His piercing look seemed to delve into her soul. She wondered what he saw there. And if it pleased him. He was making her self-conscious. But she waited for him to say whatever it was he was waiting to say. She raised her head slightly, and matched him stare-for-stare.
He nodded slightly, as if to himself. Abruptly, his eyes left hers and he casually moved towards the exit. Mystified but intrigued, she followed.
What was on his mind? Did it have anything to do with the last five week's unspoken agreement to treat each other with a cordial respect? He hadn't once tried to kiss her, and she didn't lose her temper when he butchered her columns. Well, not too much.
Her own restraint surprised her. Each week she went to lunch with him, guns blazing to defend the week's brainchild and discuss the already-published column. And each week he performed a vivisection on her ideas, leaving mere remnants of the original punch, and he justified the latest published vivisection. But he did it fairly, explaining his reasoning and all.
She wished she didn’t respect the man. She knew he was still very much wrong about two essential things: his view of the intrinsically evil/burdensome nature of women in general, and the new content of Men's Weekly. Including its new covers. If she saw one more scantily clad bimbo in a one-use pose, she would puke right onto Jake's lap.
Which meant he'd better carry a few changes of clothes, Stanna thought wryly. The next eight issues, since they prepared two months in advance, were showered with bimbos. Jake's "giving men what they want" meant lots of women.
What was worse, the magazine was garnering good reviews. It was extreme, un-PC, and in-your-face. The audience loved it. The circulation numbers backed it up. Jake was right about that.
Some other people out there in reader-land didn't like it. There was that women's group she saw on the news last week. And one or two PTA members who trashed Men's Weekly for lowbrow "pig slop." But they weren't creating the kind of commotion that made for magazine boycotting.
Not yet, anyway. Just yesterday Ian called and told her about some huge feminist group in West Hollywood making Men's Weekly their whipping boy. He saw one of their representatives on the local news condemning it. Their protest march, over a freelancer’s article listing ways to score on a first date, closed down a part of Santa Monica Boulevard for over an hour.
And Ian's own reaction to "Stan's" latest published column "Freedom from Women" told her all she needed to know about his opinion of it: he laughed. Sobering instantly, he gave her his condolences about the alterations Jake imposed. But that impulsive laugh of his had irritated her. He could have at least shown some sympathy.
So, Men's Weekly had foes as well as fans.
Jake wouldn't care, though. All he cared about was the magazine growing according to his master plan.
And it was, whether she approved or not.
So what did that serious, contemplative look on his face mean?
He held the door open for her to precede him into the afternoon sunshine. Sun glinted on the metal and glass in the tiny strip-mall parking lot, and she pulled her shades down from atop her head. Cutting through the lot to the wide sidewalk on Wilshire Boulevard, they strolled in silence. Three more buildings and they'd be back at work. She paced him quietly, waiting impatiently. Two more buildings.
"What are you thinking?" she finally queried.
He looked at her. "I was just wondering," he drawled out casually, "if you'd like to go hiking this weekend."
Curiouser and curiouser. The big bad magazine owner actually asked her out on a real date? She turned the question on him. "Are you asking me out?" Immediately she regretted her bluntness when he frowned slightly and spit out, "Never mind."
A few more paces in silence.
"Never mind?"
"Yes. Forget it." He walked a little faster. She had to exert herself to keep abreast. "Sorry. For a second I thought it'd be fun to go hiking in the Santa Monica mountains, but then I remembered who I was talking to. You wouldn't be interested."
"I wouldn't be? What, do you think that because I'm female that I'd break out in hives at the thought of exertion? I hardly even wear high heels. I happen to love hiking," Stanna asserted.
"Great. Noon Saturday? I know a great trail. It’s a bit rough, but you look like you might be able to handle a rocky path that climbs up to Sandpiper Peak. Quite a view," he remarked offhandedly, as if she weren't obviously simmering from that "might be able to handle it" comment.
