by Maisey Yates
So maybe she wasn’t strong enough to take on a man like Alex Diaz. Maybe she’d learned that when a man like Alex, charismatic and powerful and arrogant, crooked his finger, she still came running. Or crawling.
She remembered the way she’d slid across the seat, let him pull her onto his lap. He could have asked anything of her, and because she’d been so dazed by lust, she would have done it.
She almost had.
And it brought back every bad memory she’d ever had, and bile to the back of her throat.
Never again.
* * *
By the next morning she’d come up with a plan. That was what she did, what she always had done when life spun crazily out of control, as it had for most of her childhood. I’ll be very quiet. I’ll sleep under the bed. I’ll pretend I’m invisible, and maybe no one will see me.
Unfortunately none of those plans had worked, but this one would. She’d completely ignore Alex Diaz. She wouldn’t see him again, wouldn’t take his calls, wouldn’t attempt to find out what he knew about Treffen. Hell, she was a journalist. She’d find out for herself.
From this moment on, Alex Diaz ceased to exist in her reality. How was that for a bit of efficient relativism?
Except that plan wasn’t working either, because all through the filming of two shows, several corporate meetings, and a brainstorming session with her creative team, not to mention her usual drill of beauty appointments that kept her looking as airbrushed as possible, she still thought of him. The way his eyes had simmered and burned. The way his mouth had been both hard and soft. The feel of his hand, strong and firm, wrapped around the back of her neck.
Come here, Chelsea. Kiss me.
And she had, oh, she had.
She still wanted him. And more than that, she wanted to redeem herself in her own eyes—and his. Wanted to make him crawl, instead of being the one to do it.
As if that would ever happen.
But if it could...
Then maybe she’d let Alex exist again, for as long as she had use of him.
Three days after her dinner with Alex, Chelsea left work at five to meet her sister Louise for dinner, an occurrence that still felt strange enough to unnerve her.
After the train wreck of their childhood, she’d lost touch with Louise for nearly fifteen years. Then a couple of months ago Louise had seen her on Chat with Chelsea—had recognized her despite the name change, the hair dye, the cosmetic surgery, and reached out.
They met for dinner once a month, which was about as much emotional intimacy as Chelsea could handle. She didn’t like to remember her childhood, not the bleak moments hiding under the bed, or the constant uncertainty and fear and the bone-deep belief that she was only worth something if she was beautiful. It had taken years for her to get over that one, and sometimes she wondered if she still believed it. Some part of her did, anyway. You couldn’t work in TV and not believe that on some level.
They met, as always, in a quiet restaurant on the Upper West Side; Louise was already waiting, a sheaf of essays in front of her. She’d been given tenure at Columbia University last year, one of the youngest professors to do so. Her normally stern face, all hard angles and strong lines, creased into a hesitant smile as Chelsea approached.
“Aur—Chelsea.”
Chelsea smiled, but it felt tight. Uncomfortable. “You’re never going to get my name right, are you?”
“Sorry. Old habits die hard, I guess.”
Louise stood, and Chelsea hugged her, barely. They both sat, stared at each other.
Louise shook her head slowly. “We’ve been doing this for nearly six months and it still feels weird.”
“I know.”
“Maybe it’s because you look so different now.”
“That was kind of the point.”
Louise nodded, her mouth turning down at the corners. Chelsea had told her just a little of her past: that there had been a man, and he hadn’t been nice. The way her sister had seemed to understand so quickly made her wonder what secrets she might be hiding. What kind of pain. Perhaps their childhood had led them both to make some bad decisions.
“So, anything new going on in your life?” Louise asked, all brisk brightness now. She swept her pile of essays off the table and into the messenger bag by her feet.
“Not really.”
“Not really?” Louise arched an eyebrow, waited, and Chelsea shrugged. She had a sudden urge to talk about Alex, which was absurd considering how awkward these dinners with her sister were. They had trouble talking about the weather, for heaven’s sake. She wasn’t about to unload her angst on this near-stranger, even if she still remembered the way Louise had rocked her to sleep when they were children, both of them lonely, afraid and desperately unhappy.
