Read It Takes a Rebel for Free Online Page B

combed it back. "Hello, ears."
    "Here you go, handsome."
    Tuesday was back, this time holding a vinyl suit bag. "Suit, shirt, cuff links, tie, socks, belt and shoes, size twelve—your
    toes'll be pinched just a mite."
    Jack's eyes widened. "Where did you get this stuff?"
    "My son, Reggie," she said. "Remember, he works for Tremont's?"
    "Oh, right," he said. "Menswear?"
    She nodded. "Natty dresser, my Reggie." She handed him the bag. "Clothes make the man, you know."
    Touched, Jack reached for the bag, then stopped and stared at her. "Tuesday, you're a genius."
    She gave him a dismissive wave. "I know that, son. What took you so long to catch on?"
    Jack unzipped the bag, his mind jumping ahead to his blank sketch pad. He had about an hour to get a new idea down on
    paper.
    "Tuesday, I'm going to be cutting it close. Will you call me a taxi?" A trip across town on his motorcycle might compromise
    the condition of his portfolio, he realized.
    "I did. It'll be here at a quarter to ten," she said, then turned and closed the door.
    Jack grinned at his own reflection, suddenly feeling young again. He was back, and good wasn't a big enough word to
    express how he felt. He felt … he felt … energized . And lucky. And teeming with fiery anticipation at the look on the ice
    princess's face when he walked through the door.
    "Look out, Ms. Alexandria Tremont," he murmured. "Ready or not, here I come."

    * * *
The favorite part of Alex's day was walking through the various departments of Tremont's before the doors opened to the
    public. This morning, she acknowledged, the routine also served to soothe her anxiety about the impending advertising meeting.
    Actually, she felt a little sorry for Jack Stillman—the clueless man was in way over his swollen head. But regardless of her
    opinion of him and his agency, she honestly didn't enjoy watching people make fools of themselves. Alex sighed and sipped
    coffee from a stoneware mug. Hopefully the meeting would be mercifully short.
    Her mood considerably lighter this morning than the previous evening, the store seemed exceptionally pleasing: the sweep of
    formal gowns on so-slim mannequins, the musky blend of popular perfumes, the neat stacks of thick towels on cherry tables, the
    flash of silver tea sets. In the past decade, Tremont's had made the subtle move from a discount department store to a more
    upscale shopping experience for the upper-middle class of Lexington and the surrounding area. Alex liked to believe her sales
    and marketing policies of pushing retail boundaries had something to do with the transformation.
    She stopped to compliment Carla, one of the most senior salesclerks who always arrived at her station in the jewelry
    department early enough to give the glass counter an extra swipe, then Alex moved toward the stairs by way of menswear. A
    tall well-dressed youth was tagging slacks for alterations, his hands moving swiftly. Alex's mind raced as she tried to recall his
    name—she'd seen it at the top of the commission lists often enough. Ronnie? No, Reggie.
    "Good morning, Reggie."
    He jerked up his head and dropped the pants he held.
    "G-good morning, Ms. Tremont," he said as he hurriedly knelt to retrieve the clothes. "Sorry, I'm clumsy today."
    Alex dipped to help him. "Nonsense." But she did squint at his dark head that was tilted down. She'd spoken to the young
    man several times and she'd never known him to be nervous, yet his hands were practically shaking. "Is everything all right,
    Reggie?"
    "Hmm? Oh, yes, ma'am. Just fine." But he made only fleeting eye contact as he straightened.
    "Good." Alex stood and brushed off the behavior with a smile, then rescued a navy and gray barber-pole striped tie in danger
    of falling from a display table. "Are the new ties selling well?"
    Glancing at the tie she'd smoothed, he swallowed, sending his Adam's apple dancing. "Yes, ma'am. Especially the
    C-Coakley line."
    "My personal favorite," she said, pleased that the line of