Excerpt Letter to Reader Title Page PROLOGUE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE EPILOGUE Copyright

“Loathe me all you like. That doesn’t mean you don’t want me.”

“Want you? I’d sooner want a snake.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, considering what was going on here a little while ago, you’re going to make some snake a very happy reptile.”

Susannah swung toward him, her hands knotted into fists. Any second now, she was going to lose her chance at Chic magazine, probably her chance at anything, because once she slugged the horrible Matt Romano, what would be her chance of getting another job in publishing?

“You really do think you’re the sexiest man alive, don’t you? Well, let me tell you something, Romano. Just because I was stupid enough to let you kiss me—”

Dear Reader,

What makes you happiest on Valentine’s Day? A heart-shaped box of chocolates? A dozen long-stemmed roses? I always thought those things were perfect celebrations of love. Then, one Valentine’s Day a couple of years ago, a winter storm raced through our part of New England. It buried the countryside in snow, took out our electricity and ruined our plans for dinner at a wonderful old inn. Instead, my husband and I bundled up in long underwear, jeans and sweaters. He lit a fire on the hearth, I grilled hamburgers and we opened a bottle of wine. We turned on the portable radio and danced to some old love songs. An elegant Valentine’s Day? No. But it was the most romantic one I’ve ever spent, and I’ll never forget it.

Love,

Write to Sandra Marton at:

P.O. Box 295

Storrs, CT 06268

SandraMarton@worldnet.att.net

The Sexiest Man Alive

Sandra Marton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

PROLOGUE

CHIC

Today’s Magazine for Today’s Woman

Edgar B. Elerbee, Publisher

from the desk of: Edgar B. Elerbee

to: Editorial Staff

Tuesday, June 3

It is with great sorrow that I announce the sudden passing of Charles Dunn, our esteemed editor-in-chief. Charles was the guiding force of this publication for 32 years, and I know our entire staff will miss him.

Effective immediately, I am naming our managing editor, James Colter, to succeed Charles in this most important role. I expect the entire staff to join me in offering James our complete support.

E. Elerbee, pub.

from: ClaireHaines@chic.com

to: SusannahMadison@chic.com

subj: Major Surgery needed

Suze: I guess old Charlie put in one garter-belt-and-blindfold weekend too many. But Colter? Yuck Charlie never understood the 20th century woman, but Colter probably thinks we should still be wearing bustles Lunch at Gino’s? We can have pasta and whine.

from: SusannahMadison@chic.com

to: ClaireHaines@chic com

subj: Getting Trampled in the Rush for the Door

Elerbee’s got to be kidding¹ Our circulation numbers were bad enough under Charlie, but Colter’s going to set new lows Hasn’t it ever occurred to Elerbee that a mag for women ought to have a woman at its helm? Forget Gino’s. I went home this weekend My mother baked up a storm. I should have saved time & put the stuff right on my hips.

Suze:

Size eights don’t have hips to worry about!

Demos you requested attached Readers are women 40-65 Not target group Not good news. Heard the latest dirt? Colter is history. Wonder who Elerbee will put in his place?

Claire

from: SusannahMadison@chic com

to: ClaireHaines@chic.com

subj: Mister Ed, The Talking Horse

Or maybe Lassie. But not anyone who could breathe some life into CHIC You’re right. Demographic breakdown is N.G Women, single, 18-35. That’s where we should be aiming. We need more picture spreads, more fashion stuff, makeup ideas, advice on men I’ve had it with Mom, apple pie and babies What ever happened to the joys of being a single woman???

from: ClaireHaines@chic com

to: SusannahMadison@chic com

subj: Single Women, 18 - 35

The lucky ones got married

from: SusannahMadison@chic.com

to: ClaireHaines@chic.com

subj: Definitions

Depends on your definition of “lucky”

from: ClaireHaines@chic.com

to: SusannahMadison@chic.com

subj: Cold Feet

A career doesn’t keep you warm at night.

from: SusannahMadison@chic com

to: ClaireHaines@chic.com

subj: Cures for Cold Feet

Try an electric blanket. Or get a cat.

from: ClaireHaines@chic.com

to: SusannahMadison@chic.com

subj: Women can Purr, Too

You’re heartless, Madison.

from: SusannahMadison@chic.com

to: ClaireHaines@chic.com

subj: Better a Cat than a Kitten

I’m practical, Haines.

CHIC

The Magazine for Women

Edgar B. Elerbee, Publisher

July 28

Please join me at a buffet breakfast in the boardroom Friday, from 8-30 to 10, in honor of our new editor-in-chief, Julius Partridge Wallinger. Mr. Wallinger brings with him almost 40 years of journalistic know-how. Payroll has asked me to assure you that the problem with last week’s checks was computer related and will not occur again. Thank you for your forbearance.

