The Sexiest Man Alive

by Sandra Marton

  Lord, she was a mess!

  The wind had not only dried her hair, it had churned it into what looked like finger-in-the-electric-outlet chic. There were two … three? Three buttons missing from the jacket she’d grabbed blindly on her way out the door. Her jeans, was that a paint smear from when she’d tried her hand at oils? And her sneakers. Susannah winced. Someplace between here and the subway, the safety pins had done a disappearing act. The sneaker had stayed on, though. All she had to do was remember not to make any quick moves with her right foot, and it would be fine.

  She got into the elevator and punched the button for the fourteenth floor.

  Okay. So she wasn’t going to score points for haute couture. And she wasn’t going to be on time or anywhere close to it. So what? It was silly to put too much emphasis on stuff like that. She had a new job title but she was still the same Susannah. She was, admittedly, just a tiny bit disorganized. But she was creative. Even old Elerbee, who’d hired and then promoted her, had understood that.

  The staff knew her. She didn’t have to impress anyone, she had to give them confidence and inspire them. And she was going to do exactly that with her fantastic new idea.

  She could hardly wait to hear Claire’s response, because this would be her baby. Claire was, after all, the new features editor.

  The elevator doors slid open. Susannah stepped from the car.

  Strange. The reception area was empty. Judy, the receptionist, was probably in the boardroom with the rest of the staff, but…Susannah smiled.

  “Good girl,” she murmured.

  A fresh pot of coffee stood on a little sideboard, along with a platter heaped with doughnuts. Despite the hour, Judy had put out the refreshments that were a morning staple in reception.

  Susannah hurried to her own office.

  “Late, late, late,” she whispered, glancing at the clock.

  But not too late. It was almost eight twenty-five. All things considered, that wasn’t too bad.

  Quickly, she jotted some notes on a pad, grabbed her portable computer and her I Love Cape Cod souvenir mug and dashed to Judy’s desk. Her stomach rumbled as she filled the mug to the brim. How did a person carry a pad, a computer, a mug filled with hot coffee and a doughnut without growing a third arm?

  Susannah snagged a jelly doughnut, stuck it between her teeth, collected all her other paraphernalia and headed for the boardroom.

  The door was closed.

  That was unusual. The room wasn’t all that big. Once everybody collected around the long cherry wood table, things generally seemed a bit crowded. It was better to leave the door open.

  Never mind. Once they all heard her terrific idea for boosting CHIC’s sales and revamping its image, they’d be too busy smiling to worry about crowding.

  Susannah hit the door with her elbow.

  “Mmmf?” she said.

  Nobody answered.

  She gave it another try

  The door swung open.

  They were all there, crammed even more closely together than usual, their eyes wide, their faces pale. Claire. Judy. Eddie, the mail-room intern. The fiction editor, the fashion gurus, the assistants and associates and staff photographers.

  Everyone looked her up, then looked her down, but no one said a word, not even good morning.

  At last, Claire stepped forward. “Suze,” she whispered, and made a funny little motion with her head.

  Did Claire have a crick in her neck? Susannah raised her eyebrows. “Mmmf?”

  “Suze,” Claire hissed.

  “What Miss Haines is trying to say,” a deep male voice said, “is that you’re late, Miss Clinton.”

  Susannah stood absolutely still. She had never heard that voice before. She’d have remembered it if she had. Not many men could put a chill into the phrase, “You’re late, Miss…” Clinton? Who was Miss Clinton? And who was the man doing the talking?

  Her gaze flew to Claire’s. Help me, Susannah pleaded silently

  Claire grimaced, chewed on her lip, puffed out her breath, rolled her eyes. It was a performance that would have made Susannah giggle any other time. But now—now, Claire’s strange mannerisms were an entire speech made without words.

  The implication, though, was absolutely clear.

  Warning! Claire was saying, warning! Whoever the man was, he was trouble with a capital T. But Susannah had already figured that out. Who else could enter the CHIC offices and position himself at the head of the conference table in the boardroom but a man who was trouble?

  But who was he? Who could he be?

