Why was he even considering dating that ball-buster?
He had better things to think about. Like planning the investment strategy of the agency money. Maybe he'd buy a T.V. spot to promote Men's Weekly. Radio spots and online ad campaigns. He could even afford to create some marketing gimmicks like bikini contests or Men's Weekly nightclub themes for his readers.
The magazine was going to take Los Angeles by storm, in print and online. Despite Stanna's doubts. Jake felt excitement coursing through his veins. A big grin split his face and the exhaust-laden night air whipped around him as he accelerated.
Jake sped up the 405 on-ramp, easily gaining freeway speed plus a little. There was surprising little traffic. He looked at his car clock and found out why. It was nearly midnight.
Jake idly wondered if Stanna was home from her date, yet.
"They're all gay!" Stanna declared to Telly. It was getting late night and they'd been trading man-stories ever since Telly arrived home from a tedious drink-date with yet another Mr. Wrong.
Ever supportive, Telly inclined her head, with its fresh, spiky blond hairdo, in agreement. Then looked up with a mischievous sparkle as she told her old joke: "'Why is it so hard for women to find men who are sensitive, caring and good-looking? Because those men already have boyfriends.'"
Stanna smiled. "So much for the 'nice' guys." But she added, "I just can't believe that the regular ones can't be educated. Upgraded. Polished a bit so their attitudes and actions with women reflect a brand-new spirit of respect!"
"You're getting worked up, my dear. That's good stuff, you should put it in a column."
"Jake won't publish it." Stanna was gloomy.
Telly conceded as much. "But... since when have you blunted your voice for any man?" Telly needled effectively. Stanna felt anger rise, swamping her gloom. Telly knew just what to say to raise Stanna's fighting spirit.
She found herself rising to her feet resolutely. Telly was right. Write a boring old balanced column that he'd rip to shreds anyway? No way. She wouldn't even blame him for ripping it. Compromises were always pretty boring, and she'd die before putting out a column that'd put people to sleep.
He wasn't going to like the revised column either.
But maybe… just maybe out of the resulting argument she now expected, she'd be able to make him come around to seeing things more her way. At least a little bit.
Telly watched her go. Grinning at her roommate's back, she wondered what would become of the Jake/Stanna challenge. For that matter, she wondered what would become of the Telly/Whoever challenge.
Her track record lately was pretty dismal; she wasn't hooking up with any man she could tolerate for even an hour, much less something lengthier. Tonight's ogre was merely the latest in a series. Whatever gave men the idea that sports bars and shouted conversation were appealing on a date?
She remembered the way... Matt was his name... Matt's spittle had gathered in the pond between his lower lip and gums as he’d shouted his inane small talk at her. It had held her attention, though. She didn't dare take her eyes off him, for when he was especially emphatic, the spittle launched toward her. She dodged spittle for half an hour before politely calling it a night.
Perhaps she was looking in the wrong places.
Telly's precisely plucked brows slanted into a frown as she pondered.
Work was the logical place to meet people. A person spent the bulk of their day there, after all. Unfortunate for her how women and gay men made up the fashion workforce. And after tonight, she could officially state that blind date friends-of-co-workers didn't do it for her.
But where else could she look?
Bars. Telly shuddered. How seedy. How unlikely to find a fresh, likely bloom within the dank confines of the meat-market.
Then there was always the classified route. Online dating. Telly considered it a last resort. She’d prefer to suss a man out in person, or have a trusted friend do it for her, rather than placing and browsing ads.
Where did that leave her?
She supposed she'd have to look in places she'd never thought of before to find her very own Mr. Right.
She sighed, rising to make ready for bedtime. She faintly heard Stanna tapping away on her keyboard -- short bursts of staccato, followed by longer periods of silence.
Telly smiled with real affection. She knew firsthand just how strong-willed her roommate was, and from the sound of it, Stanna's new boss was just as strong-willed. Their clashes were making for some interesting bedtime stories.
If only her own love life were as promising.
