The Sexiest Man Alive

by Sandra Marton

  “Yes!” Amy cried, and Claire edged forward in her chair.

  “Suze, what do you say?”

  The room was silent, so silent Susannah could hear the cooing of the pigeons that spent their days on the ledge outside the window.

  “Me?” she said finally, “in Paris, with the sexiest men alive?”

  She got to her feet, walked to the window and looked out. The pigeons were out there, all right. The big gray male with the iridescent neck feathers was all puffed up, as usual, strutting his stuff for the female. But she was making pigeon eyes at another bird, a handsome guy with silver on the tips of his wings.

  The studly pigeon most certainly did not look happy.

  Susannah swung around and smiled at her expectant staff.

  “I think it sounds wonderful,” she said, and the room rang with cheers.

  * * *

  Three thousand miles away, Matthew sat at the head of a glass-topped conference table, doing his best to concentrate on the presentations of his team of advisers.

  There were four of them, including Joe. They were all people whose opinions he valued, whose advice he trusted, whose summaries he always treated with interest and respect.

  Unfortunately, he hadn’t heard a word any of them had uttered this morning.

  Matthew’s gaze went to the papers neatly stacked in front of his brother. There were notes. A file folder. A computer printout.

  And that magazine. That ridiculous magazine. The current issue of CHIC.

  His expression darkened. He couldn’t see the entire cover, but he didn’t have to. What he could see was enough. Who had approved it? Who had designed it? The photograph was terrible. What jerk had decided that a man would risk dipping his tie into his bouillabaisse to lean across a sea of white linen and gaze longingly into the eyes of a woman who looked as if what she needed most was not him but the food before her?

  His mouth twisted with derision.

  Women weren’t supposed to be skinny creatures of skin and bone, they were supposed to be soft and curvy. Like—

  The furrow between his brows deepened.

  And that dress she was wearing. What man would have that besotted look in his eyes if his woman wore something that looked more like a skimpy nightgown than a dress? Something flowing and feminine could be a lot more sexy. He hadn’t always thought so, but he’d changed his mind not long ago. A woman could stir a man’s blood if she wore a dress shot with silver stars, a dress that lovingly defined the sweet, sweet curves of—

  “Matt?”

  He looked up. Joe was leaning toward him.

  “Yes?”

  “Frank wondered if you had any questions.”

  Matthew shot a look at his chief accountant. Frank looked like a puppy waiting for a pat on the head.

  “Ah, no. No questions, Frank. Your report said it all.”

  Frank beamed. “Glad to hear it, Matt.”

  There was a silence, and Joe cleared his throat. “Did you want Beverly to pick up from here, Matt?”

  “Beverly. Yes, yes, fine. That’s an excellent idea.”

  Matthew pasted an attentive look on his face as his head of sales launched into her presentation. For some reason, he was having a tough time keeping his thoughts from wandering.

  It was that magazine. That nonsensical magazine. Why wouldn’t he keep thinking about it? After all, he’d tied up a considerable amount of money in its success or failure. Failure, for sure, considering the way this much-ballyhooed new cover looked.

  Matthew put a fingertip on the edge of the magazine and eased it toward him.

  Awful. Truly awful. The photo didn’t capture the feel of the feature at all. For all he knew, it hadn’t even been photographed inside the Gilded Carousel. Did the tables really look like that? Were the candles so tall? He didn’t think so. Well, maybe he couldn’t recall. The restaurant hadn’t made much of an impression, and what did that tell him? That CHIC had been mistaken in selecting it. It hadn’t been memorable at all. If it were, he’d know what the place looked like.

  As it was, he could only remember Susannah. Susannah, with her cap of curls. Her pink mouth. Her way of melting into him, whenever he’d taken her in his arms…

  Matthew pushed back his chair. It squeaked loudly against the polished parquet floor, and his vice president for new projects, who’d started to talk as soon as Beverly finished, looked up, surprised, and peered over his reading glasses.

  “Sorry,” Matthew said briskly, as he stood up, “but I’m going to have to cut this short.”

