It was a nightmare.
The phone rang.
Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the little black instrument. It used to be her friend.
She was a columnist, not a receptionist. She would be a terrible receptionist, anyway.
An idea suggested itself and a wicked smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
Stanna picked up the phone. “Knuckle Dragger Central, where men are men, and women are zookeepers. What is the nature of your emergency?”
After a long stretch of silence, Ian's voice responded, "It didn't take long for things to change around there, did it?"
"Ian!" Stanna gasped. "That wasn't what it sounded like. I mean, I thought you were someone else..." Her face was getting used to the heat of embarrassment. Floor, swallow me now.
"Stanna, dear. I do hope you’re quite all right?" Her previous boss sounded properly solicitous. Maybe a bit distracted. She could hardly blame him. Losing a job hit one’s self-esteem and sense of identity, even if Ian had ultimately been satisfied with the idea. "I was merely calling to see how my favorite employee -- well, ex-employee now, I suppose -- is adjusting to the new ownership of Men's Weekly. I know it's only been a matter of days, but I must admit to some feelings of estrangement not being involved with it any longer."
Stanna twisted the black phone cord in her fingers thoughtfully. So Ian wasn't happy about leaving. "Well, I wish you were still here. Jake has already made some incredibly bad business decisions affecting me directly." She went on to inform him of her new status and column alteration, getting angry again as she spoke. "...and that chauvinist pig is actually going to make me write as a guy! And not even a cool guy, but the kind of guy who watches other guy's girlfriends' butts! Your leaving is such a disaster."
Ian's voice resonated with feeling as he agreed. "That, my dear, is an understatement." He paused, then added a clipped, "But I wasn't left much of a choice."
Stanna caught herself chewing on a pencil, and shoved it back into her round pencil holder as she spoke. "Jake implied that you were glad to accept a generous severance, so you could retire. I gather that’s not the truth?"
She heard Ian’s cynical laughter. She frowned at the jaded bitterness of it. She’d heard him sound like that before, but rarely. His manner, which she was familiar with after a full year as his right hand and columnist, was always a proper, understated one, but she'd sensed something darker beneath the surface. Something of that darkness now came across over the phone, and Stanna stared at the phone’s rectangular base as if it could provide clues about the departed editor.
"What's done is done, for the time being. I'm perturbed that an irresponsible playboy like Jake Tremere has succeeded me, but who knows what can happen in the future."
Jake, irresponsible? Playboy, maybe. Ignorant chauvinist, definitely. But even she had to admit he was a hardworking guy. Working hard in the absolute wrong direction, of course, but working hard.
"The future is as yet unwritten, and this story is not yet at an end. I do have a few tricks left up these sleeves."
Stanna was politely quiet. The pirate-like bravado in his voice made her raise her eyebrows. What was he thinking, that he'd come back someday and replace Jake? Jake wouldn't take too kindly to that.
But... wouldn't that be the very best of all possible situations for her?
Ian was civilly taking his leave. "Dear, I hope you keep me apprised, and look after the ship in my absence. She’s a promising vessel, but of course you’ve always appreciated her. Its one of the many reasons I hired you."
After she hung up the phone, Stanna stared at the corkboard-lined partition in front of her. It was strange, but she suspected that Ian viewed his "absence" as temporary. The possibility of having her old secure life back made her giddy with hope, but caused a niggling feeling of regret.
Regret?
Yes, regret, she told herself with brutal honesty. But only because she felt piqued by the challenge of reforming Jake Tremere, not because of anything stupid and weak, like a crush.
She was smarter than that.
She stood and peered into her black in box. Rifling through it, she saw at a glance that her column wasn't inside. She sat back down. There would be no way she could concentrate on menial drudgery until she found out if her column was mangled beyond recognition.
Maybe that was why Ian sounded so bitter. He had impossible hopes, doomed to failure, yet he hoped anyway. Foolish, really.
Maybe she was being foolish too, for hoping Jake would respect her column and for thinking she’d be able to reform him.
She sat, drumming her short nails against her wood-grained desktop. He would’ve read it by now. Was he angry? More likely he’d contemptuously tossed it in the trash. The thought caused a hurtful twinge to vibrate briefly through her.
He didn't know any better, she told herself.
She squared her shoulders. Jake had no idea what it meant to pour oneself on paper and write what you believed in to help others. If he were so insensitive that he could just throw a perfectly good column away without a thought, then she would have to find somewhere else to work. The receptionist demotion, the phones, the extra work, she'd deal gracefully with all of it if she could only keep her weekly column.
She didn’t want to end up hopeful but deluded, like Ian.
Saddened by the possibility of having to leave, Stanna rose from her chair. She didn't see the beige partitions on her left or the plain wall on the right as she paced determinedly toward Jake's office. She would ask him to his face what he thought of the column.
If he viewed her work as a waste of paper, if all she had to look forward to was week after week of red-penciled replacement copy and Jake’s smug face gloating, she would rip her contract into pieces under his nose herself and be done with it.
She desperately hoped it wouldn't come to that.
