The Sexiest Man Alive

by Sandra Marton

  Someone laughed nervously. Susannah shot a quick look around the room, and the place became silent.

  “You have the right to disrupt the routine of this office anytime you please, of course.”

  “Disrupt?” Matthew said, very coldly.

  Had she really said that? Susannah wrapped her arms around herself. “Ah, perhaps that’s too strong a word to use.”

  “Not at all. Not if that’s the word you want.”

  Matthew folded his arms. His jaw shot out. The air hummed with hostility, but it was too late to back off unless she wanted it to seem as if she were afraid of him.

  “Very well, Mr. Romano.” Susannah folded her arms, too and tilted her chin. “It’s exactly the word I want.”

  The indrawn gasps almost emptied the room of air.

  “Uh, Suze?” Claire said hesitantly. “Mr. Romano, ah Matthew, ah, Matt said—he said he was interested in hearing how the sexiest restaurant thingy was going, so we were, ah we were telling him all about it, and—”

  “If Mr. Romano has questions, he should ask them directly of me.”

  Matthew’s mouth formed a smile that threatened to send the temperature plummeting.

  “I did, Miss Madison. The other day, remember? I faxed and asked how the restaurant feature was coming along. Your reply indicated that it was coming along splendidly.” That icy smile flickered across his lips again. “That was your word, wasn’t it? ‘Splendidly’?”

  “Yes,” she said, mentally crossing her fingers, “it was.”

  “You said you’d had many excellent suggestions, and that you’d narrowed them down to…”

  “Six.”

  “Six. From which you’ll select the winner.”

  “Yes. Mr. Romano, you know all of this. And really, we’re very busy, so—”

  “How will you do that, Miss Madison?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “How will you select the winner?”

  Susannah laughed politely. “How would you think, Mr. Romano?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, ever so politely. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

  Susannah looked into that handsome, smug face. Was he trying to trap her into something? It seemed so, but what? And why?

  “It’s all spelled out in the rules. I’ll visit all six finalists—”

  “I’ve read the rules,”

  Susannah’s mouth was dry. He knew. About the twenty-four-hour days. About the restaurants that were only open at night. About the impossibility of getting it all done on time…

  How? Was he a mind reader, along with everything else?

  “Yes,” she said, with a little smile and a toss of her head, “I know. It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to—”

  “Unfortunately, it’s starting to look as if you won’t.”

  Susannah blinked. “Won’t what?”

  “Please, Miss Madison, don’t play coy. You’ve got an article to write, an interview to do. When do you expect to fit in six evenings and six dinners? It’s impossible.”

  “It isn’t impossible,” she said coldly, drawing herself up to her full five feet four inches, wishing like hell she’d known he was coming so she could have worn heels.

  “But it is.” His smile was smooth as satin and twice as slippery. “Especially since you haven’t even visited one of them, have you?”

  “How did you…” Susannah glared at her staff. No one would make eye contact.

  “I know because it’s my business to know,” Matthew said, “because I’m the publisher of this magazine, and because some members of your staff, at least, understand the need to provide meaningful information when I request it.”

  Susannah slapped her hands on her hips “I suppose that’s a roundabout way of saying you came here to spy on me.”

  “Don’t blame your inadequacy on your people, Miss Madison. I simply asked them how the project was going and they, unlike you, saw no need to lie.”

  “I did not he, Mr. Romano! I never lie!”

  “No?”

  “No!”

  “Then you won’t mind telling me if you’re going to be able to have the next issue ready on time.”

  “Of course it’ll be ready”

  “Complete with the much-touted, highly publicized sexiest restaurant feature?”

  “Certainly,” she said, lying through her teeth.

  It didn’t have to be a lie. He was right. It was time she admitted it to herself, if not to him. Time was running out. She couldn’t work until nine and ten in the evenings, then go to dinner at the six restaurants that had made the finals.

  But she didn’t have to.

