by Wendy Wax
T.J. smoothed a hand over his bald head. “Every time you talk about each other on the air, your approval ratings shoot up.”
“Oh, great,” Olivia said. “Why don’t I just examine one of Matt’s psychological issues on every show? He’s bound to have enough of them to fill a couple years’ worth of programming.”
“Look who’s talking.” Matt’s snort of laughter was less than flattering. “Listening to my audience rant about you hasn’t been any picnic, either. For somebody who’s supposed to help others, you’ve got quite a few peculiarities of your own. Not,” he added hastily, “that I have any interest in taking up any more time talking about them on my show.”
“Children, children, save it for on air.” T.J. sat back in his chair and studied Matt and Olivia. “I mean that literally.”
Matt shook his head in disgust. “Oh, right. What are you going to do, put us on the air and let us duke it out? We’re not trained animals, T.J. I, for one, am not willing to spar with Olivia on cue.”
“No?” T.J. continued to study them carefully. “That’s too bad, because our promotions department has come up with a way to capitalize on your little ‘feud’ and do some good for the community at the same time.”
Matt lounged in the chair beside her, but his negligent pose was at odds with the waves of energy rolling off him. For once they were in accord. She, too, had a bad feeling about the direction of this conversation.
T.J. turned to the Promotion Director, newly acquired from a sister station in Boston. “Charles, why don’t you fill everyone in.”
Charles Crankower ran his elegant fingers through his perfectly styled blond hair. In an environment known for its informality, he was painfully pressed and stiffly correct. Those who didn’t care for him—and their number was growing—expended considerable energy trying to spot the stick they claimed must be stuck up his butt. So far, no one had managed to locate or extract it.
“Actually, the idea is stunningly simple, yet complex.” Charles crossed one knife-edged trouser leg over the other and steepled manicured fingers on the table in front of him. His voice was a rich baritone, the accent cultured.
“As you probably know, the Muscular Dystrophy Association conducts a ‘jail and bail’ fund-raiser each year.”
They all nodded warily, trying to figure out where Charles was headed.
“Well, the Third Harvest Food Bank approached us about attempting something similar, though the bail would be paid in food rather than monetary donations. They need help replenishing their pantries.”
“So they want to pretend to lock us up somewhere and have our listeners donate food to get us out?” Matt’s tone was clearly skeptical. “I don’t see how this ties in to what’s happening with Olivia and me.”
“Yes, well, we’ve come up with a slightly different twist.” He unsteepled his fingers, rested his elbows on the conference table, and smiled. It was the most animated Olivia had ever seen him, and she didn’t care for it one bit.
“We want to lock you up together in a kind of Big Brother/Survivor situation. For a week.” If Crankower noticed their shocked expressions, he chose not to acknowledge them. “The idea is to set it up so that you can both do your shows all week from the site. And we’ll have a Webcam feeding live to the Internet so your listeners can actually watch you anytime they choose. During the week they can vote for their favorite host and pledge food at the same time. As far as the public is concerned, whoever raises the most food and votes wins.”
“Wins what?” Matt’s tone was dry as the Sahara.
Charles shifted carefully in his seat, but he didn’t falter. “T.J. will address that in just a moment, but the ultimate prize, of course, is increased exposure and enhanced ratings.”
There was a long silence before Charles pressed on. “Given your audiences, we assume donations will fall along gender lines. In essence, we expect a true battle between the sexes.” Charles smiled and bowed his head slightly, as if expecting applause.
“You’re kidding, right?” Matt shifted his gaze from Charles to T.J., barely sparing a glance for Olivia.
“No, I’m not.”
“Let me see if I’ve got this right. You want to lock us up for a week and see who’s still standing at the end?” Matt’s tone still smacked of disbelief, but as Olivia watched, a glint of mischief stole into his dark eyes, lightening them considerably. “I assume we can’t vote each other out?”
