One Mad Night Read online

  Copyright © 2015 by Dinah Dinwiddie

  Cover and internal design © 2015 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover art by John Kicksee

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  New York

  Six hundred dollars was a lot of money for shoes, especially shoes on sale. Especially shoes that could not be relied upon to carry a person ten pain-free blocks. Frankly, it was an obscene amount of money for shoes that did nothing but look good.

  But oh, how they looked good.

  They were bronze Manolo Blahnik pointy-toe pumps, with a three-and-a-half-inch heel and a very cool buckle across the top. They were shoes that said, look at me, I can do this job better than anyone and I am proud of it. Still, for that kind of money, Chelsea Crawford thought they ought to come with a Segway.

  She had elected not to wear them back to the office. Not only was it starting to snow, but she was fairly certain her feet would never survive the short walk in those heels. No, these shoes were to wear during her big presentation tomorrow, and were safely tucked away in a silvery paper Bergdorf Goodman bag that dangled daintily from Chelsea’s arm as she and her assistant, Farrah, hurried down the street through snow that was beginning to thicken.

  They darted into the lobby of the office building of Grabber-Paulson, the advertising agency where Chelsea had worked for six years, and negotiated their way past the coffee stand to the elevators. As they reached the elevator bank, the shiny, silver doors of one car opened, and they hopped inside.

  “Hold, please!” Chelsea heard someone yell, and she turned around, prepared to do just that…until she saw who had yelled. It was Ian Rafferty, the bane of her existence. Chelsea waved her fingers at him, then hit the close button with such force that Farrah actually glanced up.

  “Hey!” Ian shouted as the doors began to slide closed, and he suddenly sprinted, almost reaching the doors before they clicked shut.

  “That was, like, rude,” Farrah said to her phone. Because Farrah rarely looked up from her phone. She’d been assimilated.

  “It’s okay. He’ll get another one,” Chelsea said as they rocketed up.

  “He’s cute,” Farrah said to her phone. “Why don’t you like him?”

  Chelsea looked at Farrah. How could she even ask that question? Ian Rafferty was her biggest competition in-house. Ian Rafferty had taken two accounts that by all rights should have been hers. Ian Rafferty thought he was going to get the plum account, the one Chelsea had worked so hard to get. “You remember the Tesla account, right? Campaign for a luxury electric car? The account I’ve been working on practically around the clock for the last six weeks?” she asked, her voice full of incredulity.

  Farrah shrugged. “I guess so. I just think he’s cute.”

  Chelsea rolled her eyes. Grabber-Paulson was one of two finalists for the new Tesla account. Jason Sung, Chelsea’s boss, was spearheading the process. If Grabber-Paulson won the account, it was Chelsea’s job to manage. Everyone at Grabber-Paulson knew it was her job. She was due, she’d put in her time, she’d worked her way up, slogging through one account after another. She had great ideas, she was a hard worker, and everyone knew it was hers…

  Except maybe the partners.

  The elevator stopped on the eighteenth floor. A mail guy and his cart ambled on. He smiled at Chelsea and Farrah as they started their ascent again. “How you ladies doing today?” he asked.

  “It’s snowing,” Farrah said to her phone. Chelsea supposed she expected the mail guy to figure out how she was doing from her weather report.

  The mail guy was definitely intrigued and tried to chat up Farrah about the weather. “Snowing, huh?” he repeated.

  Chelsea fixed her gaze on the digital display above her and ignored the chatter about snow. She was thinking back to the day Jason had called her into his office six weeks ago. He’d been tossing a Nerf basketball into a Nerf hoop above his desk, which then rolled down a little chute back onto his desk, where Jason could pick it up without actually exerting any effort. “Working hard on the Tesla commercial, huh?” he’d said when Chelsea came in. “The partners love your work.”

  “Right.” Chelsea had nodded, because that was old news to her. She’d killed it on the Smooth-n-Silky shampoo account. She’d kicked some serious ass on the Westwood All Natural Grocery account. This account was hers. This account was the stepping-stone into bigger and better accounts. Big national accounts. It was her move into a corner office and a big pay raise.

  “So now, we come in with a great television concept and bam, that’s it. We’re all getting big fat raises,” Jason had said cheerfully.

  “Yep,” Chelsea had responded confidently. She’d shown Jason her ideas for the commercial. He knew exactly how great her concept was, and it was really great. Some of her best work.

  Jason caught the Nerf ball and tossed it to Chelsea, who had never been the sporty type and awkwardly batted it away before it hit her in the face.

  “Yeah, I’d say this account has your name written all over it, doesn’t it? Good work, Chels. Good work.”

