by Amelia Wilde
“Yes.” I toss her dress from last night at her. She doesn't like that much.
She was still sleeping when I went to work out with my new trainer. The guy knows what he’s doing, I’ll give him that, so it’s no surprise that I hated his goddamn guts by the end of it.
“You're a prick,” she spits, throwing her long legs over the side of the bed.
“I never said I wasn’t.”
In the mirror I can see her shoving herself back into her skintight dress. The sight of it does nothing for me now. Last night was all about convenience, and she was very convenient. Too bad for her, she thought this was the start of something much, much bigger.
That’s what they all think.
But fuck if I’m going to get conned into some big, romantic love affair, especially with someone like Alyssa here. Even if I had feelings for her—no, I can’t even say it without my mouth curling into a sneer. Having “feelings” for women is a surefire way to lose control over your life, over your reputation, everything.
Mine is too valuable for that. On the scale of ten billion in net worth, at my last count.
I turn to face her as she stands up from the bed, my arms crossed over my chest. My workout gear is soaked. All I want is a shower.
Yet I don’t see her leaving. Instead, I see her putting on an expression like she’s searching for something. Damn. She really is that stupid.
“Where…” She’s making a show of looking for her panties, a worthless scrap of lace that I had down around her ankles within three minutes of walking in the door. Don’t act shocked. She wanted it as much as I did. Well, maybe not exactly. Maybe she was in it for more than a hard fuck and just a hint of bondage, my tie around her wrists. But I wasn’t.
“By your left foot.” They’ve been there the whole time. If she was hoping to entice me back into bed, she’s going to be disappointed. She only needs to be a little bit smarter to realize that this display is worthless.
She bends and scoops them up, her tits almost popping out of her dress, then straightens up, stepping into the panties and sliding them back over her sculpted ass.
I’m about to ask her if she needs help finding the door—we’re in the penthouse, after all, and it’s probably too huge for her tiny brain—when my cell rings in its spot on top of my dresser. I answer it before the first ring is over.
“Hunter.”
Alina rolls her eyes and pads out of the room. Good.
The voice on the other end of the phone launches into a business proposition, and instantly Alana is forgotten, last night’s conquest filed away along with all my other irrelevant memories. Then I get a whiff of a challenge. If there’s one thing I can’t resist, it’s a business opportunity on the brink.
“What happened exactly, John? It seems like the resource management here has been abysmal.”
On the other end of the line, John, the representative for the board at Williams-Martin, the publishing group, sighs. Williams-Martin, John has explained, owns Basiqué—their heavy hitter—and puts out a bunch of other magazines that lose money every second they exist. Not that I give a shit about magazines. But this company is about to go over the edge, and I could stop it…if I choose.
“I can’t argue with that.” He sounds defeated.
I take another long moment to consider my options. I don’t need this business. People can’t stop giving me money hand over fist. Come up with your own revolutionary development in condom technology and watch your net worth shoot into the stratosphere. But I can’t get enough of this shit. I’ll probably find out that none of these magazine properties are worth anything, and I won’t feel an ounce of sadness about shutting most of them down. Maybe all of them. Who knows? I buy them out, I have all the power. And another successful turnaround will only increase my legitimacy.
A memory of my slimy, weakass father flashes across my mind. He wasn’t legit. I’ll never forget the day they came to arrest him for a laundry list of embarrassing white-collar crimes. It wasn’t until the trial that I saw him for what he was: a coward and a fraud. The last thing I need is to get into a situation that looks like it’s just more of his “creative accounting.”
This isn’t creative accounting. From what John has said, this is a bailout.
And who has more power than the guy writing the checks?
I’ll do it. Why the hell not? I can afford to lose a couple million if it goes south, and either way I’ll come out smelling like roses. If I can’t turn around some publishing company when they’re up against the goddamn Internet, I won’t be the first.
“Tell you what, John. I’ll bite. But I’ll warn you—I don’t plan on leaving power structures intact. I’m going to be doing some reorganizing.”
“We expected as much.” The relief in his voice is palpable.
“Be ready for a call from my business manager by the afternoon,” I say crisply, then let him thank me too many times before I disconnect the call.
The thought of the destruction I’m about to wreak on Williams-Martin has my blood humming in my veins. I could go another round right now.
But Alina is long gone. Sometimes you’re too hasty, Hunter.
My heart is still beating with leftover anticipation as I strip off my clothes and step into the shower. It’s just a pet project, something I wouldn’t normally pay much attention to, but I could use just this kind of distraction from all the shit that’s been going on.
All I need to do is get to the office.
Chapter Four
Cate
Sandra shuts herself in her office for most of the morning while I force myself to sift through the daily deluge of emails, tracking shipments, scheduling, confirming, confirming, confirming. It’s hard to type with jittery hands, a jittery mind. But the work never ends. There’s always another issue in the works, always another set of clothes, models, designers to slot into Sandra’s schedule. I have to get it done, or the afternoon will be a nightmare.
That bitch.
