How frightening.
He felt her slight stiffening. "What's wrong?" His gentle voice crept ever further into her heart. She was so defenseless against him! Her body, her heart... only her mind was still her own.
He pulled back, gazing at her with gentle concern. "Stanna?"
He’d possessed her body, and her mind was under siege too if she counted his tactics in changing her column. Hadn't he called her a man-hating, manipulating feminist?
What she hated was the idea of this man thinking of her as manipulative. She'd certainly just given him reason enough, by sleeping with the boss. Perhaps he thought she angled for special favors. But surely he wouldn't count what they’d just done against her. Would he?
Jake couldn't for the life of him figure out why she froze up. One minute she was responsive as hell, the next in her own world. One that didn't include him.
A flash of memory wormed through his head, one he wished hadn't: A laughing, seductive Jolene suddenly transformed into a cold, manipulative woman whom he didn't know, and didn't want to know. The resulting numbness lingered. Even now.
He shook off the memory almost immediately, but the taste of it remained, chilling him.
He felt her arms tighten about him, somewhat belatedly.
But now he was the stiff one, and he didn't mean the part of him that seemed to have a mind of its own. She was so desirable, so seemingly vulnerable. He wanted to believe it wasn't an act. That she wasn't angling to use him somehow.
She sensed his distance, he could tell. She looked at him questioningly. "What's wrong?"
After a long pause, he spoke. "I know how much you want your column back the way it was. How much you want the magazine to change back to what it had been when Ian ruled the roost. I just want to be straight with you. This won't change things."
"Change things? As in changing your mind about your precious woman-bashing 'zine? You thought that's why I did this. I knew it. I just knew it."
Her flame-lit face telegraphed disappointment, then pure feminine fury before she rolled from him and began to dress.
He spoke to her back. "You don't have to be so unreasonable about it all." He was becoming irritated. "I didn't mean anything."
She whirled. Grabbed her backpack and began stuffing her belongings into it. When she yanked the blanket off him he lay still as a statue and caught her looking. He raised an eyebrow at her and thought he spotted the beginning of a smile.
"Stanna." He rose sinuously and tilted her chin to him. "You're wrong about me, you know." He kissed her, long and slow. "I don't think that's why we did this." He kissed her again, felt her resistance beginning to melt. "We did this because of simple, animal desire, nothing more, I realize that now," and bent to kiss her again.
He pressed his lips against something suddenly hard and compressed.
Realizing his error, he tried again. "I feel... good thoughts about you." Good thoughts? Good going, Casanova. But what did she expect? An 'I love you?' His heart lurched as those exact words poised on his lips. He wasn't sure they weren't true.
But it was too late.
Stanna pushed against him, freeing herself. "The rain sounds like it’s stopped. Let's get back down the hill, okay?" Her back was turned again. He wanted to put his arms around her. He wanted to kiss her skin, tug gently on her hair, and pull her against him.
But she turned and gazed at him coolly.
Suddenly realizing he was naked and she was fully dressed, pack in hand and waiting by the door to leave, he began feeling a little cool himself. "Fine," he retorted. Unstable female.
Neither said a word as he extinguished the fire.
It was a long and silent nighttime hike back down.
CHAPTER NINE
The chill extended into their professional relationship, though they both took great pains to hide it.
Weeks after, Stanna still hadn't had a moment completely alone with him, unless she counted the weekly debates over her column, which she didn't. He was much the same.
She was the one who was altered by their night on the mountain.
She found herself acutely aware of the times he arrived and the times he left, and was so sensitized to his voice that she could pick it out of a crowd of voices across the hall effortlessly. His laugh made her pause whatever she was doing with a strange ache of longing.
He didn't approach her on a personal level.
Professionally, though, he was as infuriating as he'd always been. Masticating her column, placing bimbo ads on the back covers of Men's Weekly, meeting with Tia of K&C Ad Agency more often than he met with her... he was as bullheaded and misguided as ever, but who was she to tell him such a thing? She was just a little receptionist and a column hack, that's who she was.
"It takes less facial muscles to smile than it does to frown," Corrinna chirped. She paused in her stroll down the hall. "What's wrong? You've been so sad-looking."
Stanna gave a small smile of reassurance. "It's nothing, just a minor problem I'm working on." He goes by the name of Jake Tremere.
"Well, if you ever want to talk about it..." Corrinna smiled at her warmly before continuing on her way.
"Stanna." His voice. She felt her pulse immediately begin jogging around the block. But she was carefully noncommittal as she turned towards him. "Yes?" She hoped he hadn't heard that last transaction of Corrinna's.
But his voice was neutral, professional as he spoke. "I’m attending a business convention. It runs for five days, a gathering of all the national Men's magazines: Men's Health, Men's Perspective, GQ, all the rest. I need someone to keep an eye on internal office things temporarily. Your previous training makes you the likeliest candidate for that."
Will wonders never cease. But he was stiff, proper. "What's the catch?" she asked.
"No catch. I just think you're the best man for the job," he replied. He winked.
He winked. Then he walked away. "Jake!" she called, scrambling to follow him.