“What about you?” Chelsea asked, her tone holding that over-bright note that always sounded so false. She deserved an Oscar for the way she cozied up to celebrities, but she couldn’t be real with her sister. “Anything new in your life?”
Louise smiled wryly and shook her head. “Lectures and research. Not much else goes on in my life.”
“And you like it that way?” Chelsea asked, suddenly curious. She lived for her work, and she wondered if her sister was the same.
“I do.” Louise’s mouth twisted a little. “Easier all round really, isn’t it?”
Chelsea nodded, and they both stayed silent for a moment. They hadn’t really shared much of anything, and yet it was still more than they ever had before.
Louise toyed with her salad for a moment before she looked up, a surprising glimmer of mischief in her eyes as she said, “So that ‘not really’ has nothing to do with the photo I saw of you and Alex Diaz?”
Chelsea went utterly still. “What photo?”
“In a gossip magazine—”
“You read those things?”
Louise shrugged, her eyes positively dancing now. Chelsea had never seen her sister look so animated. It softened the stern lines of her face, lit her up from within. “When they’re lying around. This one was left in the student union—”
Chelsea sighed and shook her head. “That was fast.”
“So are you seeing him?”
“No. It was just a work thing.”
Louise bit her lip, her eyes still glinting, but she didn’t say anything. Their relationship, Chelsea knew, had never had this kind of repartee, not even when they’d been kids. “What is it?” she finally asked, exasperated, for Louise’s face still held the glimmer of a smile.
“You’re blushing.”
“No, I’m not—” She never blushed. And yet even as she issued the denial she felt the heat in her cheeks. Just thinking about Alex made her face warm, her body heat. Her heart hurt. She took a sip of water and willed her color to recede. She could talk on national television about an aging Hollywood star’s impotence problem with nary a blush but when she thought of Alex Diaz in even the most generic terms she burned right up.
What was wrong with her?
“Sorry,” Louise murmured. “I shouldn’t tease you. We don’t really know each other well enough anymore for that.”
No, they didn’t. Although Louise had never really teased her when they’d been little. Held her, rocked her, sometimes pushed her away. But life had been too precarious for jokes, too precious for bickering. “Tit for tat, then,” Chelsea finally said. “Tell me something I don’t know about you. About a man.”
Louise shook her head. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“You must have had a boyfriend or something,” Chelsea said lightly. “In the last fifteen years?”
Louise’s expression darkened, all the glimmer gone. “No one,” she said flatly. “Not in a long time.”
Chelsea knew better than to press.
They hadn’t really been close as children; Chelsea, with her blond curls and show-off attitude, had endured her mother’s attention and ambition while shy, stammering Louise had been dismissed and ignored. Both of them had suffered.
> Their mother, Diane, had died when Chelsea was sixteen and Louise just eighteen months older, and they’d gone their separate ways. Social services hadn’t been interested in two trailer park teens. Sometimes Chelsea wondered how her life might have turned out differently if they’d stuck together. Helped each other. She didn’t let herself dwell on such possibilities for too long, though. There was simply no point.
In any case, they’d shared enough today. Maybe too much.
“Well, let me know when that changes,” she told her sister, and Louise just shook her head.
“It won’t.”
Chelsea gazed at her sister, took in her firm jaw, her shadowed eyes. She wondered what had happened to Louise in the past fifteen years that had made her wary of relationships, just as she was. Neither of them had talked about those missing years, just as they hadn’t talked about their childhood.
Neither of them wanted to remember all that uncertainty and anger and fear, their mother’s endless parade of drunks and layabouts that served as boyfriends and, according to Diane, hopeful father figures. As if. Chelsea didn’t remember every sad sack her mother had brought home, but the ones she did sure as hell hadn’t been interested in being her father.
