“I may not like him, but I know how you felt about him until this morning. Are you sure you won’t regret this later?”
“Why are you defending him all of a sudden?”
“I’m not. I just know how you can second-guess yourself. I’m trying to circumvent the midnight phone calls to my apartment.”
“He basically told me I’m boring in bed. What’s to second-guess?”
“He didn’t say that though, did he? He was busted, and guys never know the right thing to say when they’re busted.”
“He shrugged!”
“I know, it was an asshole thing to do. But he’s a guy. By definition, he touches himself, and he’s constantly looking for visual stimulus to make touching himself more enjoyable. You shouldn’t take it personally.”
“I have no problem with the touching part. It’s the part about him having cybersex with some other woman that bugs me.”
Talia shrugged. She had a way of being horribly jaded when it came to men. “At least it wasn’t someone he knew, right?”
“As far as I can tell—no. But who knows how many times they’d done it before I caught him?”
Talia took a bite of her salad. She’d long ago given up believing there were any good men left, and now Naomi felt like a complete idiot for having tried to convince her over the past year that Jackson was one of the last available good ones.
“I’m totally supportive of your dumping him. I just want you to be sure of your reasons.”
“It’s like he cheated. Sort of—I mean, at what point does this kind of thing become cheating?”
Talia frowned. “When he starts humping your monitor?”
“I’m serious. Is it cheating if a guy has cybersex?”
“I don’t know. How do you keep typing if you’re, um—”
“I saw Jackson take a quick break from the action to type two-handed.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
Talia narrowed her eyes and stared off out the window at the passing midday traffic. “What makes a person sexy in the cyber world? The ability to type fast?”
“If so, my great-aunt Nell the secretary would be very popular. She can type eighty words per minute.”
Talia made a tiger sound in the back of her throat, and the guy at the next table eyed her with renewed interest. Naomi tried to resist descending into a fit of giggles but failed. This was why she loved Talia—she could make her feel as though she were a goofy teenager without all the fears and insecurities.
Until today. Today, Naomi was the new headquarters for Insecurities Incorporated, all because some guy preferred a faceless stranger on the Internet for sex over her.
She was going to change that, even if it meant sleeping with Booty Call Ken. But preferably not. There had to be a better way to prove she was good in bed, and Naomi was going to find it.
She glanced at her watch and saw that if she didn’t leave now, she’d be late for her next appointment. “Thanks for meeting me so last-minute. I’ve gotta run.”
“One more thing—if you’re really dumping Jackson, make a clean break.”
“Got it.”
“Seriously. No regrets, Naomi. I don’t want to hear a single doubt next time we talk. I just want to hear that you’re ready for your first booty call.”
Naomi waved and headed for the door. No doubts, no regrets. She could do that, right? Of course.
But already, there was a niggling doubt. What if, once she’d proven she was good in bed, she started wanting Jackson back? What if the desire to prove herself to him became overwhelming?
She left the café and weaved her way through the afternoon lunch crowd on the sidewalk. As she walked, the doubts grew and grew.
Then a plan came to her, fully formed and laid out, ready for her to execute. She’d find a talented guy—whether it be Booty Call Ken or someone of her own choosing—and she’d hone her sexual skills until she was the kind of lover guys never strayed from.
Then she’d show Jackson exactly what he was going to miss out on for the rest of his long, pitiful life.
2
ZANE UNDERWOOD WATCHED the TV monitor as a series of gunshot blasts turned the scene on the darkened streets of Aden into chaos. People ran for cover, and his own voice had taken on a desperate, breathless quality as he reported the progress of the event. He could remember all too well the shock of what happened a moment later, when his cameraman was hit in the shoulder by a stray bullet.
As soon as the memory came to him, the event was reflected on-screen. The sound of machine-gun fire, a cry of pain, and the camera that had been focused on the unrest instantly hit the ground.
The monitor screen went blue.
“You’re damn lucky Carlson survived. You shouldn’t have been in there,” Jack Hiller said, his bald head glistening in the halogen lights of his office. He propped his elbows on the glossy cherry conference table that separated them and leaned in closer. “You know Yemen’s swarming with terrorists.”
Which was exactly why they should be there, Zane resisted pointing out. The news manager had made up his mind, and when Jack had an opinion about something, he rarely wavered from it.
“I regret putting Elliot Carlson in danger. But he’s a big boy. He knew what he was getting into when he volunteered to cover the story with me.”
“I’ll be straight with you, Underwood. Your job is in danger. Mediacom doesn’t want cowboy journalists.”
Zane cringed at the label. “I wasn’t the one slinging guns there, Jack.”
“You know what I mean. You’re too cocky. You’re pissing people off.”
“We were the first network to cover the story, and it had a direct impact on U.S. naval ships in that area. This isn’t really about Yemen, is it?”
“Of course not, but you haven’t let me finish.”
Zane leaned back in his seat. Here it came….
“You’ve created an international scandal with that princess. Can’t you keep your tool in the tool belt for one damn week?”
He stared at Jack, doing his best to look contrite.
