Too Sexy For Marriage Page 2

  “So the bottom line is that throwing money out the window really can pay off,” station manager Tom Wiley droned, “as our most recent promotion, Throw Me the Money, proved. I confess I had my doubts about our morning crew tossing ten-dollar bills out the window to settle a bet about the Cubs’ losing streak last year. But for a mere five hundred bucks, we snared coverage for WMAX Radio on all of Chicago’s major television stations and in half a dozen papers. We made our fans happy, even if we did tick off the cops doing crowd control. Good job. And now I’d like to end this staff meeting by giving more kudos.”

  Heather tried to appear attentive, but Tom’s monotonous voice was enough to put a hyperactive kid to sleep.

  Besides, she already knew what was coming. The kudos always went to self-proclaimed “Doctor of Sportology” sportscaster Bud Riley. Each week it was the same. Management gushed, Bud grandstanded and then the meeting finally ended.

  “There’s one person here today I’d like to single out, someone who has been especially valuable to this radio station. Someone who we think is going to continue to improve some already great ratings, someone who has a natural talent and a devoted following…”

  Bud actually preened, not an easy thing for a mostly bald man to do.

  “So please join me in giving an enthusiastic round of applause to…”

  Bud was already on his feet.

  “Heather Grayson,” Tom continued. “Host of our hottest afternoon show, Love on the Rocks, where relationships are stirred, not shaken.”

  Bud sank to his chair in disbelief, while Heather almost fell out of hers for the same reason. This had never happened before. Bud always got his generous serving of flattery at the end of the staff meeting. It was a given, a no-brainer.

  “Stand up, Heather,” Tom instructed, even as Nita jabbed a friendly elbow in her side.

  Heather stood, self-consciously tugging on her baggy sweater. She’d forgotten today was Tuesday, staff meeting day, and had chosen an outfit that was put together with comfort rather than fashion in mind. Which is why she’d been sitting in the corner.

  “Say something,” Nita prompted in a whisper.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Right.” Bud snickered. “Not knowing what to say, that’s a great trait for a radio personality to have.”

  “I save the good stuff for my show,” Heather said, glaring at Bud’s head. God, his scalp was so shiny, you could use it as a mirror. She shuddered at the thought of ever getting that close to Bud’s head or any other part of him.

  “Well, keep up the great work, Heather,” Tom said. “That’s it, gang. Until next time…”

  If looks could kill, the one Bud gave Heather would have had her requiring immediate CPR. He was clearly not a happy camper. Since his latest divorce he’d become even more impossible than usual.

  Heather had tried to be understanding. After all, it couldn’t have been easy for Bud to have his young “trophy” wife leave him to run off with her personal trainer. But Bud had a way of repelling all offers of sympathy or friendship. In the nearly four years she’d worked at WMAX, he’d rebuffed all her gestures of friendship until she’d stop offering them. Heather disliked labels, but “office bully” fit Bud to a T.

  His latest victim had been Cindy, the new secretary. “You call these letters?” He’d ripped them up in front of her nose. “I’m not sending out garbage like that to my fans! Next time type them exactly the way I tell you to.”

  As a tearful Cindy had dashed out of the room, Heather had taken up the secretary’s cause. “Couldn’t you have cut her a little slack? She’s only worked here a week.”

  “Mind your own business!” Bud had snapped before stomping off to his office.

  Bud hated the fact that Heather wasn’t intimidated by him. But growing up as the ugly duckling in a household of goodlooking people had given Heather a unique perspective on life in general and insecurities in particular. No doors had been opened for her; she’d had to struggle with each one of them by herself. Even so, she’d managed to successfully cross every threshold with a zest that had become her own trademark.

  Heather had worked her buns off to get where she was today—the host of her own talk show. She’d put her heart and soul into the program. She’d come up with the show’s title and conceived the format, a phone-in talk show that offered advice with a twist of laughter to the romantically challenged.