Across town, Ian had problems of his own.
I've got to get my job back. Ian's distinguished features were icy. None of his former employees would initially recognize the face of Ian McClain, former editor of Men's Weekly.
His handy worker bees had never suspected there was more to him. Not even Stanna.
The men who were now overstaying their welcome knew him a bit better. They deliberately infuriated Ian, but he kept his outrage and helplessness hidden. They'd just "accidentally" bumped against a marble pedestal, sending his prize oriental vase crashing to pieces. Dressed in shabby jeans and matching leather jackets, they prowled his lovely Beverly Hills home like the hoodlums they were.
Never mind that he'd financed his luxurious dwelling with a good chunk of the embezzled money he owed their boss. You'd think they'd give him more than the single week since he'd been "retired" from his lucrative job to see if he'd come up with the money without the business front of Men's Weekly.
But, he admitted, he probably would do the same thing in their place. Criminal minds thought alike.
"Tell the man I'll pay him just as I always do. On time."
Hoodlum number one kicked at an ornately carved glass-top coffee table, making the smoky beveled glass shiver inside its cherry wood frame. It didn't break. "And how you gonna do that, old man?" His voice was irreverent, threatening. "Now that you're booted out of your gainful employment."
The thugs chuckled at the sarcasm.
How, indeed. Ian didn't have a clue. But that, of course, he could not tell the messengers. Men's Weekly had been the perfect operation: a moneymaking magazine with absentee owners who’d been satisfied for so long with the quarterly statements he sent them. They’d never found out he'd squirreled aside half its earnings.
His countenance darkened. He had to get back in. He was far too deeply in debt to some very powerful and dangerous individuals to have a choice in the matter. He had to find a way to make that young upstart who'd bought the magazine want to rid himself of it.
He had some ideas. He'd spent enough of his life around the crooked element of society to absorb some of its lessons.
As he'd told Stanna, he had a few tricks left up his old sleeves.
His grandfatherly, old-money demeanor was merely one of his misleading but trust-inspiring traits.
He turned it on his guests. Bristling, he projected justified outrage at his guests: "Now there, my good man. Have a care with that table, it's a fourteenth-century treasure." Disgruntled and playing the part of old-money respectability to the hilt, he added, "Tell your employer these strong-arm tactics are unnecessary. He'll have his money. And my bill." He tugged at his dressing gown, brushing imaginary specks of dust from it.
They were impressed, as he’d intended, by the charm and grace they'd never possess. But unwilling to show any weakness, the hoodlum on the right pointed a finger at Ian and told him, "You got a month. That's his terms, if we decided you were good for it. You owe me, man, 'cause I'm giving you the time to pay up." They stalked out together, giving the cherry table a kick. It may have been accidental. The sturdy antique held up, Ian was gratified to see.
He owed the little punk, all right. Ian smiled dangerously. For that sort of insolence, he'd pay him back with new shoes of the cement variety. Or their equivalent. Oh yes. Ian indulged in pleasant dark fantasies for a while, then, feeling better, began sweeping up the shards of his b
roken vase.
He was the very image of a harmless old gentleman.
Stanna walked into Jake's office Monday afternoon. Here comes trouble, he thought. She'd been up to her armpits in administrative paperwork all day. When he saw her last, she was juggling the phone calls, the files, the computer chores, and the reports with the efficient finesse of a born secretary, so it wasn't surprising he'd forgotten she had a column to turn in.
Her face was pink and rosy, and she wore a long burgundy skirt with a white top. Casual but elegant. Jake approved, realizing it was the first day he'd ever seen her wear a skirt to work. She looked feminine in it.
But her stride was confident and direct like a man, as was her matter-of-fact voice when she spoke: "I have the column revised, but you won't like it. It will offend your Neanderthal sensibilities." She softened her words with a smile and held out the previously unnoticed white packet to him over his desk. She lowered it into his in box when he didn't immediately take it.
"In bed," Jake replied calmly.