T.J. laughed. “No, no voting out. No eating of rats. The apartment will be completely equipped with all the creature comforts. In fact, your sponsors are already vying with each other to stock the place with their products. It’s an incredible promotional opportunity.”
Olivia finally found her voice. “You spoke to sponsors before you talked to us?”
Charles swallowed, but held his ground. “We wanted to see whether the idea would fly before we bothered you with the details.” He smiled again. By Crankower standards, the man was positively glowing. “Virtually everyone’s on board. They absolutely love this idea.”
“That’s because no one is suggesting they spend a week with this character.” She shoved a thumb in Matt’s direction. “I’m not going to do this, T.J. I’m not going to be stuck in a confined space with a maniac for a week while a national audience watches through a—a peep-hole. Torture is illegal in this country.”
Matt grinned. “You’re hurting my feelings, Olivia. Just think how much quality time we’d have together. Why, we could really get to know each other.”
“I don’t want to know you better. I’m sorry I know you as well as I do.”
“You just keep slinging those arrows, don’t you? I hate to sound immodest, Olivia, but there are women who would kill for the opportunity you’re being offered. Unless, of course, you’re afraid to be alone with me?”
“Afraid of you?” She was terrified, but not of him. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just think it’s stupid.” Olivia turned to Diane for support, but her producer shrugged apologetically.
“I hate to say this, Olivia, but it really is a great idea. You saw what happened with the Peter Pan thing. We’re looking at a huge ratings kiss here, and major press coverage.”
Matt’s producer agreed. “It’s a win-win situation. The food bank gets food and publicity, you both get big numbers—everybody wins. All you have to do is put on a bit of a show. Tangle with each other a little.” Ben grinned. “That shouldn’t be a problem for you two.”
Diane scribbled a few notes and then addressed Charles. “There will be some private areas not covered by the camera, right?”
“Yes.” Charles pulled out a floor plan of one of the smallest apartments Olivia had ever seen. “The two bedrooms and the bathroom are unwired, though the hall between them will be visible. So, if either one of them feels the urge to kill, there’s a place to retreat and cool down. Obviously, though, we’re counting on a certain amount of hostility.”
“Hostility is not a problem. But I’d rather donate the money than go through this ridiculous charade.” There was too much history here, and too much old heartache. Olivia shuddered at the idea of being trapped for a week with a man she couldn’t stand . . . and wasn’t sure she could resist. The fact that she’d turn thirty during the week they’d earmarked for the promotion smacked of cruel and unusual punishment.
She studied Matt’s profile, strong and sure, and thought about how easily he unnerved her. Her gaze settled on his cocky grin, and every synapse in her brain screamed out a warning. “I’m sorry, T.J., but I just can’t see myself doing this.”
T.J. looked Olivia straight in the eye, his gaze never wavering. “You’re perfectly free to say no to this, Olivia. I wouldn’t dream of forcing you to be a part of the promotion.”
Olivia’s sigh of relief died on her lips as T.J. continued. “Of course, if you don’t participate, Matt will end up with his own weeklong remote.”
Olivia silently weighed her options. Letting Matt gain a promotional advantage seemed a
lot smarter than spending a week alone with him in a sardine-sized apartment. But then, almost anything would be smarter than that. Unfortunately, T.J. didn’t seem to be finished with her yet. He said, “And of course I’m planning to use this remote to help me make my decision between your shows. The favorite-host vote and food donations will be the most visible popularity indicators, but corporate’s a lot more interested in audience attitudes.”
The pause that followed was so pregnant Olivia feared it might be carrying twins.
“The consultant’s coming back during the remote to conduct a series of focus groups and a targeted phone survey to get a better handle on how our listeners really feel about the two of you. First he’ll measure P1 response—the listeners who already consider WTLK their preferred station. But then, and this is key, he’ll be taking a thorough measurement of P2’s—the listeners who consider us their secondary choice. Converting them to P1’s is a very big deal.”
It sounded like a bad game of bingo, but Olivia understood that audience preference was what it all came down to.