  She didn’t really have to visit them all. Well, she did. But not for an entire evening. She could pop in, take a look, even request a quick tour of the kitchen. She’d look at the pictures the photographer took, check her notes, then make a choice.

  Oh, it was a brilliant plan! And it was flawless. What could go wrong when you were narrowing a field of six Rembrandts down to one?

  “Absolutely, it will be ready,” she said, and smiled. But Matthew smiled, too. The hair on the back of her neck rose. The trap was about to be sprung. She could tell.

  “You’re planning on selecting a winner without paying a personal visit, aren’t you, Miss Madison?”

  Susannah shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her khaki trousers.

  “Certainly not. I made a promise to our readers, and I intend to keep it.”

  “I’m happy to hear it. And, of course, you won’t cut any corners. You’ll spend a couple of hours, savor a bottle of wine, a full meal…”

  Susannah blinked. Perhaps he really was a mind reader.

  “I don’t see that as necessary,” she said pleasantly. “The restaurants are all highly recommended.”

  “So was La Strada,” he said, his smile turning into something that would have done Peter proud.

  She waited. He waited. Finally, she gave in.

  “Are you going to explain what you mean, Mr. Romano?”

  “Certainly, Miss Madison. La Strada’s in San Francisco. It had a wonderful reputation until it changed hands. Now they couldn’t fill the seats if they gave the food away.”

  “Yes, well, I suppose those things can happen, but—”

  “If CHIC is going to give coverage to these restaurants, we’d better be damned sure they’re what we claim they are. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  It was a good thing she’d tucked her hands away because they were shaking.

  “It’s not a problem.” She spoke coolly. At least, she hoped it was coolly. “I’ll just ask some selective questions of the owner…”

  Matthew chuckled. To her chagrin, so did a couple of others.

  “Let me be sure I understand this. You’ll phone and you’ll say, ‘Hello, this is Susannah Madison, from CHIC magazine. We’re trying to determine the sexiest restaurant for a big feature we’re doing, and you’re on our short list. This feature will bring you incredible amounts of business. And oh, by the way, how’s the kitchen situation? The service? Have you fixed the rickety chairs? Replaced the frayed napery? And have you, by any chance, matched the silverware yet? Should we feel comfortable listing you as one of the most romantic restaurants in New York?’” Matthew’s voice hardened. “Or should we tell people that they’d better prepare themselves for a night in the Ptomaine Palace?’” His eyes narrowed to slits. “Well, Miss Madison? Does that sound about right?”

  No one moved. No one spoke. No one seemed to take a breath. Not even Susannah, who knew he was right and hated him for it.

  “Are you asking for my resignation?” she asked, finally.

  Matthew’s eyes widened. If she hadn’t known better, she’d really have believed it was in total innocence.

  “Of course not. Your staff and I agree that you’ve been working as hard as any one human being could. I’m here to offer my help.”

  “Your help,” she said carefully. “And that would mean?”

&nbs
p; Offering to check out the six finalists himself? Volunteering to take a series of beautiful blondes—and not dumb ones, because she knew him well enough now to suspect dumb women would bore him silly—out for six evenings of romantic suppers?

  “My immediate authorization for you to put on extra staff. You need more hands here, Susannah, to free up your time.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and meant it. “That would be wonderful.”

  “And I’ll clear my calendar for the next six evenings.” He grinned. “As you said, dining at all these romantic spots is going to be a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it.”

  Her stomach knotted. She’d been right. Matthew and the Blonde of the Month, out every night, and all on her behalf.

  “That’s very generous, Mr. Romano.”

  “Matthew,” he said soothingly.

  “Matthew.” Susannah tried for a smile. “I know how busy you must be.”

  “Yes, but I have a vested interest in seeing CHIC succeed.”

  “I know. But to put yourself out this way—”

  “I think the best approach will be for us to begin immediately.” He looked over her head. “Pam?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Would you please phone the first restaurant on the list and make reservations for—is eight o’clock a good time for you, Susannah?”