The thought bubbles up from behind my barricade of professionalism and I swat at it like it’s in the air in front of me, like I’d swat away a mosquito. Sandra isn’t a bitch. She’s demanding and hyper-focused on her work, and the problem she’s faced with—that we’re both faced with—is something I can’t help her with, even if it takes everything I have not to press my ear up against the doors to her office. A single word. A single word is all I need to take the edge off after what she told me this morning.
Her words reverberate endlessly in my mind. “Williams-Martin is bankrupt,” she’d said, slipping her reading glasses off and placing them precisely back into the drawer. “They’ll need a solution shortly. If one isn’t found, the office will close. In a matter of weeks, I assume.”
Instead of letting my mouth drop open, I pinched my lips shut to keep from screaming.
I’ve been at Basiqué for fifteen months. Fifteen agonizing months. Back in college, I struggled with pulling all-nighters for important projects. I’d start out determined with a stack of granola bars and some off-brand energy drink and by 2:30 in the morning I’d find myself in the dorm-room bathroom, brushing my teeth too hard and fast before a frantic dash back to bed. How long has it been since I went to bed early or slept past 7:00? Months. And all for this job. If I have to start over…
The phone on my desk starts to ring, and my hand is on the receiver before the first tone is over. In that split second I register that it’s Sandra calling from her office and not an outside request of some kind.
“Hello, Sandra—” I say before she cuts me off.
“Tell editorial to stop work on the policewoman feature. The content will be substituted.”
“I’ll do that right away.” The line clicks off.
I had been in the middle of writing three related emails—now that Sandra has cancelled this morning’s meetings, the approvals process for a photo shoot scheduled later in the week has to be pushed back, so I need to re-coordinate the photographer and the designer for later in the wee
k at a time that won’t completely screw up the rest of the week. It doesn’t help at all that tomorrow is a bank holiday. I must need to sleep more—how did the Fourth of July slip my mind?—but more sleep is a joke, especially now. I can’t afford to let anything slip.
It’s not an ideal situation, leaving my desk empty so I can go talk to Kirk—the head of editorial—but I slip my cell phone in my pocket and push the “forward” button on my phone. I’ll only be gone a few minutes.
Once I’m in the hallway, striding toward the editorial bullpen, my blood pressure equalizes a little. I have a purpose for being out of the office for a few moments. Nobody can fault me for that.
Kirk is hunched over his desk, fingers flying over his keyboard. I hover for a second, and after a final burst of words, he swivels around to face me.
“Hey, Cate,” he says, his eyes locked on my face. “Come on in.”
He stands up from behind his desk and reaches down to the mini-fridge he keeps tucked between the desk and the window, pulling out an energy drink.
“How’s it going?” I tilt my head toward his computer screen.
“Good, good,” says Kirk, opening the can and downing half of it in one gulp. “You’ve got news.”
“She’s stopping the policewoman feature.”
Kirk lets out an epic sigh, dropping his chin to his chest for several moments. Then he looks up at me, rolling his eyes, and shrugs his shoulders.
I shrug back.
“Any replacement?” he asks, his body already turning back toward his desk.
“Ha, ha.”
“I figured as much.”
“I’ll let you know, okay?”
“Thanks, Cate.”
News delivered, I hustle back down the hall to Sandra’s office. There are a few people lingering in the conference rooms across from the glass doors with a hopeful shine in their eyes. It’s not going to happen for them.
At the doorway, two things happen at once: I reach for the polished handle of the doors, and I see him.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
This would happen. The one time I step away from my desk—and how long was I gone? Three minutes? Four?—someone has to show up. I run through the list of cancelled meetings. No one should be in there right now. Sandra won’t be happy if she discovers that someone has been loitering out here.
I pull open the door and step through, the words already there on the tip of my tongue. “I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice low but confident. “I had to step away for a moment. Ms. Sarzó isn’t—”
He turns to face me and the words die in my throat.
I know the instant that he smiles at me—a cocky, sexy half-smile that’s almost a sneer—and shifts his weight so that he’s facing me head-on, giving me a glorious view of what I am certain is a rock-hard body underneath layers of expensive, understated fabrics, that I want him out of here immediately.
He’s been standing here for long enough that the scent of him fills the air—a hint of spicy cologne underneath a pure clean that sends a bolt of electric lust directly between my legs.
My next breath is an undignified gulp, and then I get my shit together…just enough.
“Ms. Sarzó isn’t available for meetings right now,” I say crisply, crossing to my desk and stepping behind it. The closer I get to him, the more he overtakes me—and he hasn’t spoken a word. Male models are in and out of this office on a daily basis, but none of them, not a single one, has ever rocked me like this. Even fully covered by his suit—it must be custom, Italian, no way it came off the rack—his body is muscled, athletic, setting off his razor-sharp jawline.
He considers me with eyes the color of steel. In the sunlight outside, I know they’d be as blue as the ocean. I want to look away—he’s blinding—but I’m not about to give him the satisfaction.
When he finally speaks, his voice is dark and smooth with an edge to it. “She’ll be available for me.”