  Someone from Update. There was no other possibility

  Susannah swallowed dryly. Of course! This was the bean counter she’d been expecting, the one she’d known would march in, demand access to all CHIC’s records, intimidate the staff and then, a few days later, take off his bifocals, clean them with the tip of his tie while he informed her that he was going to recommend that CHIC be shut down.

  But the voice at the head of the table didn’t sound as if it went with a skinny little man who wore bifocals.

  “Well, Miss Clinton? I’m waiting to hear your excuse for your lateness.” The deep voice took on a silken purr. Susannah had a sudden mental image of a big cat—a puma, maybe, or a jaguar—wearing a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. “We’re all waiting, Miss Clinton. Won’t you enlighten us? Tell us why you called your staff in for a meeting to be held promptly at eight o’clock when you yourself didn’t think it important enough to appear until—” there was a brief pause, as if the cat were peering through its horn-rims at its watch “—until twenty minutes of nine?”

  Susannah threw one last, desperate look in Claire’s direction.

  “Mmmf?” she breathed, past the doughnut, the damned stupid doughnut, still clutched between her teeth.

  Claire gave her a wan smile, lifted a hand and made a slicing motion across her throat.

  Oh, God, Susannah thought, as everybody stepped back, parting like the Red Sea so the conference table, all twelve feet of it, came into view.

  And so did the man seated at its head.

  No, Susannah thought dizzily. He wasn’t a jaguar. He wasn’t a puma. He was a hawk. A magnificent hawk, with the fierce look of the predator in his eyes. And those eyes… Her stomach clenched.

  Those blue, blue eyes were fixed coldly on her.

  She felt her knees wobble. This was no skinny, middle-aged bean counter with bifocals. This was not the man from Update. This was—

  “Good morning, Miss Clinton,” Matthew Romano said.

  Susannah’s mouth dropped open. The doughnut left a snowfall of sugar across Beethoven’s face as it tumbled to the shiny tile floor. Bright red jelly oozed across the toe of the sneaker that had been held together by safety pins.

  Romano smiled.

  “Charming,” he said, almost purring, as his gaze swept over her. “Is this a new style, or what?”

  A muffled sound, half laugh, half groan, broke the silence. Susannah glared at Claire, who clapped her hand over her mouth and shook her head in mute apology.

  “Nothing to say?” His smile tilted, became as icy as his eyes. “What a pity, Miss Clinton. I didn’t expect you’d ever find yourself at a loss for words, particularly where I’m concerned.”

  Susannah’s stricken gaze followed him as he rose lazily to his feet.

  He looked as if he’d just stepped from the pages of Gentleman’s Quarterly. The dark, expertly cut hair. The hard, handsome face. The perfectly tailored suit, pale blue shirt and elegantly knotted tie. She couldn’t see his shoes, but she knew they’d be as polished as mirrors.

  Quickly, she shifted her weight, trying to hide the jelly-covered toe of the laceless sneaker.

  Romano folded his arms and laughed.

  Color flew into Susannah’s face. What was Romano doing here? Why was he trying to humiliate her? Well, he wouldn’t succeed. She’d act like a lady, even though it was obvious that he was no gentleman.

  “How nice to meet you,
Mr. Romano. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to explain your presence here.”

  Matthew arched one eyebrow. For a woman who looked as if she were dressed for the rag pickers ball, a woman who surely hadn’t expected to find him camped on CHIC’s doorstep, so to speak, Susan Whatever was certainly managing to seem cool and collected.

  She wasn’t, of course. He could see it in the bright flush in her cheeks and in the almost imperceptible tremor that had gone through her body when she’d first seen him sitting at the conference table.

  His gaze drifted over her again. This was the editor-in-chief of the magazine? The person Elerbee had entrusted with the formidable job of turning CHIC into a money-making property? The old man must have gone soft in the head. Nothing else could explain it. Susan…Clinton? Truman? The woman looked as if she’d picked her clothes out of a bin at the nearest Goodwill, styled her hair by sticking a finger into an electrical outlet, and her sneakers…

  Unless he was losing his mind, the one that had jelly on it had no laces.