  Humor was something that got Heather through life. And it would get her through this latest confrontation with Bud, who liked to brag that he’d attended the Howard Stern School of Sensitivity.

  “You want to know what I think?” Bud sneered, his trademark gravelly growl interrupting Heather’s thoughts. “I think you’re pretty pathetic.”

  Heather smiled at him, a surefire way to throw him. “What a coincidence. I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

  “What would a woman like you know about relationships between men and women?” Bud continued. “It’s a joke. It’s not like you’ve got any credentials.”

  The man was an attack dog. “What would you call my master’s degree in psychology and communication?” she said, feeling herself lose control and not caring one bit. Damn Bud and his sarcasm!

  “A boondoggle. You’re not a shrink or anything. And you certainly can’t be drawing on your own experiences in life because we all know you don’t have a life to speak of.”

  This was a sore point with her. Okay, so she hadn’t had a date in a month of Sundays. But she’d had relationships in the past. They’d just never worked out.

  Traditionally Heather had a soft spot for artistic types who needed a lot of attention. High maintenance, Nita had called them. There had been Patrick, the Irish poet, and Neil, the intense playwright. They’d appreciated her support, her encouragement, her bed, but in the end, the man in her life still eventually walked off into the sunset with someone else. Maybe it was her fault. She made bad choices, fell for guys with no desire to settle down. It didn’t help that the someone else they ran off with was usually prettier, skinnier and sexier than her—someone like her own head-turning, gorgeous sister Erica.

  Her sister lived in Arizona now and Heather didn’t see her that often. Last year, their parents had moved out to join Erica.

  Heather’s entire family voiced their pride in her success in radio broadcasting while in the next breath saying they wished she’d “try to do more with her looks” as if it was somehow her fault that she wasn’t the beauty they wanted her to be.

  “I do have a life, Bud, and I do know what I’m talking about.” Heather hated the fact that she sounded more than a little defensive.

  “Then prove it,” Bud demanded in front of the staff remaining in the conference room. “If you’re such an expert on love, relationships and men, then you should be able to figure out a way to snag any guy you want.”

  Bud’s scornful tone made it clear that he presumed Heather wasn’t going to grab a man with her looks. In fact, she was the first to admit that without makeup she was bordering on average. She knew every physical fault in detail—her thighs were too big, her face too square, her brown hair too bland.

  But her personality was memorable, as was her voice, and she’d made the most of both in her career in radio broadcasting. How many times had she heard the comment, “You don’t look at all the way you sound”? Too many times.

  “What’s the matter, Bud?” Heather countered. “Nothing going on in the sports arena today? No one hitting any pucks?”

  “We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you, sweetie. You can talk the talk, but can you walk the walk, if you get my drift.”

  As if watching a tennis match, the staff’s eyes all swiveled from Bud to her before zipping back to him again as he grabbed a copy of Chicagoan Magazine from the conference table. Holding it up, he pointed to the cover story on “The Sexiest Bachelor in Chicago.”

  “I dare you to snag this guy.” Bud jabbed his finger toward the p
hoto as he read the quote beneath it. “A tough nut to crack, this sexy prosecutor has his days filled bringing criminals to justice. It will take a clever woman to distract this serious legal eagle from his torts.” Bud smirked at her. “You’re a clever woman, right? At least that’s what you’re always telling me. So, I dare you to snag Jason Knight. I bet you can’t do it.”

  Heather’s gaze took in the expectant look of her co-workers. They were clearly looking for a show. Fine, she’d give them one.

  Taking her time, she finished the remainder of her caffeine-laced soda before expertly tossing the can into the blue recycling container. “Snag, such a male word! What exactly do you mean? You expect me to marry him? Come on, Bud, if you’re going to throw out a challenge, you’ve got to be more specific.”

  “Fine. I’ll make it specific. You’ve got to get him to go out with you. To a popular nightspot, like Andre’s, where everyone can see you.”

  “That’s it? Dinner? You mean I don’t even have to kiss the guy?” Heather mocked, not taking any of this seriously.