  Not even Joe could keep from looking startled. The little group rose to its feet Matthew smiled pleasantly, shook hands all around, walked his people to the door. One by one, they filed out. Only his brother lingered. When the room was empty, he looked at Matthew

  “Something wrong?”

  “No. Of course not.” Matthew walked across the room to the serving table laid with a silver coffee service and half a dozen Spode cups and saucers. “Why should something be wrong? I just figured I’d heard enough for this morning.” He poured coffee into a cup, added a dollop of cream and sipped the steaming brew. “You know Sorenson. He’s a good man, but he never knows when to stop talking.”

  “Yeah. Especially when he’s only gotten his opening sentence out of his mouth.”

  Matthew looked around. “Did I cut him off that fast?”

  Joe grinned. “Faster than a speeding bullet.”

  “Oh.” Matthew sighed, set his coffee down and walked to the window. The view was one of the reasons he’d bought this building for his headquarters. He could see clear to the Golden Gate Bridge and to the ocean beyond. “You think I was rude?”

  “I think there’s a little knot of people heading back to their offices, wondering if the roof’s about to fall in on their heads.”

  Matthew sighed again. “You’re probably right. Send them a memo over my name. Tell them that today’s reports were—”

  “Invaluable?” Joe said, straight-faced.

  Matthew chuckled. “Let’s not go overboard, okay? Tell them their reports were very useful, that I’ll take everything they said under consideration, blah, blah, blah, and that I’m looking forward to meeting with them again, as per schedule.”

  “Uh-huh.” Joe nodded. “Just in time for Valentine’s Day.”

  Matthew’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Hey, what could it mean? Just in time for Valentine’s Day. That’s all.”

  “Yeah,” Matthew said, after a minute. He turned his back to the room and stared out the window. “I saw you have a copy of CHIC.”

  “Uh-huh. It hit the stands today, but Susie—”

  “Susannah.”

  “Sure,” Joe said lazily. “Susannah. She sent me an advance copy, wanted to know what I thought.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s great. I E-mailed her right away and told her so.”

  “Great?” Matthew said, as if the word had a bad taste. He looked at his brother. “That—that piece of sleaze is great?”

  Joe’s brows shot toward his hairline.

  “Sleaze? CHIC magazine? Maybe if you’ve been living in Shangri-La, but—”

  “So it’s not sleaze. That doesn’t mean it has—it has…”

  “Redeeming social values?” Joe snorted. “Damn right, it hasn’t. CHIC is fun. It’s lighthearted. It’s for a woman to relax with at the end of a long day.”

  “Be sure and bill that description to the advertising budget.”

  Joe snatched the copy of CHIC from the table. “Take a look at what Susie—Susannah’s—put together before you knock it. The month before she took over, the cover showed a woman knitting an afghan. This month—”

  “I’ve seen it,” Matthew said coolly. “You don’t have to wave it under my nose.” Matthew strode across the room and refilled his coffee cup. “Who chose those models? The woman, especially.”

  His brother looked at the magazine. A smile curled his mou
th. “I don’t know. Some guy with good taste in babes, that’s for sure.”

  “Taste?” Matthew sipped his coffee, grimaced and put the cup down. “The cover looks like a promo for bulimia. Just look at that woman, Joe. Skinny. Bony. And, as if that weren’t enough, she’s got an empty smile, a head full of bleached hair that looks as if it’s been sprayed into place with Krazy Glue…”

  Joe stuck his hands into his trouser pockets and rocked on his heels.

  “On the other hand,” he said lazily, “she’s a dead ringer for the last six or seven broads you’ve dated.”

  Matthew’s head jerked. “Are you nuts? I never go out with—” He glared at Joe, then at the magazine, and folded his arms over his chest. “I’ll expect a better cover shot for the January issue,” he said coldly.

  Joe shrugged. “Whatever you say, boss.”

  Whistling softly through his teeth, the younger Romano brother strolled from the office.

  * * *

  Two nights later, Matthew had put CHIC, and Susannah, completely out of his thoughts.