“Have you seen photos of her? She’s a knockout,” he said, doubtful it was going to count for much.
The “she” in question was Zahara Karim, one of the many daughters of the king of a small Middle Eastern country, which made her a princess. And what a naughty princess she was. She’d been traveling with her father in Yemen for a political visit when she and Zane had bumped into each other in the hotel lobby, and the rest was tabloid headlines.
His first royalty, and probably his last, too, considering the uproar that had erupted when the princess’s father found out about their indiscretion.
Zane had barely made it out of Yemen before someone had a chance to lock him up and throw away the key.
No amount of arguing that the king’s archaic attitudes about women and virginity were straight out of the Middle Ages could have gotten him out of that mess.
“I don’t care if she’s the hottest woman in Yemen, you can’t go around—”
“Calm down. I think I’ve learned my lesson.”
Not that he considered no more getting naked with princesses in the royal limousine to be that relevant a lesson to learn in the overall scheme of his life, but hey—a guy never knew when such a lesson would come in handy.
“Have you? I heard you say that last year, too, and yet here we are again, having the same conversation.”
“This is all about politics, and you know it.”
“No, it’s about the bottom line.”
Zane expelled a pent-up breath. That was one of the biggest lies he’d heard all week. Everything at Mediacom was about the bottom line, and everything was also about politics.
“You have my sincere and heartfelt apology, okay?”
“This whole renegade-reporter kick of yours has to stop.”
Zane debated whether or not to point out that viewers liked his style. That wasn’t why he reported the way he did, but h
e wasn’t altogether ignorant of the fact that he added a little excitement to the news.
What the hell. “I don’t think I’m hurting your ratings.”
Jack’s neck turned red. “You’ve been in this business—what, ten years?” Zane nodded, and Jack continued. “I’ve been in it for thirty, and one thing that’s been proven time and again is that what viewers want in a news channel is consistency, reliability and balanced news.”
“Then how do you explain my popularity?”
“You’re not popular, you’re controversial. Controversy breeds temporary interest, not long-term viewer loyalty.”
“If the truth is controversial, then we should be happy for the controversy.”
“The truth is as subjective as anything else. You know that.”
Zane had abandoned any boyish ideas of truth coming before all else in journalism years ago. But it was still the value he held most dear. He just avoided talking about it to the people who paid his salary.
“Look Underwood, you’ve backed me up to a wall here, so I’m going to give it to you straight. Mr. Beringer himself has sent an ultimatum that either you straighten up or you’re fired.”
Zane blinked at the news. Fired. Nothing surprised him anymore.
“For Yemen or for the princess?”
“Those were just the final straws. This is about your behavior ever since you were hired by Mediacom.”
“So you’re going to fire me?” he said, trying to hide the edge of anger he was beginning to feel.
“I don’t want it to come to that, so I’ve got a proposition for you.”
Jack picked up a business card from the table and held it out to Zane.
“What’s this?” He took it and read the name on the card.
Naomi Tyler, Image Consultant.
“She’s the talented young lady who transformed Chuck Albright into the ratings-getter he is today. I want you to give her a call, set up an appointment.”
“For what?”
“If you’ll let her make you over into a more marketable commodity, and if you’ll report the stories we assign you without veering off in your own direction, you can keep your job.”
Zane’s head began to buzz. Image consultants, lame story assignments, Chuck Albright’s big fat toupee. It was all too much.
“You want me to get a makeover?”
“Mr. Beringer isn’t comfortable with your renegade image. He’d prefer you not wear jeans and leather jackets when reporting on camera, and he’d like you to cut your hair and maybe shave a little more often.”
Zane raked his fingers through hair that hadn’t been cut in months and remembered that he’d also neglected to wash it for a day or two in all the chaos of getting out of the Middle East and returning to the U.S.
He’d wash his hair, but he wasn’t going to cut it. Not for Gil Beringer—who’d obviously gotten a God complex while sitting around counting his billions of dollars—or for anyone else.
“Forget it,” he said, standing up and flinging the white linen business card onto the table.
“If you choose to walk out without discussing this, I can’t guarantee you’ll have a job tomorrow.”
Zane didn’t respond well to ultimatums. Never had, never would.
But he also wanted to keep his job. Given the choice between saying something stupid or leaving and cooling off before he discussed this any further, he turned and headed for the door.
“Underwood, walking out is not a smart move.”
“Let’s talk about this tomorrow, when I’ve had a chance to mull over your offer.”
Jack nodded. “Fair enough.”
And Zane walked out the door.
PEOPLE WEARING HEADSETS bustled back and forth on the set of Atlanta Today, oblivious to Naomi’s presence. She tried to stay out of their way and, other than one unfortunate incident involving her favorite heels and a cameraman, she thought she’d done a good job.
“Remember, you need to project a little bit of sex appeal with your respectability. Never forget you’re wearing black lace under your suit.”
Naomi straightened her client’s collar and gave her a reassuring smile.
“Actually, I’m not,” Daphne Delano said, looking confused.