His door was shut, she saw immediately. There was no light under the door, but that didn't guarantee he wasn't there. Ian usually had liked to concentrate by shutting and locking the door and working by the light from the window and the glow of the computer monitor. Sometimes the door stayed shut all afternoon. She’d wondered if her old boss snuck afternoon naps.
But Jake wouldn't be inside napping. Nor hiding. Being open and available to his employees -- having his meddling fingers stuck in everything -- was more his style. She paused in front of the door and just looked at it. It wasn't his style to lock doors, either, if her hunch was correct.
She reached out and touched the L-shaped handle.
"Stanna!"
She leaped halfway up the door before recognizing the voice as Corrinna's.
Stanna glared. "What!"
"Exxcuuuuuse me. I just though you'd like to know that your hero’s gone for the afternoon. He told a couple people in Art that he needed to take care of some things." Her ultra-thin brows twitched up and down. "You're a bit jumpy, girl."
She minced away, whistling. Stanna let her breath hiss out through her teeth and forced her pulse to slow its hummingbird tattoo.
No jumpy girls around here, no ma'am. Stanna waited for Corrinna to turn the corner, then whirled to open the door. As she expected, it turned easily.
She had to find out about her column.
Breathing shallowly, she opened the door. The faded masculine scent that greeted her brought back distracting memories. Determined, she overrode them in her mind. Stay focused. Her little act of spying was making her unreasonably nervous. She flipped the light switch, adding stark florescent brightness to the gentle yellow afternoon glow from the one window.
She looked about, her eyes touching on all the likely spots: trash can (empty), cardboard boxes (full, but with his own things), desk (who knew with all that paperwork piled so high?), and floor (the only neat thing about the office). The spot in front of his desk where they'd embraced looked somehow different from the rest of the office, as if ghosts of their entwined bodies still filled the space.
Avoiding the
spot and forcibly shoving the memory from her mind, she dashed to the desk and scanned the surface documents. She hated to rifle his paperwork, not because she was afraid of messing it up -- it couldn't be messier -- but because it made her feel like a nosy obnoxious thief. She knew she'd hate it if someone went through her things. It was an inexcusable invasion.
But she had to know about her column. She wouldn't even look at anything else. With a speedy efficiency born of distaste for her actions, she shuffled the surface paper, turning up corners and flipping over anything that looked like the little white binder-clipped packet she'd turned in just hours ago. She'd left the door almost completely shut, but she knew she had to hurry before any of her coworkers walked by and peeked in.
"Damn it, it's not here," she muttered. Stumped, she surveyed the papers on his desk. Her eyes fell on the inconspicuous black file cabinet in the corner behind his desk. Could he have filed it away? If he had, she supposed she was out of luck. She drew the line at digging through his personal files.
She would just have to wait until he returned to ask him about her column.
Disappointed, she whirled to exit. A couple steps with her head down were all she took before her internal collision-warning system jerked her head up. She froze.
Blocking her path, Jake had his arms folded. His silent, cool appraisal suggested he'd been there for some time.
CHAPTER FOUR
Too close to him, she reflexively jumped back with an involuntary "oh!" of surprise.
Slowly, he unfolded his arms. Deliberately, his body turned and he closed the office door behind him before re-folding his arms.
"Hi," she offered weakly.
He just stood there, a life-size, expressionless woodcarving.
"I wasn't snooping," she tried next. She cleared her throat. "I was just looking for my column so I could move it along to production. That's what I always did with Ian." That was mostly true. Ian let her give her column directly to the Production department -- he just never bothered reading it until after it was published.
"I'm not Ian." His quiet voice rolled out at he. He took a step closer.
She backed up one step, then caught herself, irritated. "Listen. I wasn't doing anything wrong."
He took another step, but then he maneuvered around her, agile. He put his briefcase on his chair, and she heard it click open as he leaned over it for a moment. He pulled out her column.
When he turned to face her, she watched the familiar white packet tensely. "There it is," she said unnecessarily. Would he demonstrate his big-shot power now and destroy it? His expression wasn't hostile, at least. In fact, unless she were mistaken...
His aqua eyes fixed on her gray ones, and she read undercurrents of... humor! He was amused at her!
He waved the packet slowly, back and forth. His eyes glittered with assurance and silent laughter.
Great, so she’d given him his afternoon chuckles. She supposed it could be seen as amusing, her being caught with her hand in the cookie jar and all.
At least he wasn't angry. Was he?
"You aren't angry?" She had to be sure.
"Not about your being in my office, no. Though a closed door generally indicates a desire for privacy." He frowned. "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't assume that Ian's way of doing business is my way. That won't help either of us."
"Fair enough," Stanna responded too quickly, finding herself impressed with him again, totally against her will. But the column business would be the real test.
Tentatively feeling her way through the foreign experience of participating in a civil conversation with him, Stanna asked, "So... since you brought it up... what will help us?" She felt the ball of anxiety in her gut swell a bit larger.
“Communication.”
She stared, suspicious. Then offered him a tentative smile. “Communication’s my specialty.”
With his unexpected humor and the civilized banter, the tense atmosphere between them diffused slightly. Still alert for landmines, she continued, "Since we're more or less stuck with each other, we could learn to help each other. What do you think?" And what do you think of my column, by the way?