E. Elerbee, pub.

from: SusannahMadison@chic.com

to: ClaireHaines@chic.com

subj: Hello

Enjoying vacation. Weather is glorious Relaxing on all sides. Reading, renting videos, etc. Old friend’s been coming around—Sam. Did I ever mention him? My ever - hopeful Mom invites him for dinner each night, which makes me smile. Sam’s a sweetheart. He plays canasta with her after I go to bed.

Saw an item buried in back of Business Daily. Is it true? Has the new guy gotten the boot already? I’ve only been on vacation a week!!! What about rumor of a Romano Inc takeover? Not really possible, is it? I spotted him in Hyannisport. (Drove there to treat Mom to lunch) The only thing Matthew Romano could do for CHIC would be to let the mag lay him out as a centerfold.. Not that any intelligent woman would find the studly-but-brainlessly-arrogant Mr. Romano a turn - on He was with Ted Turner. Now, there’s a guy I’d love to see buy CHIC. Tell Peter I send love & kisses, & that I miss him

MEMO

FROM: Claire

TO: Claire

1. Remember to ask S about Sam, & why he’s playing cards with Mom instead of romancing S.

2. Remember not to bother asking.

3. Remember to ask how come she took portable computer on vacation.

4. Remember not to bother asking.

5. Remember to suggest S. should toss her hat in the ring for next ed-in-chief hiring go-round. She has an MBA, hasn’t she?

6. Remember above, for sure S. would make great ed-in-chief

7. Remember to tell S the Romano thing is nothing but an off-the-wall rumor.

8. Remember to ask S. how she knows Romano is brainless, arrogant & studly (Studly??? Susannah, how you do talk)

9. Tell S she’s got a way with a phrase. “Laying out” Romano, that hunk, is a wonderful idea.

from: SusannahMadison@chic.com

to: ClaireHaines@chic com

subj: Tossed Hats & Studs

OK, I did it. I gave Elerbee my resume. He didn’t laugh ... I guess that’s good news. Re Matthew Romano & layouts: Claire, where are your standards? Who wants a guy who thinks he’s the sexiest man alive? Only a DB, like the one who was draped across Romano’s arm at Hyannisport

from: ClaireHaines@chic.com

to: SusannahMadison@chic.com

subj: Sexiest Man Alive? DB?

When? How? What? Explain, please.

from: SusannahMadison@chic com

to: Claire Haines@chic.com

subj: When, How, What

DB=Dumb Blonde, as always seen in tabloid photos of Romano. Sexiest Man Alive, as seen in Romano’s smirk in every tabloid shot.

from: ClaireHaines@chic.com

to: SusannahMadison@chic.com

subj: Confusion

For shame, Suze. Didn’t know you read the tabloids (snicker). And how do you know the Bs are D?

from: SusannahMadison@chic com

to: ClaireHaines@chic com

subj: No Confusion

Romano was with them.

from: ClaireHaines@chic.com

to: SusannahMadison@chic.com

subj: Yes, Confusion

How come you’re so interested in Matthew Romano?

from: SusannahMadison@chic.com

to: ClaireHaines@chic.com

subj: Non- Interest

I’m not. I don’t know how we got off on this subject to start with.

from: ClaireHaines@chic com

to: SusannahMadison@chic com

subj: Confused, Again

You said he was studly.

from: SusannahMadison@chic com

to: ClaireHaines@chic.com

subj: Insanity

Good grief ’ I was being sarcastic ’ Why are we wasting time on this man?

from: ClaireHaines@chic.com

to: SusannahMadison@chic.com

subj: Hey!

It wasn’t me who brought Romano the Stud into the conversation.

You’re right. I did—and I’m taking him out of it, now.

Do me a favor Take a look at attached: tell me what you think of these ideas. Would any of them make you, for instance, buy a copy of CHIC?

Uh-oh. Phone call from Elerbee. Wants to see me pronto. Here comes the turn-down...

CHIC

The Magazine for Tomorrow’s Woman

Edgar B. Elerbee, Publisher

I am delighted to announce that Susannah Madison is our new editor-in-chief. Susannah has been with us as senior editor for the past two years. She’ll be assuming her new post at the start of next week. I know you’ve weathered some difficult moments the last few months but I can assure you, that’s all behind us.

The payroll dept. has asked me to inform those who may have, again, experienced some difficulty cashing last week’s checks to please be patient. The problem is computer related. Thank you again for your forbearance and, may I add, it’s been a pleasure working with all of you these past years.