“Doesn’t matter. Just pretend you are.”
“Right. Think respectable sex,” Daphne chanted to herself. Then she paused and frowned. “I don’t think I get it.”
“You want to attract both male and female viewers, but you can’t attract the men so much that you estrange the women.”
“How do I do that?”
“Visualization techniques. You need an image to focus on that makes you feel both sexy and professional, like the lace underwear beneath your suit—that kind of thing.”
She could almost see the wheels turning in Daphne’s head. “Okay, I think I’ve got it.”
Naomi had never met a person she couldn’t improve.
She could size up any man or woman in a matter of seconds, visualizing their ideal hairstyle and color, their most flattering wardrobe choices and the little cosmetic enhancements that could emphasize the good and tone down the bad. Within minutes of talking to them, she could pick out the mannerisms and speech patterns that they needed to play up or eliminate.
It was her gift.
But it was one of those gifts best shared with people who had paid to benefit from it. She’d learned at the tender age of five that telling just anyone what was wrong with them could lead to trouble.
Her grandma Anne hadn’t taken kindly to Naomi informing her the mole on her chin with the hair growing out of it was detracting from her overall look, and Naomi could still remember the spanking she’d gotten for that very first makeover effort.
Daphne Delano was another story entirely. Her transformation was nearly complete, and as she sat in her place on the set of Atlanta Today, she’d just about attained perfection.
Her outdated mom hairdo had been highlighted and lowlighted, then styled to ultra-chic proportions. Her love of orange lipstick had been all but eliminated, and the shade of cranberry she wore now went perfectly with her dark hair and olive skin. Her big-shoulder-pad wardrobe had been replaced with a coordinating selection of current styles, and most importantly, her perky down-home manner and heavy Georgia drawl had been subdued to a level that appealed to the widest possible number of viewers.
She was Naomi’s masterpiece, and Naomi watched with pride as Daphne went live with her new signature style shining through.
Five minutes later, Daphne finished the first segment of the show and turned to Naomi. “What did you think?”
“You were great.”
“Any pointers?”
“Remember the smile we practiced. The bottoms of your upper teeth should be touching your lower lip, and keep your eyes open as wide as possible while you’re smiling. No scrunching them up.”
“Like this?” Daphne asked, demonstrating her version of proper smiling technique.
Her cheeks had a little chipmunk action going on.
“As you smile, focus on pulling the corners of your mouth to the side, not up.”
Daphne tried again.
“Perfect! You need to practice that every day in the mirror until it becomes second nature.”
Naomi went over her mental checklist. Had she forgotten to teach Daphne anything? Were there any little details that had been left out of the transformation?
As she watched Daphne interact with her cohost, she knew.
Her work was done.
She’d transformed her client from a second-rate local TV personality on the verge of losing her job to a younger, prettier talking head into the new diva of daytime talk shows. Naomi smiled as satisfaction settled in her belly.
If her sex life was a disaster, at least she could rest a little easier knowing she was really, really good at her job.
Three days had passed since she’d caught Jackson having his rendezvous with the computer, and she was feeling worse about th
e whole mess, not better. He hadn’t called the way he’d said he would. Her only consolation was the thought of someday soon making him beg for a second chance with her, then not giving it to him.
The vibration of her cell phone from inside her bag jarred her out of her thoughts.
Naomi normally didn’t keep it on while working with clients, but she must have forgotten to turn it off when she’d arrived on the set of Atlanta Today. She scrambled to retrieve the phone and answer it, walking off the set as she did so.
“Naomi Tyler,” she answered.
“Naomi, this is Jack Hiller at Mediacom. We spoke earlier?”
“Yes, I remember. How can I help you?”
Jack had spoken with her the week before about the possibility of acting as an image consultant for Zane Underwood, Mediacom’s notorious bad-boy journalist.
No doubt an intriguing project.
Zane’s face had become familiar to America in recent years as he reported live from the front lines of war-torn countries around the world. His hair was a little longer than it should have been, his beard a little too unshaven, and he usually appeared on camera in a rugged brown leather jacket that looked like it had been through one too many war zones.
Naomi hadn’t understood why the network would want to change a reporter who was obviously such a hot commodity, but Hiller had been adamant that Zane’s bad-boy image bothered more viewers than it pleased. He claimed the ratings proved it, and if there was anything Naomi had learned in the last few years of working with on-camera celebrities, it was that ratings were everything.
“Has Underwood contacted you?” Jack was asking, and Naomi’s thoughts sprang back to the conversation at hand.
“No, not yet.”
Jack sighed. “I gave him an ultimatum—he was supposed to call you or he’d face losing his job.”
“Sounds like he’s not too worried about finding a new one.”
“Yes, well, he doesn’t have a reputation for being a renegade for nothing.”
“I can’t makeover someone who doesn’t want to be changed,” Naomi said, though she’d certainly love to try with a journalist who looked like Zane. As she’d talked to Jack the first time, she’d been running TV images of the sexy reporter through her head, pinpointing areas for improvement.
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