He glanced at her as she paced beside him down the hall. She grouched. "You walk too fast.” For some reason that made him smile at her, slowing his pace.
"When's the trip?" she asked.
"Next week. All week."
She walked him to his office, then ground out, "Thank you."
He looked at her, lips pressed shut. His aqua eyes glinted with a tiny sparkle just for her. "Just don't do anything I wouldn't do while I'm gone," he told her sternly, but his eyes threw more sparks.
"That leaves my choices wide open," she retorted.
She didn't realize how soon she'd be confronted with decisions reminding her of that moment.
Telly had never felt more conspicuously female. Their hungry eyes crawled over her and she knew what it felt like to be a juicy steak thrown into a dog kennel. She'd only been at the Edwards Air Force Officer's Club for thirty seconds, and she was already being buried in both camouflage BDUs and dress blues.
"Can I buy you a drink?"
"I'm buying her a drink," growled a testosterone-soaked voice as its owner waved a five-dollar bill at the bartender. Others were arguing over who could take her coat, which she decided to hang onto. Maybe she'd even put it back on. Soon. The way the boys eyeballed her black corset-enhanced cleavage made her peek to see if she'd popped out. She accepted a pink Cosmopolitan from one guy.
She smiled, thanked them, and watched as they immediately got into another fight over whose chair she should take.
They gave off whiffs of Brut aftershave, beer, and eager sweat. They were randy, masculine, and about as far from Ernest the checkers-playing church boy as boys could get.
Trouble was, they were a little too far from him.
She felt the beginnings of a headache and wondered which one of them would be the first to suggest playing Quarters. Or strip poker.
She looked about in mild desperation.
He was sitting alone with a cynical twist to his lips. He watched the circle of flyboys preening and fighting before her with unconcealed am
usement and not a little contempt. But he gave her a little wave and a greeting lift of his chin.
"Excuse me," she said. She had to say it a couple of times before they let her out of the circle.
"Hey, the Ladies Room is that way," one of them shouted after her too loudly.
She walked directly toward the mysteriously cool man. His blond hair was cut to above his ears, and gelled slightly to give it a spiky look much like hers, only shorter. Innocently blue eyes appraised her with amusement, as if she reminded him of a funny joke. She wished he’d share it with her. She could use a laugh.
"Have a seat," he told her when she reached his table.
He wore camouflage, like many of the others. On his shoulders were pinned the double black bars of a captain. His voice wasn't especially deep, and its wry tone matched his amused expression. He already sounded more intelligent compared to the guys who’d swarmed her. Funny how just three words, modulated properly, could make someone sound smart.
"Are you waiting for someone?" she asked him. No need to cramp some girlfriend's style.
"No." He took a sip from his glass. Vodka? Water? He watched her levelly. He lowered his drink to the red and white plastic checkered tablecloth and rubbed his double-jointed thumb against the perspiring glass.
She couldn't tell if she was unnerved or excited by the gesture.
She decided to make polite conversation. "So, do you--"
"...come here often?" he finished. "Yes. We all do." He smiled at her, a sweet smile. "Not too many women in uniform, here with us lifers. So when fresh m--, uh, faces like yours make an appearance, it's an event."
There it was, that wry tone again.
"Not that I blame them in your case. I'm sure you attract men wherever you go."
She could forgive a little wryness.
He looked at her directly and for a moment she noticed a strange manic excitement in his eyes. But then it was gone, and they were back to being impenetrable. He still smiled, an expression somehow at odds with his words. "They're trying not to stare at us right now. But they're watching our every move."
She looked up. Some of the guys did seem to be staring, but they weren't making a big sneaky deal out of it. One even waved. She started to wave back, but he grabbed her hand. "Don't do that. Brian'll take it as an invitation." He stared at her. He let go of her hand immediately, but she wasn't happy.
"Brian has one advantage over you, anyway. I know his name."
"My name is Wayne," he informed her with a small dry smile. "And yours is...?"
"Telly. It's English."
"I didn't think it was Arabic." He kept his smile.
She didn't like him, and wasn't sure if she were attracted to him. At least he was somewhat interesting. She decided to let it play out.
"So what do you big, bad military types do for fun?"
"Get drunk, shoot stick, act stupid. We also seduce women, and watch each other trying to seduce women. The way Brian and his friends are watching us right now. Hey!" His abrupt shout hurt her ears and made her jump. "You wanna show, buy a ticket!" Brian and friends laughed, shaking their heads. But they made a point of looking away.
She realized Wayne was drunk. And obnoxious.
She started to push her chair out to leave.
"Hey," he murmured gently. "I didn't mean to scare you." His sincere words made her pause, sink back in her chair. His gentle smile and wistful tone of pure regret didn't quite mesh with the expression in his eyes. But she waited.
His hands rested in his lap under the tablecloth. He wry tone was back when he told her, "They just love to watch." The tablecloth rustled. Was he scratching himself?
"I'm not a Peeping Tom. More on the other side." He fixed his unsettling eyes on her and slowly raised the tablecloth.