He just didn't take women seriously enough, Stanna decided. He would after Saturday though. She smiled. She'd been making use of the Santa Monica National Park Service land since she'd moved to Los Angeles. The hundreds of acres of barely touched wilderness so close to the city's freeways and mini malls and endless concrete buildings soothed her immeasurably. She'd never been on the Sandpiper Peak trail, but how hard could it be? She could handle anything he could.
They entered the cool confines of the building lobby. Jake greeted the heavy-lidded deskbound security guard with a nod. Stanna gave him a friendly wave.
In the elevator, she felt the tension hanging between them, invisible yet thick and warm, like an electric blanket. Sensual. Pleasantly claustrophobic. Too aware of his animal-like stance as he leaned slightly against the thick brass railing, she couldn't help but wonder if hiking was how he kept in such superb shape. His brown slacks discretely outlined lean, muscular legs, and his casual shirt wasn't too tight on his torso, but neither was it too loose to hide his broad shoulders and powerful physique.
Hiking would be fun with this man. She wouldn't even be breathing hard. At least, not because of the trail. Six feet of capable, razor-witted, exceedingly able-bodied guy might steal some of her breath. She knew she could handle the trail. Could she handle him?
"Yes," she said emphatically, startling Jake into staring at her. Recovering, she hastened to add, "Saturday. Noon is good for me."
The elevator door opened. Michael slumped provocatively against the far wall waiting for the car, and was the only witness to Jake's surprising reply.
Jake cupped her chin gently in one warm hand, tilting her head up until her gray eyes rested on his teasing blue-green ones. His closeness affected her, no matter how she tried to remain indifferent. His unconscious sensuality fired point-blank at her. "I hope you're ready for a workout." Releasing her as if he'd never touched her, he strode out, nodding to a drop-jawed Michael.
She couldn’t move for a long moment. She forgot to be miffed at Jake’s manhandling. She was still vibrating from the sexy growl in his tone, so like some big, bad wolf come to eat her up.
She gulped.
"Did I just see what I thought I just saw?" Michael asked her in an awed, hand-over-heart display. He fanned himself with the other hand. "Whew. Oh my. The hormones are getting thick in here."
"Don't say anything about it," she begged him.
"No worries, luv. I'll be too toasted from the drinks I'm about to have to calm my raging jealousy." He archly pointed one index finger at her and waved it side-to-side. "Naughty." He swished past her into the elevator with a wink and a narrow-eyed grin.
Stanna sighed hopelessly. The news would be all over work within the hour.
Surprisingly, she didn’t feel too upset about that. As she approached her desk, she heard her telephone ringing and hurried her steps. It wouldn't be a tragedy if people knew there was something going on, she decided. Probably.
A sigh escaped her. She remembered the way his warm hand felt on her chin. At that moment, all she’d wanted in the world was for him to kiss her, hold her, do anything he wanted to her. The entire staff could be crowded onto bleachers watching and cheering for all she’d have cared. It was the amazing effect of his proximity to her. It short-circuited her good sense.
Dropping her wallet onto her desk and picking up the phone with the same hand, Stanna gave her now-standard greeting: "Stanna here."
The sound of a woman sobbing filled her ear.
"Hello?" Stanna's own voice ge
ntled and became uncertain in the face of the woman's crying. "Hello. Who is this, please? Can I help you?"
More sobbing. Then: "Is thees Meeen's Weekly?" Her accent was a lilting Spanish. Her tone exuded heartbreak. "My man has left me. He ees gone." The woman snuffled, emitting pathetic whimpering sounds. "I complain. To you. Stan wrote that a man should leave his woman if he ees not happy in his heart. My man has left me. My three babies have no father. Soon… soon they have no mother, for I am broken in my heart."
"Ma'am." Stanna's comprehension of what the caller just confided alarmed her, made her cautious. "Don't... I am so sorry that you feel that way. Please don't do anything drastic, though. These things have a way of working out." Her words felt pathetically insufficient.
"It ees too late!" the woman shrieked. "My man. My husband Dario ees gone! He leave me nothing. Nothing but thees cursed magazine with Stan page circled in blood-red ink. I explain: He leaved note, then he leaved me. He go." Her voice hitched hysterically.