  He was having drinks with Phoebe Anson, who was, according to rumor, his latest interest. Phoebe was a model who hoped for a career as an actress. She was slender, blond and stunning. Or she was skinny, made-up within an inch of her life and about as real as a doll.

  Matthew was having a difficult time deciding which. He was having a difficult tune carrying his end of the conversation, too.

  Phoebe was telling him about a commercial she’d auditioned for.

  “It’s this cute little character called Emmy? Emmy the Elf? Who lives under your sink? If you buy Elf-Bright detergent?”

  Matthew nodded, told himself that the way her voice rose at the end of each sentence wasn’t a pain in the butt but an adorable affectation and told himself, as well, that it wouldn’t be polite to tell Phoebe the strip of phony lashes on her right eyelid was starting to come undone.

  “My agent said it might be a problem? That I don’t have average looks? So I thought about it and I just, you know, twisted my face a little? During my audition?”

  Eyelashes weren’t everything. Neither were perpetual question marks. Phoebe really was beautiful, if you liked the type. Which he did. Why wouldn’t he? And she was fun. She was easygoing. He’d give her two and a half, no, three hearts….

  What was he doing? He wasn’t a judge at a beauty pageant. This mental score sheet thing was becoming ridiculous. He’d been doing it ever since he’d last seen—ever since he’d left New York. Date a woman, check off her attributes, do a quick comparison between her and—

  Definitely ridiculous.

  Any man in his right mind would have given tens to the last three women he’d dated, but he’d sat across from them, just the way he was sitting across from Phoebe, coldly, methodically picking them apart.

  Was it him? Was he getting jaundiced at the age of thirty? Or was it the women? Were they becoming less desirable?

  Matthew’s lips twitched. Damn if he hadn’t caught Phoebe’s disease. He was thinking in question marks.

  Who was he kidding?

  He was thinking of Susannah.

  That was the reason he couldn’t seem to concentrate on any one woman or find one whose company he enjoyed. They were all gorgeous and fun to be with, and some of them could even carry on a conversation. But not one of them was Susannah.

  Susannah, who’d argue about anything at the drop of a syllable.

  Susannah, who could make a sweatshirt and jeans look sexy.

  Susannah, who didn’t need false eyelashes and a palette of paint to be beautiful.

  Susannah, who could never have kissed a guy named Sam or one named Peter the way she’d kissed him, or they’d never have let her out of their arms.

  “Matthew? I think that’s your phone ringing?”

  Matthew blinked. Phoebe was smiling prettily, head cocked, chocolate eyes big and round. She was right. His phone was making urgent sounds. He smiled back, apologized for the interruption and reached into his pocket.

  It was Joe.

  “Am I interrupting anything that shouldn’t be interrupted?” he asked slyly.

  Matthew looked at Phoebe. She took the cherry from her drink and gently rolled it between her lips.

  “Not yet, you aren’t. What’s up?”

  Joe’s tone turned businesslike. “I figured you’d want to know the deal in Connecticut went through.”

  “Great. Anything else?”

  “No, not really. Well, yeah. Something came in from New York a couple of days ago I think you might want to know about.”

  Matthew sighed. “Better late than never, right? What was it?”

  “Susannah called and asked me to approve a chunk of money.”

  Phoebe, still playing games with the cherry, batted her lashes.

  “How much did she ask for?”

  Joe named a sum. Matthew whistled.

  “She planning on buying a small country?” he said, and smiled at Phoebe, who smiled back.

  “Well, it seems she’s got this hot idea…”

  Matthew listened. And listened. When he figured he couldn’t listen anymore, not without exploding, he mouthed an apology to Phoebe, who’d opened her compact to repair any ravages left by her exercise with the cherry, rose from the table and walked to the bar.

  “Let me be sure I’ve got this right,” he said slowly. “Susannah is going to Paris with a photographer, a makeup guy, a stylist, a hairdresser and a writer.”

  “More or less. There’s a couple of others, too.”