“At the end of the week,” T.J. concluded, “I should have what I need to make an informed decision. If you’re not in on the remote, it’s going to be a very uneven playing field.”
Olivia sat back in her chair, stunned and silent, listening to the excited chatter around her. She felt Matt’s gaze on her and turned in her seat to face him. As usual, his eyes were too warm and his smile too knowing.
Agreeing to Charles’s scheme would be a mistake of epic proportions. If she were half as assertive as she advised her listeners to be, she’d stand up and commit harikari before she allowed herself to consider a promotion as outlandish as the one Charles had just put before them.
Matt leaned in closer, and the blood whooshed through her veins with the force of a tsunami. The sooner she said no, the better.
It didn’t matter what Matt or anyone else thought. Before she’d say yes to a plan as potentially dangerous as this one, they’d be holding the Winter Olympics in hell.
5
Does it feel cold in here to you?” Olivia stood inside the doorway of the apartment, trying not to hear the front door click shut behind her. Or the dead bolt slamming into place. Or Crankower’s footsteps echoing down the empty hallway toward that final elevator ride to freedom.
She reached for the thermostat and adjusted the dial, even though she knew the chill cutting through her had little to do with the temperature and everything to do with the panic that gripped her.
Taking an exploratory step into the room, Olivia set her suitcase on the floor and let her gaze wander around the living area. What she saw did nothing to calm her nerves.
To the left was an upside-down U of a kitchen in varying shades of beige. Its eat-in counter jutted back toward the front door, and a wooden dinette set sat next to it. A postage-stamp window above the sink admitted a dollop of daylight.
Straight ahead of the entryway, a gap in the apartment’s longest wall led to the bedrooms and bath. To the right of the gap, two nubby brown sofas formed an L around a mission-style cocktail table and faced a bulging entertainment armoire on top of which perched the eyeball-shaped camera that would document their every move.
Glimmers of daylight teased through French doors set into the far wall, and next to them stood a portable punching bag with a caricature of Matt’s face emblazoned on it.
Squeezed in between the front door and the armoire, a desk with computer, audio mixer, and telephone had been set up as a temporary audio console. Matt leaned across her to punch a series of keys on the computer, and seconds later, everything in the camera’s path appeared on both the computer monitor and the television screen.
“Smile, Olivia. It’s show time.” Matt’s mouth brushed against her ear, and his warm breath tickled her neck.
Determined to ignore him, Olivia peered at the television screen. She could see herself and Matt in the foreground with the kitchen and bedroom area behind them, but because of the wide angle required to cover the whole space, subtle movement and fine detail were lost. As a test, she raised one hand and waggled all five fingers at the camera. A glance at the monitor confirmed what she’d hoped—though the raised hand was obvious, what it was doing was not.
The lack of audio was another blessing. Since sound would only be broadcast during their shows, they wouldn’t have to guard their words as closely as their actions. Olivia took a step back from Matt. “I’m going to put my things away. Do you have a bedroom preference?”
Matt’s lips parted in a grin, and Olivia realized she did, in fact, need to choose her words with care. “Let me re-phrase that. Do you care which bedroom you sleep in?”
His dark eyes glittered.
“Never mind.” Olivia picked up her suitcase and strode across the room to the first door on the left. “I’ll take this one.” Then she sailed through the bedroom door.
The bedroom, like the rest of the apartment, had a certain minimalist quality. Which was to say it was small and sparsely furnished. After laying her suitcase on a luggage stand she found in the closet, she sat on the edge of the queen-size bed and contemplated the Victoria’s Secret bag that someone had placed in its center. Fifteen minutes alone with Matt and she was tripping over her tongue; adding lingerie to the equation seemed decidedly . . . stupid.
Wary, she reached into the bright pink tissue paper and pulled out the skimpiest black satin nightgown she’d ever seen. Feather light and boasting more slits than satin, it came with an equally skimpy thong. She had just lifted the tiny triangle of material gingerly between two fingers when she heard Matt’s voice coming from the doorway.
