Don't Toy with Me

By Barbara Barrett

Repossession of your car in Los Angeles is like breathing without lungs. It can make an unemployed management consultant like Jordan Wright do crazy things, such as accept a job beneath her skills on a reality competition show and pretend to be a spy for a competing outfit.

Even though he sees through the undercover story, the show’s executive producer, Bart Underwood, is intrigued by it as well as the woman spinning her tale. Creativity is not one of his strong suits, and he has found himself in over his head with this new production. Unable to ask directly for Jordan’s help, he takes advantage of her need to prove herself in hopes she’ll rescue his baby. But despite their growing attraction to each other, even she can’t save a reverse beauty pageant titled Ugly as Sin.

When several stunts go awry, she suggests a new approach, challenges based on toys designed by Bart’s toymaker uncle. Though interested, Bart must first deal with his useless partner, who has been blackmailing him to stick around. The man’s resentment of Jordan threatens to not only disrupt her growing involvement with Bart but also risk the viability of the new show, Don’t Toy with Me.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Barrett
• Release date: Jul 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9780999091029

Barbara Barrett

Barbara Barrett is a Midwestern woman who prefers her winters without snow or ice. Since her retirement, she spends her winters in Florida and returns to Iowa for her summers (which can get just as hot and humid as Florida at times). After graduating from college with a B.A. and M.A. degree in History, she spent several years as a human resources management analyst for the State of Iowa studying jobs and working with employees. She is married to the man she met in floor counselor training at the University of Iowa. They have two grown children and eight grandchildren. When not planted in front of her laptop, she is playing mah jongg, having lunch with friends or watching cooking or interior decoration shows on TV. Sign up for her newsletter: https://www.subscribepage.com/BBContempRom Website: www.barbarabarrettbooks.com Email: [e-mail] Twitter: http://twitter.com/bbarrettbooks Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/barbarabarrett7/

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Dedication

This book is dedicated to those lacking the self-confidence to defend their ideas and those who possess the self-confidence but not the ideas.

Chapter One

Jordan Wright stared at the notice. After several unanswered warnings, the collection agency had given her one month, until May 1, to make the back payments on her car before repossessing it. In Los Angeles, that was like trying to breathe without lungs. Such a vicious cycle: she couldn’t make her payments without a job, but she couldn’t find a job without transportation.

For yet the millionth time, she asked herself why she’d walked away from her cushy, well-paying position with a national management consulting firm six months ago. True, her boss had dismissed her recommendations for revitalizing her client’s sales. And true, the client had been less than impressed. Yes, her plan envisioned a rather atypical solution, but she could have stood strong for once, because she knew in her heart her ideas would have worked. Or she could have sloughed it off, bent to her boss and the client’s wills and remained employed to fight another day. Instead, she quit.

At the time, she’d convinced herself it would be easy to find other work. Her credentials were impeccable. At least her education, since she’d graduated from a respected university with high grades and impressive faculty endorsements. Jordan’s work experience, on the other hand, was a bit spotty. Millennials didn’t stick with the same employer long. Weren’t expected to. Unfortunately, not all those hiring were up to speed on the needs and characteristics of her generation, and hadn’t seen fit to take her multi-faceted vitae into consideration.

Why are you scowling? I just handed you a plate of fresh-from-the-oven shortbread cookies. Her aunt, Sheila Draper, a caterer, stood two feet away, her forehead wrinkled in the all-too-frequent-of-late furrows.

Jordan glanced at the untouched confections. Sorry. Guess I’ve lost my appetite.

Her aunt pushed the plate closer. Five minutes ago, you begged me to share some of the bounty I made for my dinner party tonight. What happened in the interim?

Jordan handed her the notice. This.

The caterer scanned the document. How much do you need?

More than I have in the bank.

Not what I meant. How much do you need from me to make this all disappear?

Jordan shook her head. This is my problem. I’m the one who walked away from a well-paying job just because, as usual, I was afraid to defend my work.

Her aunt studied her. Have you ever wondered if management consulting is the best career choice for someone so creative?

I see things from different perspectives than most. Adopting my ideas involves risk. Clients don’t like risk. They want return on their investments with the least possibility of failure. But in holding with the tried and true, they’re missing out on what could be epic successes.

