”

The mere mention of the petulant model’s name made Kayla’s eye twitch. Alicia possessed a million-dollar face-and a diva streak the size of North America. She showed up late for her bookings, and was difficult when she finally did arrive. Which was why the photo session had run late. Which is why sweat now oozed down Kayla’s spine as she hurried to make her flight.

“Everything with Alicia worked out perfectly,” she told Nelson in a soothing voice.

“Excellent. You sound out of breath.”

“The shoot ran a bit long and I’m dashing to make my flight. I’ll see you at the office tomorrow.”

She’d no sooner disconnected than the loudspeaker warned, “Final boarding call for flight 254 to New York.”

Many gates and travelers still stood between her and her flight. Too many. Reaching down, she yanked off her heels and ran. When she arrived at the gate five minutes later, barefoot, sweating, breathless, the gate agent said, “I’m sorry, you missed the flight. But I’ll be happy to re-book you on the next one. It departs in two hours.”

Swallowing her frustration, Kayla thanked the woman, then, with her new boarding pass in hand, she flopped into the nearest seat, her mind spinning with the various appointments she’d need to reschedule courtesy of this delay-when all she really wanted to do was take some aspirin for her pounding stress headache and go to sleep.

With a sigh, she reached down to slip her shoes back on, and her gaze fell on an issue of U.S. Weekly Review magazine a previous traveler had left on the chair next to hers. She read the bold-print headline: Stressed? Out Of Balance? No Change, No Gain!

A short, humorless sound escaped her. Between her job, helping to plan her older sister’s wedding, dealing with the drama that was her younger sister’s life, her matchmaking mother and what seemed to be a never-ending string of miserable dates, stressed and out of balance perfectly described the chaotic whirlwind her life had become over the past year.

She glanced around at the nearby travelers. Most seemed to be business people, talking on cell phones, tapping on laptops, all engrossed in their own little world, oblivious to everything and everyone around them, frowning, looking stressed. Is this what she’d become? Unfortunately, it seemed so.

With a sigh, she picked up the magazine and settled back to read the article. By the time she’d finished, Kayla felt emotionally drained, yet at the same time elated, renewed and filled with purpose. The article’s dead-on descriptions of the discontent and frustrations she’d been experiencing both personally and professionally made it seem as if the words were written expressly for her.

Yes, she was stressed. Yes, she lacked balance in her life. And according to the article, if she didn’t shake things up, step out her comfort zone, things would only get worse. No change, no gain.

Her gaze settled on the handwritten testimonial scribbled in ink at the end of the article, obviously by the magazine’s previous owner: “This changed my life. I hope it does the same for you.”

Kayla closed the magazine and held it against her chest.

She hoped so, too. Because she badly needed a change.

“YOU WANT ME to go where? To do what? With whom?”

After uttering those questions, Kayla stared at Nelson. Until thirty seconds ago, she’d thought her boss was a rational human being. Clearly, however, the man was insane.

Nelson stared right back at her over the tops of his bifocals. “To Peru. To spy. On Brett Thornton.”

Brett Thornton. Kayla barely managed to suppress a grimace. How was it possible to so thoroughly dislike a man she’d never even met? In the course of only four months, he’d become the bane of her existence. She was well accustomed to dealing with everything from the media to demanding executives to high-maintenance, diva-like models. Who would have thought that some unknown nerdy scientist could prove such a problem?

“I flunked Spying 101,” she said with a breezy laugh. “So clearly I’m not the best choice.”

“You are the best choice,” Nelson said in the deep, implacable tone Kayla recognized all too well after working for him for the past ten years. It was the tone that indicated he’d made up his mind and there’d be no changing it. “Thornton’s claims of developing an anti-aging formula that will not only render cosmetic surgery obsolete but has aphrodisiac qualities, as well, is the cutting edge we need.”

“Unfortunately every other cosmetics company in the world feels the same way.”

“Exactly. Which is why I want to make sure La Fleur has the upper hand right from the beginning. We lost out two years ago on that new sunless-tan formula. We’re not losing again.”

“But Thornton’s been dangling that golden carrot for four months and hasn’t produced yet.”

“Doesn’t mean he won’t.”

She made a disgusted sound. “My personal opinion is that he’s loving all the attention every cosmetics firm-including us-is lavishing on him. Basking in the perks, the wining, dining and wooing-he’s milking it for all it’s worth, and when it finally comes time to put out his so-called miracle product, he’ll have nothing.”

“That is a possibility,” Nelson agreed. “But it’s also just as likely he’s being cautious, and as aggravating as that is, I can’t blame him. If his claims are true, the product will revolutionize not only skin care but foreplay as well. Who could resist such a product? You know as well as I do that sex sells. And La Fleur will own the product.”

There was no need for him add “or else”-it was fully implied. And certainly if Thornton’s claims were true, Kayla wanted La Fleur to own the miracle formula. But after months with no physical proof, she had serious doubts as to whether Thornton’s claims were valid.

And then there was her personal dislike of the man. While she’d been spared dealing with him personally, her staff had not been so fortunate, reporting that Thornton was standoffish, refused interviews and didn’t return phone calls. Bad enough-but her one near-encounter with him two months ago had convinced her he lacked any redeeming qualities.

She’d spent weeks arranging a fabulous party in Thornton’s honor to introduce him to key La Fleur people, seen to it that every mover and shaker in New York had been invited, along with a host of local celebrities and all the La Fleur models. And what did Brett Thornton do? He’d abruptly left-without a word, before the party had barely begun. And before he’d been introduced to the managerial team, herself included. Furious and appalled by his rudeness, she’d been forced to improvise a plausible excuse to the company’s president, CFO and board of directors who looked to her to explain why the guest of honor was MIA.

Just thinking about it now fueled her anger all over again. As far as she was concerned, Brett Thornton-oops, sorry-Dr. Thornton as he’d insisted upon being called-was more of a headache than a roomful of hungover supermodels. He was just another arrogant overnight sensation who courted media interest, then turned into a first-class whiner about the “intrusive” attention. Exactly the sort of person she most disliked.

Nelson slid a sheet of paper toward her over his lake-sized glass-topped desk. “Here’s your itinerary. Your flight to Lima leaves at nine o’clock. That gives you plenty of time to go home and-”

“Whoa, hold it,” Kayla said, extending her hand like a stop sign. “Nine o’clock tonight?” Good grief, she hadn’t even unpacked from yesterday’s re-booked Miami flight.

“Tonight,” Nelson confirmed.