"What?" Stanna, having made her entrance and statement, had wheeled to exit but jerked to a stop at his words.
"In bed," Jake repeated. "It's funnier if you append the words 'in bed' after someone's sentence. 'It will offend your Neanderthal sensibilities... in bed.'"
The look on her cute, dewy-complexioned face was priceless. It was so much fun to play down to her assumptions.
He rose to his feet, grinning at her. He reached into the in box to retrieve the white packet. He began reading it, his face cordially interested but no more. He peeked at her.
"You know what,” she began, almost thoughtfully. “You actually are the most immature, arrogant, infuriating, unbelievable ass I've ever had the misfortune to know." Stanna's face had a becoming flush on it, and her eyes were spitting those familiar sparks.
Jake blinked at her, slowly. "You're so adorable when you're angry."
Stanna heaved in her breath, exhaled loudly. "Okay. You're doing this on purpose."
"Give the woman a cigar."
"You'd give a woman a cigar? Aren't those forbidden the weaker sex? Too phallic, probably."
"Do you enjoy arguing, or am I just the lucky one?"
"I'm sure you get lucky all the time, but not with me."
Now it was Jake's turn to be thrown off-guard. But only momentarily. Then he felt a warm glow of admiration for the spunky blond perched in front of him. Along with another, more primitive reaction.
He'd love to prove her statement wrong. That claim she was immune to his charms had the effect of a red flag waved before a bull. In the exceedingly near future, he would demonstrate her error in an unmistakable way. How should he take her up on that challenge she so impetuously threw down? His sense of timing told him not to do it just yet.
"Thank you for your confidence in my virile male abilities," he told her with enough dryness to suck the moisture from a swimming pool. It worked; finally he got through her defenses: She laughed.
She immediately stifled it, but it was too late. The flag-waving contentious spirit had been humanized, again. Took long enough.
"I do like to make you smile," he said, the words soft and reflective. It was out of his mouth before he knew it.
Why did I say that? he asked himself.
He watched as a vulnerable look flashed across her face. Her eyes softened, her face relaxed, and her lips began to curve into a gentle smile. Seeming to catch herself, the expression faded just as quickly.
Jake wondered at it.
Then he remembered something. Something that made him dispense with the touchy-feely. His voice was ominous even to his own ears as he spoke. "Stanna, why won't I like your column?"
She lifted her chin defiantly. "You just won't."
Ever-helpful Stanna. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't we have an agreement? You write more or less what I need for the magazine?"
"Well, this week it'll be 'less.'"
Jake narrowed his eyes at her. Then he ignored her completely as he gave his attention to her column. He read it all. He told her flatly, "This won't do at all. But then, you knew that."
Why was she doing this? Jake couldn't fathom the girl's reasoning. If she wanted to be published, she had to write what he wanted. Didn't she realize that?
He looked at her narrowly. She stood still and at attention as any soldier. He understood. "This is your way of getting me to change my mind."
She said nothing, just stared at him expressionlessly.
"I'll have to rewrite it completely," he informed her. "I'm not going to change my mind about the magazine, especially not now."
"Why? I mean, why not now, especially?" Her face filled with an intense curiosity.
Jake smiled gently. Then chuckled. "Men's Weekly will be just the kind of pure, undiluted man's magazine that you won't like, because that's what I want to do." He shrugged his shoulders, amiable. He held all the cards and he knew it.
Jake looked at her nakedly, so that she could see his sincerity and confidence. "I want to put out a magazine for the kind of man I want to be. And I'm not the only one who thinks it's a good idea."
Stanna looked at him with distaste. He wondered how deeply it ran.
"I have commitments from the K&C Ad Agency," he said mildly.
"K&C? Oh my god, Jake, that's great!" A pleased grin transformed her face. Jake couldn't help noticing her even white teeth and supple mouth. She's so cute when she smiles, he thought dazedly. Amazing how a friendly expression could make a woman appealing. She continued, her voice as animated as her flashing blue-gray eyes.
