Dirty Scandal

by Amelia Wilde

  That bitch.

  The thought bubbles up from behind my barricade of professionalism and I swat at it like it’s in the air in front of me, like I’d swat away a mosquito. Sandra isn’t a bitch. She’s demanding and hyper-focused on her work, and the problem she’s faced with—that we’re both faced with—is something I can’t help her with, even if it takes everything I have not to press my ear up against the doors to her office. A single word. A single word is all I need to take the edge off after what she told me this morning.

  Her words reverberate endlessly in my mind. “Williams-Martin is bankrupt,” she’d said, slipping her reading glasses off and placing them precisely back into the drawer. “They’ll need a solution shortly. If one isn’t found, the office will close. In a matter of weeks, I assume.”

  Instead of letting my mouth drop open, I pinched my lips shut to keep from screaming.

  I’ve been at Basiqué for fifteen months. Fifteen agonizing months. Back in college, I struggled with pulling all-nighters for important projects. I’d start out determined with a stack of granola bars and some off-brand energy drink and by 2:30 in the morning I’d find myself in the dorm-room bathroom, brushing my teeth too hard and fast before a frantic dash back to bed. How long has it been since I went to bed early or slept past 7:00? Months. And all for this job.

  The phone on my desk starts to ring, and my hand is on the receiver before the first tone is over. In that split second I register that it’s Sandra calling from her office and not an outside request of some kind.

  “Hello, Sandra—” I say before she cuts me off.

  “Tell editorial to stop work on the policewoman feature. The content will be substituted.”

  “I’ll do that right away.” The line clicks off.

  I had been in the middle of writing three related emails—now that Sandra has cancelled this morning’s meetings, the approvals process for a photo shoot scheduled later in the week has to be pushed back, so I need to re-coordinate the photographer and the designer for later in the week at a time that won’t completely screw up the rest of the week. It doesn’t help at all that tomorrow is a bank holiday. I must need to sleep more—how did the Fourth of July slip my mind?—but more sleep is a joke, especially now. I can’t afford to let anything slip.

  It’s not an ideal situation, leaving my desk empty so I can go talk to Kirk—the head of editorial—but I slip my cell phone in my pocket and push the “forward” button on my phone. I’ll only be gone a few minutes.

  Once I’m in the hallway, striding toward the editorial bullpen, my blood pressure equalizes a little. I have a purpose for being out of the office for a few moments. Nobody can fault me for that.

  Kirk is hunched over his desk, fingers flying over his keyboard. I hover for a second, and after a final burst of words, he swivels around to face me.

  “Hey, Cate,” he says, his eyes locked on my face. “Come on in.”

  He stands up from behind his desk and reaches down to the mini-fridge he keeps tucked between the desk and the window, pulling out an energy drink.

  “How’s it going?” I tilt my head toward his computer screen.

  “Good, good,” says Kirk, opening the can and downing half of it in one gulp. “You’ve got news.”

  “She’s stopping the policewoman feature.”

  Kirk lets out an epic sigh, dropping his chin to his chest for several moments. Then he looks up at me, rolling his eyes, and shrugs his shoulders.

  I shrug back.

  “Any replacement?” he asks, his body already turning back toward his desk.

  “Ha, ha.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “I’ll let you know, okay?”

  “Thanks, Cate.”

  News delivered, I hustle back down the hall to Sandra’s office. There are a few people lingering in the conference rooms across from the glass doors with a hopeful shine in their eyes. It’s not going to happen for them.

  At the doorway, two things happen at once: I reach for the polished handle of the doors, and I see him.

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  This would happen. The one time I step away from my desk—and how long was I gone? Three minutes? Four?—someone has to show up. I run through the list of cancelled meetings. No one should be in there right now. Sandra won’t be happy if she discovers that someone has been loitering out here.

  I pull open the door and step through, the words already there on the tip of my tongue. “I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice low but confident. “I had to step away for a moment. Ms. Sarzó isn’t—”

  He turns to face me and the words die in my throat.

  I know the instant that he smiles at me—a cocky, sexy half-smile that’s almost a sneer—and shifts his weight so that he’s facing me head-on, giving me a glorious view of what I am certain is a rock-hard body underneath layers of expensive, understated fabrics, that I want him out of here immediately.

  He’s been standing here for long enough that the scent of him fills the air—a hint of spicy cologne underneath a pure clean that sends a bolt of electric lust directly between my legs.

  My next breath is an undignified gulp, and then I get my shit together…just enough.

  “Ms. Sarzó isn’t available for meetings right now,” I say crisply, crossing to my desk and stepping behind it. The closer I get to him, the more he overtakes me—and he hasn’t spoken a word. Male models are in and out of this office every day, but none of them, not a single one, has ever rocked me like this. Even fully covered by his suit—it must be custom, Italian, no way it came off the rack—his body is muscled, athletic, setting off his razor-sharp jawline.

  He considers me with eyes the color of steel. In the sunlight outside, I know they’d be as blue as the ocean. I want to look away—he’s blinding—but I’m not about to give him the satisfaction.

  When he finally speaks, his voice is dark and smooth with an edge to it. “She’ll be available for me.”