  “He has to kiss you. And not at the restaurant. Someplace less romantic.”

  “How about a Cubs’ game?” one of the technicians suggested.

  “How about the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier?” another piped up.

  “The Ferris wheel…yeah, I like that. That will do,” Bud said. “And to prove that you have him eating out of your hand, you’ll have to make him do something he’s never done before. Something totally out of character for a serious…what did they call him?”

  “A serious legal eagle,” Heather answered. “How about in-line skating?”

  “Fine. Think you can handle that? An intimate dinner date at Andre’s, in-line skating and then making out on the Ferris wheel.”

  “All in one night? Sounds like I’m going to be a busy woman.”

  “In the interest of fair play, I won’t insist it all take place in one night.”

  “Oh gee, that’s a relief. And how will you know I’ve accomplished these things?”

  “Because Nita and I will be watching you.”

  “I’m not into voyeurism,” Nita protested, stepping closer to Bud, looking as if she was going to bop him.

  “That’s not what I heard,” Bud retorted, stepping even closer, as if daring her to.

  Sensing an impending fight, Heather stepped between the two. “And if we really wanted to make things interesting, we’d up the ante by saying that if I win, Bud would agree to be nice to the entire staff for the next twelve months.”

  “No problemo,” Bud retorted. “There are two chances of you winning—slim and none. And slim just left town. The bet is on.”

  For the first time, Heather looked disconcerted. “Hey, I was just kidding! You’ve never heard of sarcasm?”

  But no one heard her as the conference room erupted into a blaze of pandemonium, with everyone hastily placing their bets.

  Never one to be shy, Nita immediately began recording the wagers as crumpled and crisp dollar bills were waved in her face.

  “Twenty on Bud!”

  “Five on Heather.”

  “Show me the money!” Nita shouted above it all.

  “Well, here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into,” Heather muttered under her breath.

  “I TOLD YOU she’d accept that bet,” Betty said, gloating from her perch atop the fridge in the corner of the room. She was wearing a T-shirt that said Fairy Godmothers Can Fly Because They Take Themselves Lightly.

  “I don’t believe how much junk food they’ve got in this room,” Muriel noted in disapproval as she hovered above the countertop nearby. The spiky tufts of her short white hair were even more disheveled than usual because of the brisk beat of her wings, a sure sign she was perturbed. “The sodium level in here is enough to open a salt mine.”

  “She didn’t actually say she accepted,” Hattie nervously noted, tugging on the lace veil of the pert cherry-colored hat that was an exact match to her Chanel suit.

  Betty shrugged. “The result is the same. I knew she wouldn’t let Bud challenge her that way.”

  “What makes you think Jason is going to like Heather?” Hattie asked worriedly. “She’s not very glamorous, like the other women he’s dated. Are you sure she’s his soul mate?”

  “I’m positive,” Betty replied. “We checked the records three times.”

  “We do everything three times,” Muriel interjected. “It takes us that long to get it right.”

  “Speak for yourself, fussbudget. Jason will like Heather just fine,” Betty maintained. “If she can track him down. You know he never listens to us.”

  “Too much common sense,” Muriel said. “And we all know whose fault that is.”

  Betty ended the discussion by tossing a pretzel in the air and batting it toward Muriel with her magic wand. Her slugger stance would have done Babe Ruth proud.

  Luckily, no one noticed the snack flying through the air before Muriel caught it in a catcher’s mitt that she’d pulled out of her vest pocket. Once in her possession, the pretzel became as invisible as she was. “Strike one,” Muriel declared. “Remember, three strikes and you’re out”

  “Three strikes and we’re all out on our fairy godmother derrieres,” Hattie reminded them. “So quit fooling around and let’s get busy.”

  2

  NOT AN HOUR after the bet between Bud and Heather had been placed, Heather started receiving helpful hints from her female co-workers. The first suggestions came in the form of several Post-it notes fluttering on the computer screen in her cubicle.