E. Elerbee

from: Susannah Madison, editor-in-chief

to: Staff

I have just been informed that CHIC has been purchased by Update Publications of NYC. Don’t panic, people. I’m trying to get info re Update. As soon as I do, I’ll cc: whatever I have to all of you. Since we’ve never heard of it, it’s probably a small outfit, one that will give us time to regroup, retrench & make CHIC the winner we all know it can be

Susannah

While You Were Out

Mr. E:

S.M phoned. Asked for info re rumors sale of magazine. What shall I tell her?

Pam

from: claireHaines@chic.com

to: SusannahMadison@chic com

subj: Congrats & Query

Wow! Congratulatians, Suze. You’ll be great! What’s Elerbee mean, “It’s been a pleasure,” etc Is he retiring? Selling? The mag can’t be going under, not if he’s just appointed you ed-in-chief, right? RIGHT’?

MEMO

from: Matthew Romano

to: Joseph Romano

re: CHIC takeover

Sept 10

Joe:

Update Division just acquired CHIC as part of the Elerbee package. From what I’ve seen, the kindest thing would be to put it out of its misery. What in hell’s going on there? I want to see some data. Copies of correspondence re revolving-door ed-in-chief position, also any pertinent correspondence, files, email, etc on my desk, ASAP. Matt

from: JoeRomano@romano.com

to: MattRomano@romano.com

subj: Some guys are, some guys aren’t Thanks a lot, big brother. You just about kept me chained to my desk this weekend Info on its way. Files sent via Internet, pertinent correspondence faxed. Emails mostly office chitchat-but you should take a look at some of them Forwarding same to your acct. Got to say, buddy, I never did notice you were (ahem) studly.

Joe (trying very hard not to guffaw)

P.S. I guess I’d better tell you now, I’m not the only one who eyeballed this stuff. Material went thru a few hands before hitting my desk. Sorry, but you have to admit, it’s funny.

MEMO

from: Matthew Romano

to: Jane

re: Elerbee package

Jane

Will be leaving for NY on Sun. Contact Hank. Tell him I’ll need the plane. Arrange for hotel accommodations Also phone CHIC offices, inform ed-in-chief I’ll expect to see her in her office 9 AM Monday.

MR

Jane—Flowers to Miss Darvis, please A dozen roses Make it two dozen. Apologies, etc. for breaking next Sun night engagement Tell her I’ll phone from NY. As for ed-in-chief.. please be sure to impress upon the lady that she’d damn well better be prompt.

from: MattRomano@romano com

to: JaneTrent@romano.com

subj: CHIC

I’ve changed my mind Do not contact ed - in-chief at CHIC. I prefer to make my visit unannounced.

CHAPTER ONE

SUSANNAH stepped from the shower, wrapped herself in a towel and raced down the chilly hallway to the kitchen.

This day—this very important day—was not off to a good start.

The shower had been so cold it had made her teeth chatter. The radiators were rattling enough to wake the dead, but the heat trickling out of them wouldn’t have heated a dollhouse. And, as she set the kettle on to boil, a cockroach the size of Godzilla scurried across the linoleum.

But it was what she read on the clock over the stove that set her heart pounding

Seven-fifteen?

It couldn’t be. No way. It was six-fifteen, it had to be. She’d set her alarm an hour earlier than usual, given herself more than enough time to get dressed, put on her makeup and blow-dry her hair, have a slice of toast with her coffee, make Peter his breakfast and still arrive at the office before anyone else.

It was important to seem cool, calm and collected when she started today’s meeting, and never mind that her heart would be in her throat. Even the fortune cookie that had come with last night’s order of take-out General Tso’s chicken had said that much.

Tomorrow, the little slip of paper in the cookie had promised, is the first day of the rest of your life.

Well, of course it is, the practical little voice in Susannah’s head had whispered, but the other voice, the one that lived in her heart or her soul or wherever it was hopes and prayers lived, that voice had said, You see, Susannah? The whole world knows that you’re standing on the edge of your dream.

Editor-in-chief. Not in five years, or ten, but right now. A giant step up the ladder. A Career, capital C, and all that went with it—independence, respect and security. That was the dream. Now, long before she’d ever imagined it would happen, she had her shot at achieving it. And she wasn’t going to be shoved off course by a malfunctioning kitchen clock.

The clock was definitely’broken, that was all there was to it. She’d set her alarm, it had gone off...and if she needed any further proof that it was after six, not after seven, all she had to do was take a look at Peter, who was still lying asleep in her bed.