“I don’t think so,” I say quickly, the heat rising to my cheeks. I don’t know who this man is, or what he thinks he’s doing here, but with each moment that passes I’m desperate for the tension in the air to burst and dissipate.
He leans closer. The expanse of my desk is still between us, but even his slight movement toward me seems to take up all the rest of the space in the room. “And what makes you think that?” The corner of his mouth quirks just slightly, like he might laugh at me.
I open my mouth, then close it again, pressing my lips together. “I’m Catherine Schaffer, Ms. Sarzó’s lead assistant. I canceled all of her meetings for the morning. If you’d like to make an appointment—”
Then he really does laugh, and the sound is as musical as it is calculating. He must be enjoying this. “So you’re a woman with a fiery personality, Ms. Schaffer?” Crossing his arms casually over his chest, he gives me an indulgent look. “I’ll bet you hate to be wrong.”
My eyes narrow. I can’t stop myself—I’m on the verge of bursting out with an indignant reply. He can’t talk to me like this. He can’t look at me like this.
I’ve opened my mouth to speak when Sandra’s office door whips open.
“Mr. Hunter,” she calls in a cold, clear voice. “Please, come in. We have several matters to discuss, it seems.”
My face burns. Mr. Hunter. There’s another layer to the laughter in his eyes. Something is lit up there, too.
He doesn’t mention it.
Instead, he heads toward Sandra, his hand extended to shake. Holds the door for her while she steps inside. Turns as he guides the door closed behind him.
He locks his eyes on mine one more time, and those blues burn into the core of me.
I might never recover.
Chapter Five
Jax
I have to get through this meeting—it’s the only reason I came here, and the editor-in-chief is already sitting behind her desk. The last thing I’d do on earth is turn around and walk out. The news would break that I crumbled under Sarzó’s intimidating stare before I reached the front door.
But how can I concentrate on her middle-aged, suspiciously unlined face when my cock is about to burst out of my pants?
Holy hell, that woman was something else. I wanted her the instant she walked into the room, and everything in my body screamed for release from this suit, from this godforsaken meeting.
I can’t remember the last time a woman had that kind of effect on me.
I don’t think a woman ever has.
My mind is completely wiped except for an unrelenting need. I could step back into that lobby right now. Catherine Schaffer’s lithe frame would hardly be able to resist me.
No.
No.
I can’t get caught up like this.
None of it shows on my face, even while my mind races and kicks and screams at having to take the seat across from Sandra Sarzó. She’s top of the food chain in her industry, but fuck if I care. I’d never even heard of her before today, and I certainly didn’t come here to kiss her ass. I came here to tell her that they have one issue to impress me, otherwise I’m shutting down the entire operation.
She sizes me up, her fingers steepled in front of her on the desk. “It seems you’ve bought the controlling majority of Williams-Martin, Mr. Hunter. Have you given any thought to what you might do with its properties?”
Close all of them. Including this one.
I give her half a smile, a breath that could be a laugh. “You know as well as I do that Williams-Martin is exceptionally poor at management. All of its other publications are riding on Basiqué’s coattails.”
Sarzó leans back, crossing one leg neatly over the other. “I assumed as much. But my main concern is, of course, Basiqué’s standing.” She doesn’t have to say that this job is her life. It’s written all over her.
I’m having an out-of-body experience. Most of me is just outside the doors, bending that masterpiece over her sleek, modern desk, pushing the black pencil skirt up to her waist…
Snap the hell out of it, Hunter.
There is no reason for me to be this hung up on her. I saw her for what, a minute? Two? After this I’ll have no reason to come back to the office, and she’ll just become another piece of eye candy that flitted her way across my vision and back out again.
I lean forward just enough to seem like I’m pressing in on Sandra’s space without actually breaking the plane of her desk. “You tell me. What is this publication’s standing?”
Sarzó straightens her back. “We’re among the three most-circulated fashion publications in the country, with well over two million paid subscribers for the print edition alone. We have another million paying for premium online content, and that number is growing as we speak.”
“And you think that makes Basiqué a worthwhile investment?”
“Do you find fault with that level of circulation?”
“Come on now, Ms. Sarzó. You know as well as I do that those numbers don’t touch the top ten.”
She lets out a short burst of laughter. “If you’re looking for a publication venue for cutesy Americana and investment strategies for retirees, you’ve purchased the wrong publishing group.”
“Have I?”
I let the question hang in the air long enough for her to become uncomfortable. I’m already jumping out of my goddamn skin. This conversation is killing me. No—not having my hands on the exquisite creature fifteen feet away is slowly, inexplicably, driving me out of my mind.
Eyes narrowed, Sarzó juts her chin out. “Let’s be clear with one another. Are you telling me that you plan to shutter Basiqué? If you are, do me a professional courtesy.”
“Not immediately.”
“When?”
I stand up as calmly as I can. “You have two issues to prove to me that my money wouldn’t be better spent on publications that will compete with the top five.”
Sarzó doesn’t miss a beat, rising to her feet. “I have no doubt we’ll exceed your expectations.”
“I’m looking forward to it. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