  “I don’t think so,” I say quickly, the heat rising to my cheeks. I don’t know who this man is, or what he thinks he’s doing here, but with each moment that passes I’m desperate for the tension in the air to burst and dissipate.

  He leans closer. The expanse of my desk is still between us, but even his slight movement toward me seems to take up all the rest of the space in the room. “And what makes you think that?” The corner of his mouth quirks slightly, like he might laugh at me.

  I open my mouth, then close it again, pressing my lips together. “I’m Catherine Schaffer, Ms. Sarzó’s lead assistant. I canceled all of her meetings for the morning. If you’d like to make an appointment—”

  Then he does laugh, and the sound is as musical as it is calculating. He must be enjoying this. “So you’re a woman with a fiery personality, Ms. Schaffer?” Crossing his arms casually over his chest, he gives me an indulgent look. “I’ll bet you hate to be wrong.”

  My eyes narrow. I can’t stop myself—I’m on the verge of bursting out with an indignant reply. He can’t talk to me like this. He can’t look at me like this.

  I’ve opened my mouth to speak when Sandra’s office door whips open.

  “Mr. Hunter,” she calls in a cold, clear voice. “Please, come in. We have several matters to discuss, it seems.”

  My face burns. Mr. Hunter. There’s another layer to the laughter in his eyes. Something is lit up there, too.

  He doesn’t mention it.

  Instead, he heads toward Sandra, his hand extended to shake. Holds the door for her while she steps inside. Turns as he guides the door closed behind him.

  He locks his eyes on mine one more time, and those blues burn into the core of me.

  I might never recover.

  5

  Jax

  This meeting is the only reason I came here, and the editor-in-chief is already sitting behind her desk. The last thing I’d do on earth is turn around and walk out. The news would break that I crumbled under Sarzó’s intimidating stare before I
reached the front door.

  But how can I concentrate on her middle-aged, suspiciously unlined face when my cock is about to burst out of my pants?

  Holy hell, that woman was something else. I wanted her the instant she walked into the room, and everything in my body screamed for release from this suit, from this godforsaken meeting.

  I can’t remember the last time a woman had that kind of effect on me.

  I don’t think a woman ever has.

  My mind is completely wiped except for an unrelenting need. I could step back into that lobby right now. Catherine Schaffer’s lithe frame would hardly be able to resist me.

  No.

  No.

  I can’t get caught up like this.

  None of it shows on my face, even while my mind races and kicks and screams at having to take the seat across from Sandra Sarzó. She’s top of the food chain in her industry, who the hell cares? I’d never even heard of her before today, and I certainly didn’t come here to kiss her ass. I came here to tell her that they have one issue to impress me, otherwise I’m shutting down the entire operation.

  She sizes me up, her fingers steepled in front of her on the desk. “It seems you’ve bought the controlling majority of Williams-Martin, Mr. Hunter. Have you given any thought to what you might do with its properties?”

  Close all of them. Including this one.

  I give her half a smile, a breath that could be a laugh. “You know as well as I do that Williams-Martin is exceptionally poor at management. All of its other publications are riding on Basiqué’s coattails.”

  Sarzó leans back, crossing one leg neatly over the other. “I assumed as much. But my main concern is, of course, Basiqué’s standing.” She doesn’t say out loud that this job is her life. It’s written all over her.

  I’m having an out-of-body experience. Most of me is outside the doors, bending that masterpiece over her sleek, modern desk, pushing the black pencil skirt up to her waist…

  Snap the hell out of it, Hunter.

  There is no reason for me to be this hung up on her. I saw her for what, a minute? Two? After this I’ll have no reason to come back to the office, and she’ll become another piece of eye candy that flitted her way across my vision and back out again.

  I lean forward enough to seem like I’m pressing in on Sandra’s space without actually breaking the plane of her desk. “You tell me. What is this publication’s standing?”

  Sarzó straightens her back. “We’re among the three most-circulated fashion publications in the country, with well over two million paid subscribers for the print edition alone. We have another million paying for premium online content, and that number is growing as we speak.”

  “And you think that makes Basiqué a worthwhile investment?”

  “Do you find fault with that level of circulation?”

  “Come on now, Ms. Sarzó. You know as well as I do that those numbers don’t touch the top ten.”

  She lets out a short burst of laughter. “If you’re looking for a publication venue for cutesy Americana and investment strategies for retirees, you’ve purchased the wrong publishing group.”

  “Have I?”

  I let the question hang in the air long enough for her to become uncomfortable. I’m already jumping out of my skin. This conversation is killing me. No—not having my hands on the exquisite creature fifteen feet away is slowly, inexplicably, driving me out of my mind.

  Eyes narrowed, Sarzó juts her chin out. “Let’s be clear with one another. Are you telling me that you plan to shutter Basiqué? If you are, do me a professional courtesy.”

  “Not immediately.”

  “When?”

  I stand up as calmly as I can. “You have two issues to prove to me that my money wouldn’t be better spent on publications that will compete with the top five.”

  Sarzó doesn’t miss a beat, rising to her feet. “I have no doubt we’ll exceed your expectations.”