“Olivia . . .” Whatever Matt had been planning to say died on his lips at the sight of the thong dangling from her fingertips.
She crammed the slip of satin back into the bag, and turned to face him.
“You seem to have picked the right room,” he said.
Olivia refused to show any embarrassment. “What, no goodies in yours?” she asked.
“I got cologne and green plaid pajamas.” He leaned nonchalantly against the doorjamb. “The sponsor was planning to send you a matching pair, but I told them you belonged in black satin . . . or nothing at all. Looks like they sent the best of both.” His gaze swept over her body. “Too bad you don’t have the nerve to wear the black number on the air.”
“I didn’t build my career strutting around in black satin.”
“A real shame. You could score two, maybe three rating points with the thong, Olivia, and I don’t think I could bring myself to object.”
“Very sporting of you. But I have every intention of beating you with all my clothes on.” She opened the nightstand drawer and shoved the pink and white bag inside. “In my experience, most people prefer their therapists dressed.”
One dark eyebrow sketched upward. “Yeah. Don’t ya just hate those naked counseling sessions? So hard to maintain eye contact.”
Unable to stop herself, Olivia laughed out loud. She’d forgotten how on target Matt’s humor could be. And how handsome he was when his smile leaped up and lit his eyes. Her laughter faded and she fell silent under his regard. It was time to get out of this room and back on a professional footing. Now. She rose and walked toward him.
Matt didn’t move when she stopped just inches from where he stood. Instead, he looked down at her with eyes that were frankly assessing.
“Was there something you needed?” Olivia asked.
“Mmm-hmm.”
Still he didn’t budge. Olivia’s pulse rate kicked up. It was impossible not to be aware of his broad shoulders brushing the doorjamb, and his muscled chest pulling the black T-shirt taut. She resisted the urge to let her gaze drop lower, below the silver belt buckle and down the faded blue jeans that rode his slim hips.
“And you’re in my room because . . .”
If he was surprised at her tone, he didn’t show it. “You have,” he glanced down at his watch, “about ten minutes until you go on the
air. Diane wants to set levels.”
“Oh.” Less than thirty minutes in his company and she’d already forgotten why she was here. “If you’ll excuse me?”
With a cocky bow he stepped back to allow her to pass.
Sitting down at the microphone, Olivia put on her headphones. “I’m here, Di. Let me know when you’ve got what you need.”
Matt still lounged in her bedroom doorway, coffee cup in hand, watching her with interest. Everything about this place was too close and too intimate, including Matt Ransom. Clearly, it would be up to her to maintain some distance between them.
“Testing. Testing. This is Olivia Moore broadcasting live from the smallest apartment on Earth.” She dragged her thoughts from Matt. “How’s the dieting, Di?”
“Great. I just switched to the All-the-Sushi-All-the-Time Diet. It’s supposed to burn the fat right off you.”
“You know, I can help you with this food thing. These extreme diets are not—”
“Yeah, thanks, boss. But I really think this one will do it. I’m good for level. Do you need anything in there?”
“How about a new roommate and a couple thousand more square feet?”
Diane laughed. “Wish I could deliver on that.”
“I’d settle for a plate glass window with you on the other side.” She and Diane had been together since the first Liv Live in Tampa, and her presence would have gone a long way toward restoring Olivia’s equilibrium.
She glanced over at Matt, who still lounged in the bedroom doorway, and wondered who she was kidding. Real peace of mind would require more than Diane or additional square footage. A continent or two placed directly between her and Matt Ransom ought to do it.
Matt watched Olivia start her show, while his mind painted pictures of the no-nonsense woman before him clad in the no-holds-barred black satin. The good doctor could square her shoulders and march away from him all she pleased. In the end, the contest would be won by the person who managed to harness and control the raw current that surged between them. Olivia might choose to dabble in denial, but he preferred to acknowledge the truth: They were sitting on a powder keg of sexual attraction, and he was itching to light the fuse.