  “Is eight o’clock…” Susannah’s smile turned to a look of horror. “You mean—you mean, you want me to go to dinner with you?”

  “Certainly.” His expression was polite and very proper. “You promised our readers you’d choose the winning restaurant yourself.”

  “I know I did, but…”

  But what? Susannah was trapped, and by her own pledge.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SUSANNAH stood before the open door of her bedroom closet in her robe and counted to ten.

  Ten didn’t do it.

  Twenty wouldn’t, either.

  Nothing, nothing would take the edge off her anger except a headline in the paper that said Matthew Romano had moved his business interests to Mars.

  Oh, damn.

  She groaned and flung herself on the bed. It was seven o’clock. She had half an hour to choose something to wear, fix her hair, put on her makeup. Half an hour before she had to carry out her sentence and have dinner with that obnoxious man.

  “The nerve of the man, Peter,” she said, “the nerve!”

  “Mrrow.” Peter leaped onto the bed and settled happily on her chest, paws kneading her terry-cloth robe in contentment.

  Susannah sighed and stroked his silken fur.

  “You cannot imagine how horrible he is, Petey. And how self-centered. Why, compared to Matthew Romano, you’re the essence of humility.”

  “Mrrow?” Peter asked, and butted his head against Susannah’s jaw.

  “I know, I know, it seems impossible, but it’s the truth. Actually, I’m amazed the city’s big enough to hold him and his ego.” An image of Matthew carting a blob-shaped ego flashed through her head, and she giggled. “Oh, how I’d love to tell him that. How I’d love to tell him to take his attitude and his magazine and tuck them both up his…”

  The doorbell buzzed.

  “Bankroll,” she said, and sat up.

  It was only ten minutes past the hour. Susannah’s stomach clenched. Surely, Matthew wouldn’t have arrived so early?

  But he had. A glance through the peephole confirmed it.

  She swung around and pressed her back to the door.

  He couldn’t come in. She’d specifically, explicitly told him she’d meet him downstairs, in the lobby. Actually, she’d told him she’d meet him at eight o’clock at Aunt Sally’s, the first restaurant on the list.

  “A Romantic Evening,” he’d said, in that smarmy tone she hated, and in a way that made her see the capital letters that began both words, “does not begin with a man and woman arriving separately at their destination.”

  “We are not a man and woman,” she’d said, “we are an editor and her publisher.”

  Matthew and everyone within hearing had laughed gaily, as if she’d made a charming joke, and then Matthew had said, most politely, that he’d be at her door at seven-thirty, and she’d said no, she’d meet him in the lobby.

  The doorbell buzzed again. “Susannah?”

  A muscle ticked in her jaw. Perhaps it was time to learn to count to ten in Urdu, she thought, and she turned, undid the locks and flung open the door.

  “You’re not supposed to be here yet, Mr. Romano.”

  Matthew grinned. “And good evening to you, too, Miss Madison.”

  “I said I’d meet you in the lobby. And you said you’d come by at—”

  The tirade caught in her throat.

  What a gorgeous sight he was. Aunt Sally’s was very casual—the recommendations had all emphasized that—and casual was the way Matthew was dressed. He was standing in the doorway, smiling, wearing what looked like well-used hiking boots, faded jeans, a deep blue sweater and a leather jacket that looked as if its patina of age really came from hard use.

  So what? Susannah thought, gathering her wits together. The only hard use the jacket would have seen would have been in its manufacture. Ditto for the boots. As for the man’s good looks, there was no reason to gawk. His looks had never been in question. He was handsome, she was willing to admit that—assuming you liked the type.

  “At seven-thirty,” she said briskly. “And it’s barely—”

  “Seven-fifteen. I know. But the guy delivered my car earlier than I expected, and I couldn’t see much sense in having the doorman park it for twenty minutes, so I drove over and there was a space right downstairs.”

  “Your car?” she asked blankly.