  “Thank you,” she’d said, smiling. She didn’t mind a little high praise being Nerfed in her direction, but at the time she’d wondered why he’d chosen that moment to deliver it. She could still feel that tiny, slender moment, the distance between knowing that she had this in the bag and then realizing the rug had just been yanked out from under her feet. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “There’s just one tiny little thing,” Jason had said as he’d propped his feet on his cluttered desk.

  Chelsea’s gut had dropped then, because there was never anything tiny when it came to Jason. “What?”

  “The partners think it would be better if we had a little competition in-house. You know, so we get the very best ideas.”

  “Competition for…”

  “So we’re putting Ian Rafferty on it.”

  Chelsea’s heart had almost dropped to her toes. Ian Rafferty thought he was God’s gift to advertising with that Crest smile, longish
golden-blond hair, big shoulders, and swoon-worthy blue eyes. But his looks and, admittedly, killer sex appeal aside, Chelsea saw him for what he was—a glitzy showboat. The reason he’d won two of the three accounts that they’d gone head-to-head on over the last several months was because he knew how to charm people, and especially women.

  “Jason!” she’d cried. “How can you do that to me?”

  “Ian’s good, and he was the guy behind the Infiniti commercials at his old job. Did you ever see them? Infiniti sales went up thirty-four percent after those ads started running. That’s awesome. That’s why we lured him away.”

  Yes, she knew, along with everyone else at Grabber-Paulson, that supposedly Ian was some prize catch in advertising.

  “Anyway, he’s going to create a spot for the Tesla account too. And then, you know, we’ll decide.” Jason lifted his hands above his head and tossed the basketball into the hoop. “Nothing but net.”

  Chelsea had gaped at him, her head and heart spinning with the betrayal. “What the hell, Jason? I thought this account was essentially mine! You said it was my time, my account. You said I was the best!”

  “You are the best! And this is your account!” Jason said, catching the ball again. “I mean, it will be your account, because I have great confidence in you, Chels. You are the best,” he’d said again, waving the Nerf to emphasize each word. “Because this guy can’t come up with anything nearly as good as what you’ll give us, right? Not to worry, Chels. Not to worry.” He tossed the ball again. “Damn, I’m good.”

  Chelsea had wanted to leap across that desk and rip Jason’s ears from his head, and if her skirt hadn’t been quite so tight, she might have done it. “I can’t believe you, Jason,” she’d said. “This is exactly what you did to me on the Northeast Banking account. You said it was mine and then gave it to Zimmerman.”

  “That was different,” Jason said cheerfully. “You had a lot going on.”

  “I could have handled that account and you know it. I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked, Jason. I’ve spent an entire weekend in this place for the Smooth-n-Silky campaign. I took that damn Mexican restaurant’s work home over the holidays. I worked my ass off to help this firm get into the final round for the Tesla account, and now you’re telling me you’re letting someone else have a shot at my account?”

  “Chel-sea,” Jason had said, picking up the basketball again. “You worry too much!” He tossed the Nerf ball again, but this time, Chelsea lunged and intercepted its marshmallow flight through the air, batting it back at Jason with so much force, she thought she felt something pop in her shoulder. It wafted through the air and Jason caught it. “Good arm,” he’d said.

  Chelsea hadn’t said another word, because if she had, she would have said some very unfortunate and unkind things. She’d marched out of his office, ignoring his call for her to come back.

  Fortunately, for everyone at work and for her cat, Chelsea had calmed down since then. It really was her account. She really did have the best idea. After six years of pouring her life into that firm, she was due.

  The elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open. Chelsea slipped out past the mail guy and his cart—and came face-to-face with Ian Rafferty, who was standing at the elevator, one arm braced against the wall. Chelsea came to such an abrupt halt that Farrah collided with her back, almost pushing Chelsea right into Ian.

  She swayed back before any physical contact was made and tilted her head up to peer into those blue eyes. He really did have remarkably sexy eyes. They slanted down at the corners, which had the perpetual effect of making him look as if he were trying to seduce whomever he was talking to.

  “Oh. Hello, Ian,” she said.

  “Hello, Chelsea. I asked you to hold the elevator for me.”

  “Oh, is that what you meant? I’m sorry.” She smiled.

  Ian’s eyes narrowed. “You know,” he said on a sigh as his gaze casually wandered the length of her, “I can’t figure you out.”

  Chelsea’s pulse did a strange little flutter at his perusal of her and the idea that he was trying to figure her out. “We hardly know each other enough for you to even try.”

  “I know you well enough to know that for reasons that completely elude me, you take a little healthy competition very personally.”

  “I don’t take it personally—”

  “Yeah? Then why do you avoid me like I’m swine flu?” he asked silkily, his gaze settling easily on her mouth.

  Chelsea managed not to squirm with the heat that was rising in her. She refused to be sucked in by his sex appeal. She adjusted her stance so that her Bergdorf Goodman bag was in front of her, like a shield. “I don’t know, let’s see. A, because I’m not one of those girls who melts at your feet, or B, because I have a lot of work to do.”