"Ian tried to get them, of course. They're the biggest and best. But they wouldn't even meet with him. How on earth did you do it?" She paced his office slowly and murmured to herself, "It's amazing. Now we can finally invest in better circulation and some PR."
Jake didn't bother to remind her that "we" wouldn't be doing any such thing. He liked her energetic enthusiasm way too much to remind her of her proper place. Her breasts pushed against the white top, and her long loose skirt billowed behind her as she moved.
He couldn't help watching her with pleasure, and he really couldn't resist answering her "how did you do it" question.
Modestly, as if it were nothing, he stated, "I told them about the new and improved Men's Weekly."
"Sure you did," she snorted. "It may be new, but it's not improved." Looking closely at his face, she faltered. "You did. You told them about the new theme. They met with you and they committed based on that?" Her eyes demanded he come clean.
Then some of their light faded as a forlorn expression slid onto her face. "They liked it."
It wasn't that her fighting spirit was dimmed, Jake mused. It was still there, in the stiff way she held herself and the thoughtful, firm expression of her lips. It was more like she'd suddenly realized a trusted ally had forsaken her cause.
He felt awkward suddenly. She still stood before him, her arms folding gracefully across her chest. It seemed more a defensive gesture than an angry one. He was conscious of his own body nearly dwarfing hers. He wanted to take her in his arms and protect her. He wanted to...
"Are they nuts?" Her voice jarred, totally at odds with her vulnerable stance. She didn't look mean, though her eyes shot daggers at him under her lowered lids. She looked upset, despite her voice.
"The agency? No. They're smart. They believe in me. Which is more than I can say for you." Jake didn't mean for the bitter edge to creep into his voice.
She had the good grace to appear mildly guilty at least.
"Sorry. But I feel strongly about the subject." She looked the tiniest bit remorseful. As he watched, even that disappeared.
He sighed. "Yes, I understand you. And you understand me." They eyed each other warily.
"I have to keep writing my column the way I see fit," Stanna informed him, relentless. "I believe in them. That's the only kind of writing I want to do for Men's Weekly."
Jake felt admiration along with the irritation at
her stubbornness, but he didn't let on. "You're aware that they won't be published as they are? That I'll change them, rewrite them?" His voice was matter-of-fact.
"Maybe you'll find one you like. You never know." With her chin raised, her voice radiating her conviction, Stanna smiled at him calmly. "Even bull-headed guys like you change your minds occasionally."
He smiled back at her, enjoying the way her face softened and her eyes twinkled. He’d graduated from “chauvinist” to “bull-headed guy.” An improvement? "It could happen," he said agreeably.
"And monkeys might fly out of your butt?" she teased.
"Now, Stanna," he scolded, still smiling. "The first rule of writing is 'thou shalt not repeat tired-out phrases,' as you well know."
A sly grin appeared on her face. "Alligators might squeeze out of your--"
"That's fine," he hastily added.
She cocked her head, still grinning at him. A blond sheathe of hair swung gently around her shoulders, the white gold of it glistening against her natural, healthy face. She raised her eyebrows at him in a "what do you have to say to that?" look. It was challenging, and subtly flirtatious. His breath caught in his throat. Damn she was pretty.
He wanted their conversation to continue. He wanted to find out more about this intriguing, feisty-yet-feminine girl. But it was getting late. He wouldn't keep her after quitting time.
Jake had an idea.
He moved slowly toward her, stalking her. He eased into her personal space, looking down and gauging her reaction. If she so much as flinched he'd back off. But she didn't move, aside from a tiny tremor that ran through her small-framed body. Her breath came faster. But resolute to the last, she held her ground, smiling slightly, an expression even more charming on her face when her eyes registered a sultry response.
Their mouths were inches from each other when he spoke softly. "I've got a lot on my mind about Men's Weekly, and no one really to talk to about it since I moved out here. Would you like to go for a drive up the coast and talk about it?"
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