Susannah gave a sigh of relief. That was something, anyway The last thing she needed right now was to have to deal with Peter’s early-morning grumpiness. He was gorgeous, and she adored him, but there were times you had to tiptoe around his ego. He was, typically, disgustingly, arrogantly male.

Well, no Mr. Matthew Romano, he of the smug smiles and the decorative blondes, he was typically male. Peter, on the other hand, could be a sweetheart when he wanted to. And he understood that her life could not revolve around him. He didn’t complain if she worked late or expect her to put her career on hold so she could be there to take care of his needs.

“It’s because he doesn’t really love you, Suze,” Claire had said more than once.

But he did, in his own way. He put what he could into the relationship, which was undoubtedly more than could be said of someone like Matthew Romano....

What on earth was wrong with her this morning? Why was she wasting precious time thinking about a man she’d never even met?

“Ridiculous,” she said.

Ridiculous, indeed. There was absolutely no reason for the insufferable Mr. Romano to wander through her thoughts, but this was the second or third time it had happened since she’d seen him on the Cape. Actually, it had been equally ridiculous for her to have taken such an instant dislike to him It was just the way he’d strutted along with the blonde on his arm and that smug, I-am-the-world’s-gift-to-womankind smile on his face.

Positively insufferable.

She’d never even have noticed him if she hadn’t been thinking about CHIC and about publishing. There was Ted Turner, who everybody knew was brilliant and who looked like a nice guy, and then, by contrast, there was Matthew Romano, who’d probably never done anything more difficult in his life than play with his money and his groupies, looking as if he figured every woman on the planet wanted his body

Not that it was a bad-looking body.

Susannah frowned and plucked her watch from the dresser. By now, it should be just about a quarter after six....

Oh God.

Her stomach tumbled to her toes.

Mickey Mouse grinned at her, one white-gloved, fourfingered hand pointing at the number four, and the other...

The other pointed straight at seven.

She tossed the bath towel across the room. It soared through the air and onto the bed, landing, with a dreadful accuracy, on Peter’s head.

“No,” she whispered, but it was too late. Peter came awake in a flash, bristling with anger. He shot to his feet and glared at her through cold green eyes. “Peter Oh, Petey, sweetheart, I didn’t mean. ”

Whether she’d meant it or not didn’t matter Peter didn’t believe in apologies. He never had, not since the day he’d come into her life. She watched as he turned his back on her and stalked from the room.

“Do your thing, Peter,” she muttered. “I couldn’t care less. I’ve got more important things to worry about this morning than you and your attitude.”

Peter muttered something out in the hall, but Susannah paid no attention. She was going to be late. Later than late, and on this, the first day of the rest of her life.

Well, it was.

She was holding the very first meeting she’d ever called at CHIC, the first she’d oversee as its editor-in-chief. That was the good news. The bad was that the meeting might be her last, unless this morning’s brainstorming session ended in some wild and wonderful idea that would make the brass from Update Publications decide their latest acquisition was worth keeping alive Otherwise, CHIC and the biggest chance she’d ever had in her career, along with all the magazine’s staffers, were going to be flushed out to sea.

Susannah threw another harried glance at her watch as she pulled on her jeans.

Seven twenty-four. If she got out of here in the next ten minutes—make that eight minutes—she had a chance. All she had to do was put on a shirt, her sneakers, find the notes she’d worked on all weekend, dump them into her handbag...

Peter yelled.

All she had to do was finish dressing, get her stuff together, give Peter his breakfast, and she’d be on her way.

She yanked a Beethoven’s Got the Beat T-shirt over her head. Droplets of water flew from her short black curls. She shrugged impatiently and tunneled her fingers through her hair. Forget about the luxury of blow-drying. Forget about toast, or even coffee. Forget about everything but the meeting. Assuming the subway trains weren’t running late, assuming the construction mess around Third Avenue had been cleaned up, assuming all was right with the world, maybe, maybe, she could make it into the office on time.

She had to.

On Friday, she’d laid down the rules for today’s conference. She’d done it not by E-mail or interoffice memo—it was too important for that. Instead, she’d told her secretary to phone each person in the CHIC organization, from Eddie the mail-room boy...

“Eddie, the mail-room intern,” Pam had said, raising her eyebrows.

“I don’t care if he’s Eddie, the mail-room CEO,” Susannah had answered. “Just make sure he and everybody else knows I want them assembled in the boardroom today at ten minutes to five.”