Why don’t you tell them that?

Jordan let her shoulders sag. You know why. Standing up for my ideas isn’t my strong suit. I trip over my words and forget my arguing points.

Thanks to the parents who cowed you into believing your opinion didn’t matter.

Aunt Sheila wasn’t particularly in tune with the childrearing practices of Jordan’s parents and didn’t refrain from stating her views. They think they know what’s best for me, even if that means squelching my initiative.

Sheila pulled out a chair and planted herself across the kitchen table. You only have four weeks to pay off this debt. Even if one of the employers with whom you’ve interviewed the last few months called today, it might be weeks before you have any money. At least take a loan from me to get you through this period.

Not the first time Sheila had offered to come to Jordan’s aid, although this was the first time the loss of her car loomed as a real possibility. You’re already allowing me free room and board. I still have a month. Let me see what kind of miracle I can pull off in that time.

Miracle? Sheila stared at her, started to say something, then stopped.

Yes, I realize I’ve had few nibbles. That’s why I said ‘miracle.’ Guess I have to modify my expectations, or expand my horizons. Try something new.

Her aunt snatched a cookie from the plate Jordan had neglected, took a few bites, swallowed. Rather than sinking her mouth into the cookie again, she bit a lip instead.

What aren’t you saying? That it’s a little late to change up my game?

Sheila sat back, flicked flour from her apron. I was debating whether to mention something I overheard at the supermarket yesterday.

Jordan raised a brow. A job opening?

Sheila puckered her lips. Not like you think. It’s a little outside the box. But with time ticking and the stakes so high, maybe you’d be interested

Lay it on me. The time for being picky has definitely passed.

I could only make out some of the conversation between two women an aisle over. One was asking the other if she planned to audition for some kind of beauty pageant. Sheila mentioned a time and place, which happened to be a motel out in the valley the next day. I couldn’t hear much more of their conversation without it appearing I was stalking them. I did catch the amount of the prize money, though. Twenty-five thousand dollars.

Had she heard correctly? You’re suggesting I put aside my search for another management consulting job for a bathing suit?

Just for a day. Check it out. See what your chances are. That prize money could not only pay off your car but also tide you over for some time to come. Why not give it a shot?

Jordan couldn’t argue against that logic. She wasn’t hard to look at, and she had a fairly decent bod. Still, a beauty pageant? Twenty-five thousand would be great, but there’s no guarantee I’d win, let alone get selected to compete.

You’ll never know unless you go out for it.

What kind of beauty pageant?

Sheila paused as she finished off her cookie. Uh, that’s the part I didn’t hear. But a beauty pageant is right down your alley. With your petite five-two frame, that blonde hair and big, blue eyes you’re gorgeous.

Her aunt was really pushing this idea. She rarely resorted to flattery. Perhaps she was tiring of her non-paying house guest. I’ll think about it. First, a full body check, naked, in front of the mirror was in order.

"Don’t think too long. The auditions are tomorrow." Sheila returned to her baking.

That was that? No pleading. No more discussion. But then, her aunt accomplished a lot in her catering business by taking her best shot and then backing away while her advice penetrated the customer’s thoughts.

Would her aunt’s strategy work this time?

****

Bart Underwood planted his chin in his palm while Marvin Lindstrom stuffed his mouth with Bart’s french fries. Any hunger Bart might have felt prior to this meeting had disappeared watching the guy feed his face. Disgusting. For not the first time he asked himself why he’d ever teamed up with him. He knew, of course, but that didn’t make their association any more palatable. Tell me again how this concept will play out.

Marvin stopped chewing long enough to burp, thump his stomach, then release an exaggerated sigh. We’ve been through this ten times already. What don’t you get about this reality show? It’s a competition. Simple as that. In each episode contestants tackle outrageous stunts, my stunts, and we eliminate the one who comes in last.

Yeah, yeah. I get all that. But the more we get into specifics, the more I’m disliking the idea. Not only is it negative, it’s making fun of how people look.

Marvin swiped the back of his hand across his face, smearing what had been a tiny spot of ketchup. They’ll know the score when they audition. I didn’t pull any punches in the notices I posted.

You really think your notices will draw the kind of person we need?