Stanna listened in horror. The woman's voice resonated with despair as she concluded, "Now I go, too. Thees ees what your magazine has done. I go forever."
The line went dead.
Stanna sat with the phone to her ear for another minute, in shock. Not daring to hang up, just in case, she placed the receiver gently on her desk, shoved back her chair and raced to Jake's office.
"Jake!" She burst in without knocking. She skidded to a halt, the words she was about to say sticking in her throat.
There was a gorgeous brunette draped like a mink across Jake's shoulders.
CHAPTER SEVEN
She wasn't going to be the one to break the silence, she really wasn't, Stanna vowed as she nimbly leaped over a particularly thick tree root.
It was hard to be nimble hiking up a mountain with a backpack full of water, snacks, sunscreen, a blanket, and spare toilet paper. It was even harder keeping her panting quiet, so Jake didn't suspect his lead was a bit too rigorous for her. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction, even though they'd marched uphill nonstop for three long hours.
Glancing up, she saw that he'd pulled away again, and forced herself to increase her pace. Silently, she suffered.
It would turn out that Jake had the endurance of a professional athlete.
And the stubbornness of a lump of granite.
For three days she'd been working on him extra hard to reform the Stan column, in light of that woman's phone call. It was outrageous how Jake wouldn't change it, now. It was destroying lives! That's what she'd told Ian, too, when he’d called her the next day. He’d agreed with her, supported her, said that she owed it to every woman alive to get Jake to tone down the He-Man angle. She'd tried. Ever since she walked in on him and Ms. Minky.
She remembered the way the woman's lipsticked smile had faded as she glanced up from her clinging position perched behind Jake's leather chair. They were looking at paperwork on his desk, but both stared as Stanna pinned Jake with a meaningful glance and said, "Could I talk to you alone, please? It's urgent."
How she hated the reluctance in his voice as he measured her distress. He slowly told the brunette, "I'm very sorry, would you please excuse me for a moment?" Her icy smile and nod didn't go unnoticed by Jake, who touched her shoulder companionably and whispered something in her ear that visibly thawed her and made a coy smile curve her lips.
Jake shut his office door behind him as he stepped into the hallway and grasped her elbow, steering her almost roughly towards the nearby conference room.
"What is it?" he asked her before the glass doors had swung shut.
She told him about the phone call.
He was already backing out as she concluded. He shook his head and said, "Probably someone's idea of a prank. Now, if you'll excuse me, Tia is K&C's Account Exec and we really shouldn't keep her--"
"Hold it right there! It was not a prank. She was upset, devastated even. Are you just going to blow it off? She might be jumping off a bridge right now, all because of that damn Stan column." Stanna was shaking with anger at Jake's callous disregard for... well, for everything important.
She locked eyes with him, mentally daring him to make a move. If he dismissed this, she knew she'd never think of him kindly again. The hot fire of challenge she felt in her eyes was met by a reluctant capitulation in his.
"Okay, damn it, you’re right.” He knocked his hair off his forehead with an impatient swipe. “You need to call the police, see if they can trace the number, let them do their thing." He walked toward her and spoke with finality. "And that's all we can be involved at this point."
"But the column--!"
"--will stay exactly as it is, most likely. I'll think about it, but I don't believe I'll change my mind because of one phone call that may or may not be a prank." He reached for her forearms as if to encircle them, saw her mutinous frown and changed his mind. He looked down at her, his face suddenly an expressionless mask. "Thank you for informing me. We'll talk about this later."
"Yes, we will," she growled. But he was already hurrying back to Tia.
And they did talk later, for all the good it did her. The poor woman's number couldn't be traced, and Jake refused to take the matter seriously enough. It didn't help how he spent the rest of the afternoon sequestered with Ms. Minky. No, it didn't help at all.
He was horrible, stubborn, and insensitive, and he was outdistancing her again. Looking up to measure just how fast she'd have to trot to regain a respectable pace, she noticed the surefooted way he glided up the trail. He was graceful, she'd give him that.