No, not when she’d been dolled up by her mother for another child beauty pageant. Dressed in tottering heels and a too-tight dress glittering with sequins, her face made up like a hooker’s and all of six years old, what drunken no-hoper of her mother’s could resist her? Some hadn’t.
Thank God for Louise. Her older sister had tried to protect her from the lecherous advances of one of her mother’s boyfriends on more than one occasion, and she’d succeeded. Mostly.
Afterward though, she’d always shoved her away, as if she was angry with her.
No, they hadn’t really been close. But they’d needed each other. Maybe they still did.
* * *
Alex clicked his mouse on Pause so the video froze on Chelsea’s face. Some starlet was sobbing on her pink velour sofa and Chelsea was gazing at her with patent sympathy, her mouth turned down at the corners, tissues in hand. But her eyes were steely.
She was good at what she did, Alex had to admit. Really good. She had a warmth and vibrancy to her that he’d seen in the flesh. People were drawn to her, lured onto her sofa and into her confidence. And just when they felt understood, accepted, she cut them to the quick with her razor-sharp questions.
And that’s when you had the affair?
Was stealing just too much of a temptation?
Would you say you had a drinking problem?
Always delivered in a tone of compassion, of sincerity, as if she were promising them salvation. Absolution. They trusted her, they loved her, even as she raked them over the coals of their own sins.
She was a professional, but could she handle Jason Treffen? Would she even want to?
She’d as good as admitted she didn’t want Treffen’s interview to be the soap opera everyone else’s was. But would she want it to be an exposé? It could make her career as a serious journalist, but it would kill it at AMI. Treffen might even take her to court; he would undoubtedly have her sign something agreeing to ask only pre-approved questions before they ever went on air. In any case, Alex didn’t know her well enough yet to trust her with the truth. To give her any control.
Sighing, he let his gaze flick back over the screen shot of Chelsea. She wore a crisp white blouse and gray pin-stripe pencil skirt, her long, slim legs neatly pulled to one side, leaning forward as if hanging on every word of—who was it again? Some Hollywood hopeful who had been caught in one too many compromising situations.
Chelsea looked crisp and professional, but in his mind’s eye he was remembering her as she’d been in the limo right before she’d fallen off his lap. Eyes wide, pupils dilated with desire, lush lips parted. She’d wanted him, been ready for him, and somehow it had all got ruined.
His phone buzzed with an incoming text and Alex glanced down at it. It was from Austin, checking on his progress with Chelsea. Update?
He thumbed back a quick text. Working on it.
Frustrated in more ways than one, Alex spun in his chair. So he hadn’t got it on with Chelsea Maxwell. Get over it. All he should be thinking about was Treffen. About Sarah. About finally avenging her death.
As for Chelsea Maxwell? He really couldn’t give a damn.
It was Sarah who mattered, Sarah whose memory drove him. Hunter and Austin, he knew, felt the same. So did Katy; she was Sarah’s sister, after all. So many people who wanted and needed to see Treffen brought to justice. He’d lost his family already, and he was on the brink of losing his job, but Alex knew that wasn’t enough. The man needed to pay. Publicly.
He still remembered the first time Sarah had tried to talk to him about it. He’d been blathering on about some article he wanted to write—a profile of some corporate hero—and with her mouth twisting downward and her hair sliding forward to half hide her face, she’d said, Sometimes those corporate heroes aren’t so perfect.
He’d had enough intuition to sense she was talking about someone specific. Yeah, they’ve all got skeletons in their walk-in closets. Who are you thinking of?
She’d just shrugged then. Maybe Jason Treffen isn’t the paragon he seems.
And he’d laughed. He’d actually thought she was joking.
Had Treffen reeled her into his select circle of call girls by then? He could see how it might have happened. You’re so sweet, Sarah. I’ve got a client who needs a woman’s touch. Just butter him up a little bit for me, take him out to dinner...
By the time she realized what was going on it would have been too late. She would have been too ashamed and afraid to protest. To seek help.