  “You are Matthew Romano, aren’t you?”

  Matthew’s gaze met hers. She’d had time to gather herself, he could see. The hot color had left her face. She was, in fact, pale—except for her eyes. They were so bright they looked almost feverish. Were they hazel? Green? Actually, he’d never seen a color quite like them, almost golden, but flecked with chips of jade and tourmaline.

  “Claire?”

  Susannah spoke without looking away from Romano. Her heart was banging in her chest, but her voice was clipped. Claire’s, on the other hand, was a paper-thin whisper.

  “Y-yes?”

  “Call security.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Call security. Tell them we have an intruder.”

  “Susannah.” Claire moved quickly to her friend’s side. “Suze, listen—”

  “If you won’t do it,” Susannah said, her eyes never leaving Romano’s face, “I will. Hand me the phone.”

  “Oh, Suze. Suze, you’ve got to lis—”

  Susannah snatched up the telephone “Last chance, Mr. Romano. Either you explain your unwanted, uninvited presence in these offices, or I’ll have you thrown out. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Well?”

  He smiled, stepped from behind the table and leaned a hip against the wall. She’d been right, she thought, dazed. You could probably use his shoes for mirrors.

  “I own them.”

  Susannah blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “These offices. This room.” He lifted his hand and waved it nonchalantly through the air. “I own it all, Miss Clinton.”

  “My name is— Own it how? Mr. Elerbee sold out to Update Publications.”

  “Yes, that’s right. And I am Update.” He grinned, and she could see he was enjoying this. “What’s the matter, Miss Clinton? Don’t you like surprises?”

  Susannah felt as if the air were being sucked from her lungs.

  Matthew Romano had bought CHIC. He, not some faceless group of stockholders, was Update Publications.

  This was it, then.

  So much for all the time she’d spent worrying about how to resurrect CHIC magazine. For all the sleepless nights and late meetings. So much for her job, for her chance to prove herself. So much for all their jobs, every last one of them.

  CHIC was finished. The news was written all over Romano’s face, etched in his arrogant, I-am-God smile. He’d come here to plunge a dagger into the magazine’s barely beating heart, though why he’d wanted to do it himself was anybody’s guess.

  I didn’t expect you’d ever find yourself at a loss for words, particularly where I’m concerned.

  The words he’d spoken a few minutes ago seemed to ring in her ears. Susannah stared at him. He’d come to do the job himself as a way of getting even with her. This was personal. A vendetta involving Romano and her. But he was going to take his revenge on everybody who worked here.

  “No comment, Miss Clinton? That’s too bad. I was sure you’d have something interesting to say.”

  Behind her, someone tittered nervously. Romano didn’t so much as smile.

  “I’m pleased to see you recognize me. I was concerned that you wouldn’t be able to do so without me having a blonde on my arm. I thought about renting one for the occasion, but it seems blondes—even dumb ones—aren’t available so early in the day.”

  Another giggle rose in the crowd. Matthew’s eyes flashed. He jerked his head toward the door.

  “You’re free to leave,” he said. “All of you.”

  It was a command, not an offer, and nobody was foolish enough to ignore it. People scuttled for the exit. Even Claire, Susannah noted with horror. Not that she could blame her. Claire wanted to hang onto her job. They all did. But Romano had no intention of leaving them with jobs to hang onto. Soon enough, they’d all know that.

  He waited until the room was empty. Then he strolled past Susannah and shut the door with a gentleness that made her flinch.

  “Now,” he said pleasantly, “let’s get down to business”

  Susannah turned and looked at him. Business? What kind of business? Romano lounged against the closed door, hands tucked casually into his pockets, but the pose, she knew, was deceptive. Anger emanated from him like some hot, primal male hormone.

  Her mouth went dry.

  Close up, Matthew Romano was intimidating. It wasn’t just his height, though he towered over her. It wasn’t just his build, though not even the quietly expensive suit could hide all the muscle. It was the way he held himself, the look in his eyes, the cool little smile that curled his lips. It was everything that made him what he was, who he was.

  “Does the mention of business always make you go pale, Miss Clinton?”