For the prize money we’re offering, they’ll be lined up out the doors, clamoring for a chance to show their stuff. People will subject themselves to a lot of crap when there’s a chance to get rich, especially if they can earn the big bucks on TV. God knows I put up with enough.

Bart massaged his chin. The guy was singing that poor me song again. About the money?

The other man’s handful of fries halted midair. What about the money? I thought your inheritance would cover all our expenses?

That was before you decided we should house the contestants during production.

Separating them from their normal lives will give their participation an edge.

Just saying, that wrinkle will significantly dent my finances. There won’t be much left to pay a film crew, let alone market the show.

Marvin leaned across the table so fast he knocked over his water glass. Hey, man, it’s too late to change your mind. We’ve got a crowd of hopefuls to interview tomorrow.

Bart grabbed a handful of napkins to mop up the liquid, since his tablemate made no move to do so. We can always cancel.

Marvin downed a lone fry after dragging it through a pool of ketchup. No way! You made a commitment to me.

The more we’ve gotten into this project, the farther it’s wandered from the theme of my mother’s documentary. I don’t like the direction it’s headed. We’re spending money, my money, faster than I ever intended.

For just a second, Marvin glowered like a trapped animal. Just as fast, his expression returned to its usual blank stare. Wait ’til tomorrow. Once you see the contestant wannabes in action, you’ll get a better idea how this is all gonna come together.

Maybe. Bart wasn’t good at conceptualizing. He’d been trained in the law, where facts and judges ruled. I hope so. But if credible contestants don’t materialize tomorrow, we need to talk.

You owe me, Underwood. Your plans to honor your mother’s memory are nothing without my concept. Keep that in mind before you pull the plug. He stomped off, an empty, salty plate the remaining evidence of Bart’s fries.

****

The next day, Jordan and four other women filed into a small conference room in a rundown motel in Van Nuys. Normally, she would have checked this out on the internet, called a few people for references. But it was all so last minute, there hadn’t been time to do her usual research.

Along with her four cohorts, she was ushered to a table that looked like it had done battle with an aggressive beaver and lost. Not exactly a high-scale meet-and-greet locale.

A scruffy looking guy a little older than her awaited them. Fill out these applications, ladies, and leave a head shot. Several days’ growth of facial hair detracted from what might have been a not so bad looking face. On closer inspection, it was a pretty darn fine face. The curly, dark hair and intense gray eyes weren’t bad either.

Just as she was about to tell him she hadn’t brought a head shot, he leaned over the table and examined what she’d written. His sudden proximity made her forget what she’d been about to say.

He stepped back, squinting. Are you seriously auditioning for this show?

Uh. Yes. Why? Was she too old? She was as attractive as the rest of the women in the room.

You did read our flyers? You’re too good looking to be here.

Being pretty was a bad thing for a beauty pageant? Was he coming on to her? She couldn’t resist shooting a glance at the other women for their reaction, but to her surprise, they were all nodding in agreement. When she took a longer view, she finally got the point. None of the them were particularly attractive. In fact, if she were to put herself in the place of an insensitive guy seeking female companionship, they were dogs. Why hadn’t she noticed their appearance before?

What kind of beauty pageant was this?

Since it was obvious she didn’t know a thing about this show, what she couldn’t demonstrate in direct knowledge, she’d have to make up for with a little ingenuity. The only thing she knew about these entertainment types from her years living here in Tinseltown was that they were extremely protective of their projects until they were ready to promote them. She’d play on that obsession.

Although she couldn’t manufacture tears on command, she could still bite her lip, gulp and bow her head as if in shame. Please go along with this. You don’t have to select me, but at least let me participate in the interviews. I can’t leave empty-handed. All delivered in her best damsel in distress voice.

He cocked his head. "What exactly is supposed to be in your hands when you walk out of here?"

A few months ago, the tears had flowed unabated when she’d walked away from her job rather than defend her recommendations to her boss. Today, she was completely dry. She sniffed again, the best she could do in the waterworks department. I told them I wasn’t good at this sort of thing, but they made me come anyhow.

They? Who?

Jordan found a tissue in her purse and blew her nose. For intel. My bosses want to know what you’re doing. An industrial spy for a reality show? Surely she could’ve come up with something better? But now that she’d gone down that path, she had to see it through.