  “Pheromones. Hottest thing in perfume.”

  “Stock up on killer heels and bustiers.”

  “Dress for Sex,” another said, but attached to it was a fourth Post-it disputing that advice.

  “Sex too soon shrinks his excitement!!”

  Another tip came in person from Linda Chin, who devised special promotions like Throw Me the Money. “A word to the wise. Wonderbra.” She threw back her shoulders. “Makes a big impression.”

  “Don’t fall prey to all this focus on outward attractiveness,” Bev Stewart, the general sales manager, told Heather later in the ladies’ room. “It’s demeaning. You’re better off using your brains rather than your body. Don’t you change a single thing about yourself.”

  Heather was heartened by Bev’s pep talk, only to learn later that Bev had placed fifty bucks on Bud. It was enough to make a woman’s self-esteem take a nosedive.

  “Hey, girl, let’s go kick some butt,” Nita declared, grabbing Heather on her way out of the building after work. “I’ve got five hundred bucks riding on this bet.”

  “The whole thing was a big mistake,” Heather said.

  “Too late now. Besides, this is our chance to rub Bud’s face in a little of that manure he’s forever spouting. Have you heard what he calls your show? ‘The wimpy girlie show where broads bash men.’”

  “I’ve heard. Where are you dragging me?”

  “To Omar’s.”

  “What’s that? Some kind of harem preschool?”

  “Omar’s real name is Al, and he’s a true miracle worker.”

  “Forgive me for being sensitive here, but I’m a little tired of hearing all afternoon about the miracles that will be required for me to attract Jason Knight. I’ll have you know that I’m not a totally helpless case here. Even you, Ms. Devoted-to-Basic-Black, have to admit that I have great taste in clothes. Not today, maybe, but when I put my mind to it. Sometimes. On a good day.”

  “Remember what that caller this morning said. ‘Guys don’t want women with great taste, they want women that taste great.’ And I’ll have you know that I happen to love black because it’s a no-brainer. Everything in my closet goes with everything else.”

  “You don’t have a cat. Trust me, nothing black in my closet stays that way long. Not with my cat’s long hair.”

  “The bottom line is that we need to punch up your looks, turn you into a powerful dude magnet.”
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  “You might as well wish that I’d win Big Lotto while you’re at it. I’m sure the odds of that happening are higher than me becoming a dude magnet, powerful or otherwise.”

  “Where’s your positive attitude?”

  “Someone stole it,” Heather said.

  “Well, I’m going to help you find it.” Nita power-walked Heather around a corner of Michigan Avenue, beyond Water Tower Place. “It’s not far now…ah, here we are.”

  Taking Heather inside a narrow building, Nita whisked her up an elevator that had to have been built shortly after the Chicago Fire. On the fourth floor, the doors opened to an opulent reception area decorated with Oriental rugs over tangerine carpet. The receptionist had three pierced earrings in each ear and a small gold stud above her right nostril. Her lime green blouse shimmered in the fluorescent lights, revealing the black bra she wore beneath it.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Heather muttered.

  “Nonsense,” Nita said before turning her attention to the receptionist. “Tell Omar that his greatest challenge has arrived.”

  “More like Mission Impossible,” Heather commented.

  “Nothing is impossible,” a man in billowy, black silk pants and shirt dramatically declared as he entered the room with a flourish. “Come.” He held open the door to the crowded inner sanctum of his salon. “Sit.” He pointed to a chair in front of a mirror. Heather had barely sat down before he wrapped her, mummylike, in a protective cape. Staring into the mirror, he said, “You are a blank canvas. Nothing. But I will fix that. Like Picasso.”

  “I prefer those gentle portraits Mary Cassatt did to looking like one of Picasso’s nightmares,” Heather informed him.

  “Nonsense. Gentle is out. Dramatic is in.”

  “So what do you think, Omar?” Nita asked, fluttering around like a nervous mother at a beauty pageant.

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Heather protested to Nita. “You could have your NOW membership card burned for this, you know.”