Just then, her sneakered foot slipped into a small stream-cut ditch in the trail. She pitched forward onto her face, landing with a solid thud that knocked what little wind she had out of her.
She peeked up the next moment, hoping... but no, Jake picked that exact moment to finally turn around and check on her.
In another, he was by her side, solicitous and worried.
"Are you okay?" She could have sworn that it was sincere worry in his voice. Her brains were obviously jarred.
"I'm fine. Absolutely," she paused to breathe as she struggled to her feet, "one-hundred percent fine."
She smiled at him, chin up.
He steered her slowly to the side of the trail, to two large rocks.
"Why don't we sit for a bit," he suggested.
"No. I'm ready to go."
"Sit!"
Stanna sat. She tried not to huff and puff, but somehow the act of resting in one place made her want to heave in great lungfuls of air. She did, as surreptitiously as possible.
The half-concerned, half-exasperated expression on his face made his brows furrow. Then his wide, finely chiseled lips quirked into a wry smile. "Why didn't you tell me you'd reached your limit?"
She shot up. He pushed her back down. She glared at him, but she wasn't really mad. "I haven't reached my limit."
His watchful care, even when he was pushing her around, told her he was truly concerned about her. It nearly erased her frustration, but didn't do much for her embarrassment.
"When you overdo it, you can get heatstroke or worse," Jake informed her. He shrugged out of his backpack, opening it to pull out a large thermos of water. He pushed it into her face. "Drink."
Batting at the bottle in irritation, she glared at him some more. Then realizing how ludicrous it was to stay miffed at him -- about offering water, anyway -- she grinned and leaned over to pat the boulder next to her own. "Pull up a rock."
They sat together. Sunshine pierced through the clouds in the west. The rays kissed the edge of the mountains, creating long shadows in the valley they'd hiked though. Stanna marveled at the purplish hue of the far hills blending into endless shades of green down below. With the grays and browns of arid rock outcropping nestled between coastal sage scrub and wildflowers, it was a picture to make a postcard jealous.
She drained the lukewarm thermos water in long hungry gulps. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Under it, she snuck a pee
k at the one who'd witnessed her humiliating collapse.
He regarded her patiently. He wasn't even winded, but lounged like a basking lizard. A cloud crossed the sun. His face was flushed with healthy color, she noticed. His lips, shaped so perfectly cruel and compelling, were relaxed and smiling slightly. She suddenly felt how alone they were, under the sky, miles from anyone.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I knew I walked pretty fast back there, but I thought you'd speak up. I should've know better," he gently mocked, with concern still in his eyes. "Big, bad Stanna wouldn't dream of crying defeat, would she?"
Wouldn't she? She wondered. She just might, if he kept looking at her in that teasing, gentle way.
A breeze from over the ocean buffeted her, cooling the perspiration on her bare arms and legs. She gazed out toward the west. The clouds seemed to be thickening and moving a little closer. The sinking sun still shone intermittently though them. She looked sideways at Jake, smiling.
"Looks like it might be a race: us versus the weather. How far are we from the top?"
He tilted his head up toward Sandpiper Peak. "Should have an even better view from thirty-one hundred and eleven feet. Pretty close race. Another half-hour."
"At Jake-speed or a more traditional pace?"
He laughed, a deep amused chuckle. In a fluid movement, he was sharing her rock and rubbing arms with her. He looked down sideways at her, curved his arm around and tucked a stray blond lock of her hair back behind her ear. "We'll go at your speed." His voice sounded very masculine for all its softness. His eyes glowed with a warm heat.
Stanna was all too aware of the heat radiating from his body. His strong upper arm was a warm, welcome solid pillar against hers. It felt deliciously hard, and she had the sudden unreasonable urge to nuzzle against his chest and feel that arm folding her to him. She moved slightly away from him, trying to clear her mind.
He seemed aware of her thoughts. He looked at her evaluatingly. Another gust of wind blew his shaggy golden chestnut hair back from his face, and he raised his head suddenly to the west and frowned, distracted.
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