  Apparently, he’d read her mail. Weren’t there privacy laws against that kind of thing?

  “Spying is what makes me go pale, Mr. Romano.” Her voice was cool and steady. There was, she told herself, no way he could know that a psychotic drummer seemed to have taken up residence behind her ribs.

  “Spying, Miss Clinton?”

  “Spying. Prying. Poking into someone’s private correspondence. Don’t look so surprised, Mr. Romano. It’s quite obvious that’s what you’ve done. You’ve read my mail, and you had no right to do that.”

  “I’m sorry to disillusion you, Miss Clinton, but what you write on company memos, on company stationery, on the company’s E-mail account, is not yours. It’s mine.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Tell that to the courts. They decided the issue years ago.” Romano’s eyes flashed. “Your tasteless mental meanderings have had quite a large readership.”

  Oh, God. Was he right? Her brain whirled. What, exactly, had she written? Nothing complimentary. But how bad could it have been?

  Very bad, she thought, as bits and pieces came back to her. Very, very bad.

  “Remarkable, isn’t it?” His smile was bright, almost cheery. “You know so much about me. And you didn’t hesitate to comment on what you knew. My taste in women. My unfortunate lack of intellect. My conviction that I’m sexy.” He smiled. “Even what I’d look like as a centerfold.”

  Please, Susannah thought, Oh, please, please let the floor open up beneath me.

  His smile still glittered, but there was a sudden darkness in his eyes that made her breath hitch.

  “And my—how did you put it? Ah, yes. My ‘studliness.’ ”

  Susannah’s cheeks flamed.

  “I don’t supposed you’d care to define that word.”

  “I didn’t mean… I never meant to imply…”

  He took a step forward. She took a quick step back. Her foot slipped out of the laceless sneaker, but there was no time to stop and recover it, there was only time to step back again, because he was still coming.

  “Oh, but you did,” he said softly. “You meant every word of it, and that’s really remarkable, considering that we’ve never met until this mor
ning. I’m right, aren’t I, Miss Clinton?”

  She shook her head. She nodded. Speech was out of the question.

  “What was that?” His smile grew even brighter. “That shake of the head. A denial that you meant what you wrote? An admittance that we never met before?”

  “No,” Susannah whispered miserably. “I mean, we’ve never—”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “But you determined my studliness nonetheless, is that right?”

  “Mr. Romano.” She licked her lips. “I may have been a little out of line, but—”

  “A little?” He closed the distance remaining between them and looked coldly at her as her shoulders hit the wall. “Fascinating, Miss Clinton, how cautious your use of the language has suddenly become. For a woman given to such interesting hyperbole, I mean.” His eyes, dark and deep, fastened on hers. “Once again, I’m asking you to tell me what you mean by that word.”

  Susannah swallowed hard. He was close. Too close. She could smell the faint scent of soap on his skin, see the shadow of stubble on his jaw and chin. His lashes were dark and thick. His nose was perfectly straight except for a barely perceptible tilt midway down its length.

  He looked cold and hard and angry.

  And studly.

  He was studly, indeed, she thought dizzily. Her heart did what felt like a somersault in her chest. If you liked the type.

  She didn’t.

  “Well?” He smiled slyly, slapped a hand on either side of the wall beside her and lowered his head. “I’m waiting, Miss Clinton.”

  Their eyes met. The moment held, then lengthened.

  “Mr. Romano,” Susannah whispered. “Mr. Romano, please…”

  Mr. Romano, please?

  What in hell was happening here? The man had come strutting into her office—and it was hers, until he fired her—to humiliate her And she, like an idiot, was letting him get away with it.

  Susannah lifted her chin.

  “Actually,” she said, “I should thank you.”

  It was his turn to blink. She almost laughed at the sight.

  “Thank me?” he asked cautiously, and she nodded.

  “For this demonstration.” He drew back, frowning Susannah saw her chance and took it, ducking out from under his arm, smiling coolly as she danced away. “In fact, since—as you pointed out—I made a few public comments about you, I’ll be happy to also make a public retraction.”