  “They’re going to stay in two-thousand-dollar-a-day suites—”

  “Susie stays in the suite. Everybody else gets regular rooms.”

  “An admirable economy,” Matthew said icily.

  “Well, not everybody else. Stefan, Bart, Zeke and Alejandro get suites, too. But you’d figure that.”

  The Four Stooges? Matthew thought wildly.

  “Who?” he asked.

  “The sexiest guy finalists. The promotion. Remember?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Well, they narrowed the list to four guys. A rocker. A model. Some writer who’s got a hot book coming out. And listen to this, man, that actor, Bart Fitt.”

  “The one who goes around with his bottom hanging out?”

  “That’s the one. Susie’s taking them all with her to Paris.”

  Matthew felt as if a giant fist had just landed in his solar plexus.

  “We must have a bad connection,” he said, very calmly. “Because I thought I heard you say—”

  “You did. The whole bunch is going to Paris with her. See, this hotel’s the place CHIC’s picked as their sexiest getaway, and Susie figures the way to get the most mileage is for her to represent Everywoman. I mean, that’s the way she gears her column.”

  “Everywoman, how?” Matthew asked, trying to keep his voice steady even if his blood pressure wasn’t.

  “She’ll spend the weekend with these four sexy guys. Eat with them, sleep with them—”

  “Sleep with them?”

  His voice rang out. People seated at the bar turned in his direction. Matthew turned his back.

  “Well, not sleep with them. Take it easy, okay? I was speaking metaphorically.”

  “Yeah.” Matthew took a breath, ran his hand through his hair. “Sorry, Joe. I, ah, I… So, how’d she react when you told her it was a no-go?”

  “A no-go?”

  “I can just picture her face when you told her there wasn’t a way in hell I’d let her spend a weekend in Paris with… Not a way in the world we’d approve such an expenditure.”

  The cell phone hummed with silence. Matthew’s blood began humming, too.

  “You did tell her that, didn’t you?”

  “Actually, I told her it sounded like a fantastic idea—”

  “What?”

  “—and that she had my blessings.”

  Matthew opened his mouth, then shut it. He strode through the cocktail lounge, weaving h
is way between tables, until he was standing beside Phoebe.

  “Matthew?” she said. “Are you okay?”

  Joe was saying the same words in his ear.

  “I’m fine,” Matthew replied, and drew back Phoebe’s chair. “Joe?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Phone Hank. Tell him I’ll be at the airport at midnight.”

  “Hank and the jet are in Tulsa. Remember? You told him to fly Frank down to check out that factory.”

  Matthew cursed under his breath. “Forget Hank. Call TWA. United. Air France. I don’t care who, just get me to Paris.”

  “Paris?” Joe said.

  “Paris?” Phoebe said.

  Matthew forced a smile to his lips. “I’m afraid I’ve had a change of plans,” he told a bewildered Phoebe as he signed the check, took her elbow and hustled her to the door. “Would you mind very much if I put you in a taxi and you saw yourself home?”

  “Matt,” Joe said, “are you nuts? You can’t put me in a—”

  “Not you,” he growled, as he all but shoved Phoebe into a cab and stuffed bills into the driver’s hand. The cab sped off, and Matthew glowered into the phone. “That was my date, you idiot. I put her into a cab, but you I’m going to put into an asylum. How could you tell Susannah it would be all right for her to take a—a male harem to Paris?”

  “It’s not a harem. It’s a publicity stunt. I know it’s a lot of money, but—”

  “I don’t give a flying fig about the money. My concern is strictly for—for the image of the magazine.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  Matthew switched the phone to his other ear as the valet pulled his car to the curb.

  “Did you ever consider what readers might think when they see a layout of CHIC’s editor, lying around in a Paris hotel room, being fawned over by a small army of—”

  “Studly males?” Joe laughed. “I think they’ll turn green with envy, Matt. And I think you’re doing the same thing, although for very different reasons.”

  Matthew tipped the valet, got behind the wheel of his Porsche and shifted into gear.

  “You really do belong in a straitjacket,” he growled, and slapped the cell phone to silence.