The panel in front of his BDU trousers was unbuttoned and gaped open. His white underwear was lowered to beneath his testicles, but pushed up tightly against them. His large penis shaft jutted out proudly. It curved slightly to the left. She noticed, in a moment of complete objectivity, that a clear bead of moisture dotted the tip.
She tore her gaze away, looked at his face.
The manic expression had returned to his eyes. He was deep into his own private fantasy, his own world. The role he wanted her to play, she understood finally, was the part of shocked, horrified, and maybe reluctantly fascinated girl.
She smiled with some wryness of her own.
"Do you like it?" he murmured. He stroked himself. She felt some vertigo -- is this really happening? -- but then the humor of it rolled over her. She hadn't expected to find a pervert with captain's bars, was all.
She smiled, which excited him visibly.
"I love it," she assured him. "Pull your pants down further so I can see it better."
He complied with a knowing smirk on his face. It must have been awkward for him to do sitting down, but he lowered his trousers and undies to his knees, all the while stroking himself.
"Do you want to suck it?" he asked her in a dreamy voice.
She responded, sultry. "Ooooh, I want to get it wet." With one hand she emptied her Cosmopolitan on his crotch, with the other she tipped the table over, exposing him to a few more people than he’d intended.
Mortification flushed his face as he emerged from his own internal world while frantically trying to yank up his pants. The pink liquid made his wilting erection shine.
"See ya, pervert," she muttered as she walked away.
Definitely a strikeout.
Stanna sat staring at the altered column Jake had dropped on her desk. He'd left that morning, so he wasn't around to throw it back in his face.
It was horrible.
She knew what he was trying to do. He thought her column was too negative on men. Too critical of nasty little male habits like leaving the toilet seat up and belching in public, as well as bigger ones like predatory promiscuity. But his compromise of the week was awful. He’d edited until the column essentially granted men the right to swagger, scratch, spit, and screw to their heart's content -- and just to be fair, granted the same rights to women.
It was a slap in her face.
If she changed the wording back, she'd be betraying his trust.
If she let it go to press, she'd be betraying her ideals.
The phone rang.
"Men's Weekly," she answered.
"This is Eva Swanson from CBS news, who am I speaking with please?"
"Stanna Whitland."
"Stanna a k a 'Stan'?" Eva asked slyly.
Stanna stilled. Where was this going?
The woman continued. "I had a tip from a reliable source that you were, in fact, the writer of 'Stan Says.' Our viewers would be interested in knowing what it's like for a woman to write as a man about such very masculine subject matter."
Stanna felt cornered. If her identity were publicized, she couldn't hide behind 'Stan's' name anymore about those horrible columns. But if she denied it and the woman's source was truly reliable, she'd be exposed for a liar and the magazine would possibly suffer negative publicity.
Her identity was blown. What should she do?
“No comment,” she tried.
The woman laughed. “Your prerogative. I’ll just run the article without your input, then.” She waited.
Stanna grimaced. She didn't have much of a choice but to admit it. But she didn't have to admit to liking it. Besides, didn't Jake want more publicity? He’d increased the promotion budget. This was free promotion. Maybe this could be good. She could do a little favor for the sake of the magazine, and then maybe Jake would warm to her. Professionally, of course.
"Okay fine. It's true. I'll give you the interview if you like."
"Wonderful. What time's good for you?"
After the interview, Stanna had misgivings. Eva had asked her at one point "Was the 'Stan' column your idea?" She'd answered with an emphatic no, adding that Jake tailored each column to his needs. Maybe she shouldn't have told the woman that. Her eyes had
glinted shrewdly at that revelation. Stanna had only told her that to reduce her responsibility for the 'Stan' columns, but she now realized the woman may have taken it differently.
She didn't realize how differently until the next night's news.
"...and from West Hollywood we have another story of a gross abuse of power, this time directed at an innocent young columnist. But the victims include everyone deceived by the magazine's tagline, 'By, For, and About Men.' Stanna Whitland informed us about these politics of power at our very own local Men's Weekly magazine."
Horrified, Stanna watched the clips they showed of her speaking. They were out of context, strung together in a way to slant Jake and Men's Weekly as a tool of harassing, power hungry, chauvinist men, and herself as a heroic victim.
"As you can see, this fragile but determined young lady, when forced to write as a man on subject matters personally repellent to her, did the right thing and came forward to let us know what we were buying when we paid good money for Men's Weekly. And for that we thank her."
Stunned, there was at first only one thought in Stanna's mind: What was Jake going to think?
The next morning when she got to work and her answering machine told her there were sixty-seven messages, she realized there was more to worry about than just Jake's reaction.
"Stanna, how about your column. We need this week's." It was Corrinna, but her normally chipper, friendly voice was missing. Her expression was pretty cold too.
"Corrinna. I didn't mean to come across like that on T.V. They took everything out of context. Absolutely everything."
"That won't help us too much when we all go out of business, will it?"
There was nothing more to say, and Stanna handed her the column wordlessly. Corrinna didn't pause, just turned and walked back to the production department.
At lunchtime the gang departed without her. Michael, Corrinna and the rest didn't even look at her as they passed her desk on the way to the elevators.
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