Mistletoe Over Manhattan

In no time flat?

The imagemaker could use a new ad agency. But then the concept sank in. Image. His image. The image he wanted to change. People like these tended to be quacks. He guessed some weren't. Important public figures paid big money for the services of imagemakers.

He'd never know if this one was legitimate or quack. He didn't need anybody to help him. He just needed to-

Or maybe he did. Need help. Wouldn't hurt to keep the card around. The elevator arrived. He put the card in his pocket and went downstairs to have breakfast with Mallory, and this morning he was going back to eggs. To hell with his heart. He needed all the energy he could get.

9

'Did the green spots give the baby any discomfort?'

'No, no thanks to your hair dye,' McGregor Ross huffed. Carter worried the fountain pen between his index and middle fingers. He thought she might be a very pretty woman without that shrewish expression on her face. 'I wiped the dye off immediately and put lotion on her chest.'

'How long did the spots persist?'

'Long enough for her to miss out on a very important audition, one that might have launched her modeling career.'

'But she's able to make auditions now.' Carter smiled encouragingly.

'She's growing up! She's lost six crucial months of opportunity!'

'Did she have any assignments in the months before the dye incident?'

'No, but…' Mrs. Ross ruffled like an angry chicken.

'Did she have assignments after the green spots went away?'

'Well, no, but…'

'I object to this line of questioning,' Phoebe broke in.

He needed a break, a break from the avaricious Ms. Ross, a break from Phoebe's come-hither eyes and the way they contrasted with her sharp comments and objections, and most of all a break from the pressure of Mallory sitting beside him, so close he could almost feel the heat of their bodies combining in an explosive chemical reaction.

He got his chance in the form of a telephone call. Excusing himself, he followed the paralegal who'd brought the message and picked up the phone in an empty office.

'Carter. Bill Decker.'

'Hey. Bill. What's up?' Between them, he and Mallory had checked in with the boss three times a day, so Bill must have had an idea good enough that he couldn't wait to hear from one of them.

'I've been thinking.' And he came to a halt.

'Thinking…' Carter said, using the same encouraging tone he'd used on McGregor Ross.

'Well, I sort of hate to bring it up.'

Carter controlled his impatience. It was quiet in the empty room, no greedy moms, no Phoebe, no Mallory. Of course, he had no idea what they were up to in the conference room, and he really should get back.

'How are you and Phoebe Angell getting along?'

That brought back his focus. 'Fine, I think. Did she complain about something I said or did?'

'No, no.' Bill sounded as if his mind was off on another tangent. 'Well, just that she inquired about what sort of relationship you had with Mallory, and I wondered…'

Now Carter just waited. He had a bad feeling he knew what was coming.

'I assured her that you and Mallory were merely colleagues, I mean, Mallory is Mallory.'

Not anymore. Carter ground his pen between his fingers. Without considering the alternatives, Bill was dismissing any possibility that he might have a physical interest in Mallory. 'My relationship to Mallory is none of Phoebe's business,' he said, sounding as uptight as he felt.

'Of course not,' Bill said quickly, 'but…'

Carter sighed. 'But what, Bill? Spit it out.'

'I was just wondering if a little personal attention to Phoebe might pave the way, soften the atmosphere, re- channel her interests. You understand what I'm saying?'

How could I not understand? You explained it three ways.

'Is that why you put me on the case?' he asked. It was blunt and not the right thing to say to a man who was, at the moment, his boss, but he had to know. 'You want me to prostitute myself to get Sensuous off the hook?'

'Of course not.' Bill sounded so shocked that it confirmed Carter's suspicion that it was, in fact, precisely why he'd gotten this case. Then Bill went on, sounding smooth as tofu, 'I wanted you on this case because I felt sure you could bring it to settlement-' he hesitated '-using all the means at your disposal.'

There it was, the challenge, out in the open. 'I feel just as sure I can reach settlement, Bill,' Carter said, deciding that outrage wouldn't do him any good. 'I'd prefer to handle it in a more straightforward way, though.'

'Have you come up with a straightforward idea?' Bill's tone was dry.

'Mallory and I are full of ideas,' Carter lied. 'It's only a matter of choosing the one that will work best.'

They ended the call on good terms, but Carter wasn't on good terms with himself. That call had been the straw that broke the camel's back. For the last five minutes he'd been fingering the ImageMakers card in his pocket and now he pulled it out. He needed to change his image-not merely to qualify for Mallory, but to approve of himself. He'd use a fake name, pay cash, no one would ever know that the up-and-coming Carter Compton was, at the ripe old age of twenty-nine, having a crisis of confidence.

A male voice answered the ImageMakers number. 'I'd like to make an appointment,' Carter said.

'Yes,' the voice purred. 'Your name?'

Carter hesitated. 'Jack Wright.'

'Mr. Wright.'

I'd like to be. Was that what this was all about? Being Mallory's Mr. Right?

As that thought shot through his head it startled him so badly he dropped his pen and was about to grind it out under his shoe before he remembered it was a Mont Blanc pen and not a lighted cigarette.

He bent his knees to pick it up. 'Um, maybe this isn't such a good idea,' he muttered, feeling perspiration pop out on his forehead.

'When our clients say that,' said the voice, 'it usually indicates an emergency. Can you come in right now?'

'Right now?' He actually squeaked the words. 'No, no, I can't. I'm working.'

'Lunch hour?'

Just as he'd thought. A quack. No clients. Not even enough sophistication to pretend that M. Ewing was very busy but perhaps they could sneak him in somewhere. But he was starting to think it might be an emergency, just like the man said, and he'd never get an appointment with a psychiatrist this fast. Maybe he just needed somebody to talk to and almost anybody would do.

'Icould make it by twelve-thirty,' he said slowly.

'She'll see you then.'

She? 'She?' he said aloud.

The voice turned frosty. 'You have a problem consulting a woman about your image?'

'No, no, no,' he hastened to say, feeling his current image slipping right down through all twenty-four floors of the building that lay beneath his feet. 'I just, you know, with the name 'M. Ewing' I thought…' He pulled himself together. 'I'll be there at twelve-thirty,' he said, using a firm tone of voice and knowing he needed someone to use a firm hand on him in this situation. It was time for Carter Compton, the talker, the negotiator, the one always in the lead, to do some listening.