No, wait. Since she apparently wasn’t what they were looking for, why not just head for the door? But she didn’t, because making up this story, improbable as it was, appealed to her imagination, long buried after months of unemployment.

Someone sent you to learn more about our show? He appeared to be thinking through the implications, then he spun around and faced the other four competitors. Short delay, ladies. Wait outside.

Each of her fellow applicants scowled her direction as they left the room.

The guy in charge—he had yet to introduce himself, and at this point, probably wouldn’t, too bad, because in a grungy sort of way he was kinda cute—turned back to her, planted a hip on the table where she was seated. Okay, let’s hear it. Who’s your boss?

Who was her boss? Oh, right, back to her fairy tale. She plunged ahead. Thrill-a-Minute Productions. They have a similar idea in development. Not exactly a beauty pageant. Well, sort of. Only for gays. It’s not ready yet. There are still some, uh, glitches to be resolved. But while they’re finalizing their concept, they don’t want you guys mucking up their territory.

One eyebrow lifted. Mucking it up? Explain.

Not exactly a request, but she had his attention. Sorry. Didn’t mean to insult your show. Heck, I hardly know anything about it, except the beauty contest part. She attempted to smile, but her dry lips barely parted. They want your show to succeed. As long as it doesn’t include gays.

Our show isn’t about gays.

So much for storytelling. Her brain had hit the wall, and this was no longer fun. Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ll report that nugget. They’ll be pleased. She rose, yanked up the shoulder strap of her purse and pivoted the direction of the door.

He jerked. You’re leaving?

There was no chance she’d win the prize money, and the offer of a date seemed unlikely since this guy seemed all business, so yes, she was leaving. You’re on to me and I’ve got my info, there’s no need for me to remain.

Rather than show her the door or ask her to stay, like that would happen, Facial Hair rose, brought his hands together and clapped slowly, dramatically, like she’d just finished a virtuoso monologue. Had he totally lost his mind? At length, he cut off his applause. Kudos to you, Ms—he picked up her application—Wright. Does your employer have any idea how well you think on your feet?

She squared her shoulders and retreated a step. Uh, about my employer? My being here has been one big communications snafu. You’ll laugh when you hear it. Really. It’s pretty funny. She attempted a small guffaw, trying to keep her voice light and free of the fear gurgling up from her stomach.

She waited for him to laugh too. At least say something. Instead, he eyed her expectantly, like deciding if she was certifiable or lethal. It was stand and deliver time, so she related how her aunt had told her about the audition minus the details. All I know about this project is that it’s a beauty contest. I’m currently between jobs and could use the prize money.

Uh-huh, Facial Hair said, apparently unconvinced. Then why did you tell me you worked for my competitors?

Ha ha. That’s the miscommunication part I mentioned. I thought maybe you give contestants stunts to perform. You know, little playlets? When you told me I was too good looking for your show, I ran with it, thinking that’s what was expected.

There. Full story. He probably wasn’t happy she’d wasted his time—she wasn’t so happy either to have wasted her time driving all the way out here, other than she had the time to waste—but she could at least escape this audition and forget about ever walking the runway again.

She attempted to appear cool, although her stomach roiled like the day she’d been forced to eat aging hamburger from her fridge, because there was nothing else except raw beets.

So. You don’t work for, what did you call them, Thrill-a-Minute?

No.

They didn’t send you to do reconnaissance on our show?

Glad you finally picked up on that.

Facial Hair propped a foot on one of the chairs and leaned toward her. Be still my heart. Those jeans were tighter than she realized at first glance. The scent of musk wafted across the short distance between them. Nice. Don’t breathe it, don’t breathe it, or you’ll be sorry.

Why should I believe you? His mouth widened as if to smile, but she didn’t sense amiability. It was more the spider-to-the-fly variety. Still, her focus stayed there longer than necessary, until she reminded herself she didn’t owe him any further explanation.

This was going nowhere. Even she, doormat to the world, had her limits. Look, I’m leaving. I haven’t done anything illegal, so you can’t hold me here like a criminal. I won’t hesitate to use the can of pepper spray in my purse if provoked. She actually did have one with her, though it was a couple years old and probably inoperable.