  “I’m looking forward to it. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  She raises both hands, waving me off. “Of course. A pleasure to meet with you, Mr. Hunter.”

  “And you,” I say, then move toward the doors to her office at a purposeful pace. I will not be seen hurrying away as if this meeting has had any effect.

  It’s not the meeting that has my heart pounding so hard I wonder if it’ll stop right now, before I can get back to the hall. This is going to be the last time I ever let myself look at this woman.

  The only problem?

  She’s not here.

  Sarzó’s office door closes with a whisper behind me, but I’m standing in an empty office. Her computer screen is still on, casting a glow down onto the glass surface of her desk, but the petite body with the gorgeous breasts, the shining dark hair, the hazel eyes that glowed when she saw me, despite her irritation, despite the nervous jitters that shook her body when she discovered that I had arrived while she was out—

  She’s not here.

  My heart clenches with a disappointment so strong it embarrasses me. What the hell was I thinking?

  I raise a hand to my tie in a nervous gesture that I hate and drop it back to my side like the fine silk is a hot coal.

  There’s only one thing to do: find someone else to replace her. Tonight. Before I lose every scrap of my self-control to Catherine Schaffer.

  6

  Cate

  Sandra’s office doors are open when I step into the office.

  He’s gone.

  My heart sinks right into my shoes, which is so stupid.

  Why do I care that some arrogant rich asshole has left the building?

  I don’t, I tell myself sternly, knowing even as I think it that it’s a lie.

  I lasted for two minutes after the doors to Sandra’s office closed behind him before I stood up and bolted for the bathroom. Leaning against the faux-marble wall in the largest stall I struggled to catch my breath.

  And—shit. I left my phone at my desk, so I can’t search for him on the Internet.

  Hunter.

  Hunter.

  I’ve heard the name, but he has nothing to do with the fashion industry, and that’s the only thing I’ve allowed myself to think of for over a year now.

  I waited until the buzzing had mellowed in my veins enough for me to walk out of the bathroom with confidence, my back straight and my chin up. My plan was to go back to my desk, and when he left the meeting with Sandra, I’d show him. I’m not some flighty bitch who gets bowled over by some jerk in a fancy business suit. I don’t need him.

  I need my job.

  But as I get closer to the office doors and my heart speeds up, a little voice in the back of my mind whispers: Don’t you need him? Don’t you?

  No. If anything, I want him. What woman wouldn’t be attracted to someone that unbelievably sexy? Wanting isn’t the same as needing.

  The voice whispers again: Oh, yes, it is.

  I’m three steps away from the office when it hits me.

  What if he’s the solution to Williams-Martin’s bankruptcy issue?

  I brush the thought aside. If he is, I’ll know in a matter of minutes—that is, if Sandra decides to throw me a bone.

  She’s calling my name the moment I step through the doors, and a rush of relief washes over me. That stupid little trip to the bathroom could have cost me the relative peace of the afternoon. It’s almost enough to mask how my heart is crushed when I register the open doors.

  I pick up my notepad on the way in, and before I’ve even fully approached Sandra’s desk she’s listing off things that must be accomplished before the hour is out.

  “Push all the meetings from this morning to the afternoon. You can inform anyone who wants to reschedule that I’ll cut them from the issue. I want eleven or twelve different tops from Calvin Klein by three. Cut three of the models from the businesswear lineup and send me the top four.”

  My furious scribbling pauses almost as soon as she finishes speaking. When she turns her attent
ion back toward her screen, I take that as my queue to leave, but Sandra isn’t done.

  “You should know that Mr. Hunter has bought a controlling share of Williams-Martin, and he’s elected not to close Basiqué—for the time being. We have two issues to prove our worth to him. You know what that means, Catherine.”

  “I do.” It means that there is no room for error. No room to let up. No room to slow down.

  Then Sandra pulls off her reading glasses and turns back to me, looking me straight in the eye, her expression thoughtful, as if she’s considering some deep truth about me that even I have yet to learn.

  “Your work here so far has been very satisfactory.” My heart leaps in my chest. This is the first time Sandra has ever given me such high praise, and I feel an intense burst of loyalty, strong and pure. I nod, forcing myself not to smile. Sandra disapproves of giddiness. She speaks again. “As long as you continue to perform, and as long as he leaves us to our own devices, we should be successful.”

  I think she might say more, but she dismisses me with a curt nod.

  My heart flutters as I make my way back to my desk. There are too many emotions to sort through right now. God, I want him so much, but Sandra has made it crystal clear: he’s the adversary now.

  It’s him or my work, and I know which one comes first.

  I pull up my email and start firing off messages even while I place phone call after phone call to everyone I cancelled on this morning, summoning them back to Sandra’s office—yes, now, as fast as you can—and though I try to ignore the clock in the upper corner of my screen, I can’t help but watch it as the minutes tick by.

  When the emails are finished, I risk it: I pull open a private browser window and type in a search. All I know is his last name, but I add keywords until…there he is, giving the camera a steely look for a promotional photo that looks to be a couple of years ago.

  Three clicks later, I’m reading his biography on a Fortune list of New York City’s wealthiest residents. And he’s damn near the top.