  One corner of his lush mouth tipped up in a smile. “Girls melt at my feet?”

  Her gaze narrowed. “This may come as something of a shock to your enormous ego, but I don’t actually think about you, Ian. I’m too busy.”

  “Uh-huh,” Ian said, and he somehow managed to shift closer to her without actually appearing to move. “Listen, Chelsea,” he said, his voice going soft. “I’ll be honest…I know you really want this account. I know you think you had it wrapped up and Jason’s one hundred percent in your court. But we both know Jason is not the most loyal guy in town.”

  He looked almost sympathetic, and Chelsea could feel herself responding. Because she did think she had it wrapped up. Because he was right—Jason was horribly disloyal.

  “But the thing is,” he said, leaning closer still, so that she could smell him, could smell his scent, which, in any other place and time, would have been wildly sexy, “you might not have it wrapped up. And it’s really not my fault that you’ve got Chrysler LeBaron Syndrome.”

  Chelsea had to stop smelling and think a moment. “Chrysler… What!?”

  “You design car ads for grandmas. But that’s no reason to take out your frustrations on me. I can’t help that my ideas are creatively superior.”

  Chelsea gasped with great indignation, and still she couldn’t seem to suck enough breath in her lungs. “Hey! I don’t have any frustrations, Ian! I’m not the one who has to design ads for adolescent boys to try to win the account.”

  “I guess that means you think the partners are adolescent boys, since they are the ones who will award the account.”

  “I did not say that—”

  “I didn’t think so.” He had the audacity to remove a strand of windblown hair from her cheek. “Here’s some food for thought: there are a lot of people, even those over the age of seventy, who appreciate the features of a car that don’t necessarily have to do with safety.”

  He had seen her ad. Damn it, he had seen her ad! Chelsea had a pretty good idea how she was going to throttle Jason Sung. She was going to stuff his Nerf basketball down his throat and crown him with that hoop. “You don’t know nearly what you think you know,” she said angrily.

  “And neither do you. But you will tomorrow,” he said with a sultry wink. A wink! As if they were having a friendly debate! “In the meantime, try and be nice,” he said, and with a brotherly pat to her shoulder, he turned around and strode for the office doors, his trench coat billowing out behind him.

  “I am nice, you self-absorbed goat!” Chelsea shouted after him, but he’d already gone through the plate glass doors that marked the entrance to the Grabber-Paulson suite. She could see him at reception, chatting up Hadeetha, who sat just below the big brass agency sign.

  Chelsea’s pulse was racing from fury and from a couple of sultry Ian Rafferty looks. It took a moment before she noticed Farrah, who had actually managed to lift her gaze from her phone. She was staring wide-eyed at Chelsea. “Wow. You don’t sound very nice.”

  “Oh my—will you just come on?” she said irritably and stalked off, yanking open th
e office suite doors, bound for her cubicle to review her pitch for any signs of Chrysler LeBaron Syndrome.

  Chapter 2

  The shot is long, a two-lane road wending its way through the mountains. In the far distance, a car is approaching. It’s red. A male voice-over: “You know what you need. Performance. Sex appeal.” The red Tesla speeds into view. Suddenly we’re in slow motion—the driver of the car, a good-looking guy in his thirties, expensive shades, open collar. A blond with a great rack in the passenger seat, gazing adoringly at him, her hand on his chest. The car rolls by, and the man looks out his window, winks at the camera. “It’s all right here, in one package. Looks. Performance. And it’s good for you. It’s good for the world. It’s good for all of us.” The Tesla fishtails away onto a mountain road, and the blond lets something fly out the window. A bra. The picture fades to the Tesla logo: Tesla. Environmentally conscious sex appeal.

  There it was, fifteen seconds of advertising genius. Chelsea was crazy—there was nothing adolescent about it. This was a campaign that would speak to the thirty- and forty-something hotshots looking for a cool car, but who also wanted to be on the cutting edge of alternative fuels and energy.

  “Run it again,” Ian said to the kid in the back of the media room. The ad started up again, and Ian could feel a big fat smile spreading across his face as he watched it. When it was over, he looked at Zach Zimmerman, another account guy. “It’s good, right?”

  “It’s better than good, it’s great,” Zach said. “I’d buy that car. I’d do that car.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Ian said and stood up; he tapped his friend on the shoulder with his fist. “You’re going to be my wingman when I get the account.”

  “I’d rather be your wingman at the W Hotel,” Zach said. “There are some hot chicks hanging around that lobby, and I could use you to lure them in.”

  “It’s a date. Just let me get past this presentation, and we’ll do it.” Ian winked at his friend, gestured for the assistant to lock it all up, and went out, heading back into cube nation.