  “Yeah I rented one. I know everybody jokes about New York being the last place on earth to own an automobile, but heck, I’m a California product. A car’s a part of life.” He sighed at the look on her face. “Okay. I’m early, and I apologize. I’ll sit down on that couch and I promise you won’t even know I’m here.”

  An apology was more than she’d expected. “Well, all right. Come in. I’ll make you some coffee and you can drink it while I get—”

  Dressed, she’d almost said. Such a simple word, but it made her suddenly aware of how she must look, in her old robe, her bare toes peeking out from under the hem.

  Aware of how simple it would be to go to him, put her arms around his neck, lift her mouth to his for his kiss.

  “On second thought,” she said, “I’m all out of coffee.”

  Matthew nodded. “No problem. I was only joking. You just go ahead, forget I’m here and get—”

  Dressed.

  That was the word. He knew she hadn’t been able to say it, and damned if he could, either. Beneath the word, the truth lay shimmering like starlight on a field of snow. He didn’t want Susannah dressed. He wanted her undressed, naked, in his arms. And despite all her indignation, all her protests, he knew it was what she wanted, too.

  What would happen if he put an end to the lies? If he took her in his arms and kissed her? Opened the sash of that foolishly girlish robe, drew it away from her shoulders, buried his face in her throat and kissed his way down to her breasts?

  Oh, hell.

  He turned his back, put his hands into his pockets and marched to the window where he admired a truly spectacular view of a line of trash cans at the curb.

  “Just get dressed,” he said, his voice suddenly harsh. “I’m only a few minutes early, Madison. Common sense would have told you to be ready and waiting.”

  So much for his apologies. The smile faded from Susannah’s face.

  “And common courtesy would have told you not to show up where you weren’t invited.”

  She marched into the bedroom, slammed the door and scooped Peter from the bed where he waited.

  “You were right not to come out,” she said into his fur. “The man’s an animal.”

  “Mrrow?” Peter said, in softest cat speak.

 
; “Oh, not an animal like you, Petey darling. He’s a beast. You know the Doberman down the hall? Believe me, the dog has a better personality than Matthew Romano.”

  * * *

  Aunt Sally’s was crowded, noisy and smoky.

  It was, Matthew thought, about as romantic as an L.A. freeway at rush hour.

  It was, Susannah thought, about as charming as a subway car at five o’clock.

  She pulled a small notebook from her purse after they were seated.

  “I made up a checklist.”

  Matthew’s brows rose. “A checklist?”

  “Uh-huh. There are five categories. Ambience. Decor. Food. Wine. Mood. And ratings from one to five.”

  “Ratings? You mean, stars?”

  “I guess.”

  He put his elbow on the table and propped his chin in his hand “Hearts,” he said.

  Susannah looked puzzled. “Hearts?”

  “Sure. Little hearts. Instead of stars. One heart, two hearts, three.”

  “Oh.” She smiled “Yes. Okay. That’s a great idea.”

  He watched as she bent her head and scribbled in her notebook. “Just trying to be helpful,” he said, and wondered if her hair felt as soft as he remembered.

  “Anyway,” she said, looking up, “I’m going to rate the restaurants on. Is something wrong?”

  Matthew frowned and cleared his throat. “No, no. I, ah, I was only thinking… Ambience, you said. And décor and mood? But those are all the same thing.”

  Susannah gave him a pitying smile. “Not at all, Mr. Romano. Ambience is the overall feel of the place.”

  “The feel of it,” he repeated.

  She nodded. “Does it give off an aura of romance? Is it charming? Is it a place a couple would be likely to remember?”

  Matthew looked around. The closest to an aura of anything was the overwhelming smell of charcoal drifting from the kitchen.

  “And decor?”

  “Décor is—well, it’s décor. How the place is furnished, the table settings, whatever.”

  He nodded. They’d been seated at a table with one rickety leg, which he’d propped with a matchbook after his water glass had almost slid into his lap. The place mats listed the menu offerings, and two tines of his fork were bowlegged.