Except she had sought help, from Hunter. From Austin. From him, one of her best friends. And it hadn’t done her a single bit of good.
But it would now. He couldn’t bring Sarah back to life, but he could avenge her death. He could ruin Treffen.
With Chelsea’s help.
He needed to see her again. They hadn’t talked Treffen over dinner, and maybe that had been a mistake. Maybe if he’d stopped thinking about how he could get into her pants he would have her on his side now, instead of angry at him for God only knew what reason.
But he’d redeem it. He’d have to. And with a sudden, clarity, he knew how.
He’d been so damn intent on showing Chelsea he was in control, he’d lost sight of his goal. Stupid, he saw now, and short-sighted, but no longer. The next time he saw Chelsea he’d be calling the shots—and she wouldn’t even realize it.
* * *
Three days after her dinner with Alex, Chelsea was standing on the edge of the Chat with Chelsea set, reviewing her question cards as one of the show’s producers attempted to coax the day’s guest out of her dressing room. Apparently she’d got cold feet after arriving at the studio this morning. Chelsea wasn’t surprised; more than one guest had had a last-minute panic attack about going on air and spilling secrets.
“Hello, Chelsea.”
Chelsea tensed, nearly dropped one of her cards. She turned around slowly, took in the sight of Alex Diaz in an elegant suit of dark gray silk, his hands in his trouser pockets, a faint smile on that inscrutable face of his. He looked too damn sexy for his own good—or hers.
“What are you doing here?”
“Watching your show, of course.”
“What for?”
“Because I thought I’d like to see it live. See you in action.”
She didn’t actually hear any innuendo in his words, although she still wasn’t sure she believed him. Why had he sought her out again? And why did she have to feel so excited about it?
She flicked her fingers to the rows of seats in front of the stage. “The studio audience sits over there.”
“I thought I’d watch from here.”
Chelsea’s gaze narrowed; backstage was a personnel-only area. “Who let you in?”
“I batted my eyelashes at securit
y.”
She almost laughed at the image that conjured up, but suppressed it at the last minute. Couldn’t keep her mouth from twitching, though, and Alex noticed.
“José was the most susceptible to my charm.”
José was six foot five and weighed nearly four hundred pounds. The laughter came again, like a bubble rising inside her, determined to escape. She clamped her lips shut. Alex was dangerous enough already, without adding charm to the mix.
“Why do you want to watch my show, Alex?” she asked, keeping her voice cool, even cold. “Is this about Treffen?”
He stepped closer, close enough for her to smell his aftershave and feel that now-familiar wave of lust threaten to pull her under. She could drown in it, just like Alex almost did in his old school pool.
“I want to watch your show because I’m interested in it,” he said, his voice a low hum for her ears only. “But I came here really to see you.”
She shook her head, not sure what she was saying no to. Him. Him here. Him wanting to see her. “No.”
“No, what?”
Weary now as well as wary, she just shook her head again. “I don’t know, but just no, Alex. No to everything.” Hardly the most eloquent or even coherent of responses, but sadly she didn’t have better.
“I also came to offer an apology.”
Now that was unusual. “What for?”
“Good question. I’m not sure. Something scared you when we were in my limo, and—”
“I wasn’t scared.”
“Unnerved, then,” Alex amended calmly.
She just shook her head. Again. Where was her flirty banter, her devil-may-care attitude? She needed it back. Now. “I just changed my mind, Alex. I suppose that’s got to happen to you once in a while.”
“No, actually, it doesn’t.”
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, super stud. Sorry to disappoint you, but I decided I didn’t want to be your little lapdog after all.”
“Lapdog? Who said I wanted that?”
She nailed him with a hard look. “It’s all about control for you, isn’t it? I’m sure some women find that incredibly sexy, but I don’t.” Liar. She had, and he knew it.
He didn’t tell her as much now, though. He simply gazed at her, his expression unreadable, his mouth slightly pursed.