"I think I'd like to learn more about you."
Part of her stirred in response to his simple words. It was hard not to be with six feet of prime male leveling his mesmerizing aqua eyes on hers, reminding her of their kiss. It didn’t help knowing that any moment the knee-liquefying experience could easily be repeated. His steady gaze told her volumes more than his words. He was thinking of it too.
But he kept his distance.
And she kept her head, controlling such inappropriate thoughts by an effort of will. The sobering idea of her column in his clutches helped bring her back to business.
So he wanted to learn more about her.
"Know your enemy, huh?" she quipped. He'd turned away, toward the window. The lean muscles rippling under his shirt quickened her pulse.
"I'd like to learn about your skills, and how I can best use you on my magazine."
His magazine. He'd run his magazine into the ground if he weren't careful. Stanna sighed. Enough was enough. A gesture was needed.
She'd be the bigger person. She spoke to his back.
"Jake, I'd like to come to terms with your being here and the changes you're making. I guess I need to understand more about what you're trying to accomplish so I can accommodate it, up to the limit of my nausea threshold."
He slowly pivoted back towards her and gave a sardonic grin. "You? Accommodating? I'm agog." He raised his brows at her. He glanced down at the packet he held. "This first taste of your accommodation leaves some room for doubt, you understand." He referred to her column by running his thumb over its edges, rifling the few papers. He stood by the window with easy grace, watching her with a rueful little smile.
She wished the sight of that slow-moving thumb didn't zap right through her spine and directly into her nervous system. His smile was cute. Too sexy for her own good. He was taking her bashing of him in her column extremely well.
He could afford to, she reminded herself. With one flick of his tanned, strong wrist, her column would sail into the trash. Then where would she be? Careful.
"Jake. I, uh..." Hmm, this diplomacy thing was hard. Reaching to see it from his point of view felt like spanning an abyss. Slowly, she spoke.
"I think I understand you want to make a bigger success of what has been a middle-of-the-road, modern men’s magazine. And you believe that since the audience is men they want stereotypically male subject matter."
She had his complete interest. His eyes were alert on her. Those eyes wouldn't miss the tiniest thing. And she couldn't miss the excitement igniting in them. If she hadn't already known, she was enlightened anew about just how much the magazine meant to Jake Tremere.
He nodded, slapping the windowsill emphatically. "Yes, that's what guys want. I've read the back issues and they don't speak to the demographics. What we have here are smart young-adult and adult guys who pick up Men's Weekly to stay smart and informed. And the studies say their main priorities are women, women, women. If we don't give them what they want now, someone else will." His deep voice held absolute conviction.
"What you wrote before," he gave another absent thumb-caress to her packet and missed her quicker than normal intake of breath, "isn't giving them what they want. Or what they say with their hard-earned dollars they need.
"The question is, are you going to help me, Stanna?"
She sensed the power coiled within him as he faced her fully.
She held firm. “I’m not interested in working on a titty magazine.”
“That’s good, because I’m not interested in running one.”
"What do you want from me? Exactly what position do I have here with you?" Her question was uttered devoid of double meaning, but it hung there in the air between them anyway. A quirk of his lips acknowledged it.
"I want you to cooperate with me." His repeated request was soft and strong,
persuasive and charismatic. The kind of voice that made her feel like she'd be a heel if she didn't cease her stubbornness and do what he wanted immediately.
Oooh, you're good, she marveled.
The bemused half-smile on her face must have encouraged him because he continued with a shift into a disarmingly straightforward manner.
"We didn't get off on the right foot, did we? No." He half-sat, half-leaned against the edge of his desk, his black boots pointed insolently at the ceiling. "So. When my parents passed away, I inherited a certain amount of money which, combined with what I've saved for years and a small business loan, enabled me to do something I've always wanted to do: own a magazine like this one." His gaze, when he looked up at her, was full of determination, implacable.
"Ian couldn't be salvaged. No," he held up his hand and spoke over her attempted interruption. "You may not agree with me yet, but Ian was slowly killing this magazine. And you," he evaluated her, "were to be replaced with some low-buck freelance talent. I didn’t know you, didn’t know about your contract, and the freelancer might not be as good as you. They are, however, cheaper and easier to replace if they don’t work out. I'd have used the extra money to increase circulation and ad marketing, something I'd like to begin concentrating more on. Hired help does what they're told. You follow your own feminist vision, and it’s incompatible here."
Before Stanna could take umbrage at that bit of cheer, Jake surprised her by grudgingly shifting gears again.
"You are actually more than I expected. Ian obviously thought so, too, or he wouldn't have been training you to take his place, or misled me about your employment status."
That would be his idea of an apology, Stanna knew. Though it was a bit late in coming and more than a little reluctant, it pleased her inordinately. So did the affirmation of Ian’s vote of confidence.
Even though Jake admitted that he thought Ian was "killing the magazine." That made it a sort of left-handed compliment, didn't it? If Ian was a magazine murderer, then Ian’s choosing her made her a murderer-in-training.
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