Jordan threw her bag over her shoulder like a mail carrier preparing for the day’s deliveries and headed for the door. He didn’t try to stop her. Just as her hand reached the door knob, he spoke. How’d you like to work for me instead?

Few statements could have stopped her in her tracks. That one did. God, she hated the vulnerability near-poverty forced on a person.

She made a half-turn, not desperate enough to give him a full frontal grovel. You’re offering me a part?

He shook his head in disbelief. No way! You really don’t know what this show is about, do you?

This was getting old. What kind of job then, if not on the show?

"With the show. He extended his hand. I’m Bart Underwood, the Executive Producer."

She shook his hand, expecting a jolt from one of those shockers concealed in a prankster’s palm. Instead, his palm was smooth and warm. Made her want to linger more than she should.

I doubt many could manufacture a cover story on demand like that.

Tell me about this job.

He combed a hand through his hair. For the first time, she noticed that the scraggly beard and wardrobe, an olive green cotton shirt, open-kneed and yeah, tight, jeans, and work boots, were part of a persona. The nails on the hand that rumpled that luscious dark hair were manicured. The boots bore no scuff marks. Bart Underwood definitely subscribed to the Hollywood image factory.

Your story about your aunt not hearing all the details about this audition is plausible, but I’m still not convinced you’re aren’t Thrill-a-Minute’s plant. So I don’t want you going back to those guys. Unless it’s to counterspy for us.

Counterspy? Now who was weaving the crazy stories? I need an assistant to handle the administrative details of this project. Interested? he asked before she had time to figure out what was fishy. He told her what her pay would be. Not much but better than nothing.

She paused momentarily, debating how much she wanted this job. A tiny brain alert screamed that assisting Bart Underwood wasn’t a wise career move. On the other hand, with the loss of her car looming, what could it hurt to sign on with this show? Just for a while, of course. Long enough to make her next car payment and catch her breath before relaunching her career efforts. Besides, sparring daily with Bart Underwood, or whatever they’d been doing, intrigued her.

I do management consulting. Can I do that as your assistant? The most challenging project she’d tackled since leaving her last job was organizing her closet contents by color.

A time study expert?

Not exactly, although I sometimes get into flowcharts.

He scowled. Just what I need. Flowcharts.

So much for what could have been. Once again, she eyed the door.

Wait! I was kidding.

She swiveled his direction but kept her mouth shut. Did she dare hope?

Maybe down the line there’ll be an opportunity to do your other thing.

Not much promise there. But he hadn’t said no. Plus, it meant she could keep her car. A room and food she could mooch from her aunt a while longer, but she had to keep her wheels for job interviews. Those were definitely still in her future, given the screwy nature of this audition.

Okay, sign me up.

Don’t quit your job at Thrill-a-Minute. Tell them you’re going to work for us but will report back to them.

Fine. Jordan agreed. What could it hurt, since no employer existed? But she was still in the dark about something. Just what is this beauty pageant? Like I said, I’m short on details.

He laughed. Bent, hand on knee, to catch his breath. When he straightened again, he stood there shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe her ignorance. Our project isn’t what I’d call the traditional beauty pageant. In fact, beauty has little to do with it. Our show’s called Ugly as Sin."

****

As soon as Jordan Wright left, Bart gave himself a mental pat on the back. As much as he liked the way she swung her ass as she exited, the expression on her face was priceless when he revealed the show’s title. Though his comment about her looks should’ve tipped her off, she certainly wasn’t prepared to learn the real nature of the project.

Even more priceless was the addition of Jordan Wright to his staff. Her made-up story about being sent to spy on them for one of their competitors was a stroke of genius she’d pulled from thin air. Thrill-a-Minute. Couldn’t get over that name. The woman demonstrated just the kind of thinking he needed to breathe life into this project. If that meant going to the well to beg in order to pay her salary, since his current funds were running low, that’s what he’d do.

For now, he’d let her think he believed she’d been sent there undercover. He could still extract mileage from that fiction. Didn’t hurt either that she was desperate for money. She’d be more likely to put up with some of the crap tasks he’d be assigning her until she proved her worth.

His conscience suggested he not take advantage of her desperation, but damn, he really needed her help. From the way she so quickly came up with an explanation for being there, he was afraid to give her too