They’d straggled in, which she’d expected. CHIC was casual when it came to dress, something that was pretty common in the publishing world, but now, thanks to the revolving-door editor-in-chief policy, some of the staff had an attitude of indifference that verged on apathy. Her staffers had crowded into the room with their containers of coffee, their cans of diet cola, and once they were all there, Susannah held up her hands for quiet.

“Here’s the deal,” she’d said briskly. “It’s just a matter of time before this Update outfit decides to take a closer look at us. When they do, we’d better be ready to dazzle ’em with facts and figures and plans for the future so they leave thinking that CHIC is an eagle, ready to fly—instead of a dying swan that needs to be shot to put it out of its misery.”

“I don’t think they do that to swans,” the features editorial assistant had said, but she was shushed to silence

“I want you all to go home and think about what we need to do to kick start this magazine into the twenty-first century,” Susannah had continued. “And then I want you to show up here Monday morning, ready with innovative projects that will work, not just ideas that are impractical and expensive. And I want you all here promptly at eight.”

There were grumbles and protests, but Susannah had stood firm.

“Look at it this way, people,” she’d said. “If we’re not ready with an A-number-one plan when Update comes in, we might as well figure on convening our next meeting at the unemployment office.”

That had stopped the protests. CHIC’s staffers had filed out of the boardroom looking unhappy but determined.

“Eight sharp,” Claire had said, and Susannah had nodded.

“Exactly,” she’d replied.

The big hand on the twelve. The little hand on the eight. Eight exactly. Not eight oh-five, or eight-ten. Eight.

Susannah puffed out her breath. There was nothing like setting a good example for the troops.

Okay. Zip up the jeans. Fluff up the hair one more time so maybe it wouldn’t dry plastered to her head. Pull on socks, tuck feet into sneakers, tie laces...

Tear lace on right sneaker in half.

Easy. She had to stay calm. There had to be another pair of laces somewhere in the room In the dresser drawers. In the closet...

There wasn’t. Susannah said a word that would have made her grandmother blush. She grabbed two safety pins from the top drawer, hooked them through the eyelets on the sneaker, linked them together and closed them.

Then she stood and looked in the mirror.

Oh, boy.

No makeup. A hairdo that would have brought tears to the eyes of her hairdresser. A T-shirt that had a bleach spot on the sleeve and jeans that had really seen better days.

There was no sense even thinking about the safety pins and the sneaker.

Nevertheless, she was ready, and wasn’t it a good thing that CHIC was so casual, because if she’d had to put on panty hose and iron a blouse, pick out a suit, buff a pair of pumps, put on makeup and jewelry and fix her hair, it would be noon before she got herself out the door.

As it was, Mickey was already pointing his white-gloved hand at...

Oh, hell.

Susannah raced from the bedroom and nearly collided with Peter, who was waiting for her in the middle of the hall. He opened his mouth, but she didn’t give him the chance to say anything.

“I know, I know. You’re starved. You’re famished. And you’re incapable of doing a thing about it without my help.”

Peter sat down, his green eyes fixed on her as she banged open the cabinet over the stove.

“Sardine Soufflé,” she said. “How’s that sound?”

Peter yawned.

“Salmon Surprise? Bacon Bordelaise? Mmm, mmm, good.”

Peter scratched his ribs.

“Tuna,” Susannah said through her teeth. “You love tuna, Petey. You know you do.”

Peter looked toward the window. Susannah could have sworn she heard him whistling.

“All right,” she said grimly. “You win. Lobster and Shrimp Ragout, and you’d better remember this moment, Peter, because now you owe me one.”

Peter turned and looked at her “Meowr,” he said in the sweetest voice any Persian pussycat had ever possessed. He jumped gracefully onto the counter and butted his furry head against Susannah’s chin.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Susannah said wearily, but she smiled and kissed him right between his silky ears

Whatever else happened today, at least she had Peter to come home to.

The view from Matthew Romano’s suite in the new and elegant Manhattan Towers Hotel was, the concierge had assured him on checking in, spectacular.

“Spe-tac-u-lair, Monsieur Romano,” was actually what the guy had said, in a gurgling French accent Matthew suspected to be about as legitimate as the Rolex watches hawked on the sidewalk a couple of streets over, but Matthew had nodded politely and said he was delighted to hear it.

The truth was, he didn’t much care about the view. A man who’d built what the experts had taken to calling an empire in less than ten years was a man who spent a lot of time in hotel rooms. The rooms had improved as the Romano holdings had grown, but a hotel was still a hotel. Spe-tac-u-lair views, chilled Dom Pérignon, baskets of flowers and gold-plated bathroom fixtures couldn’t change that one whit

Whatever a whit might be, Matthew thought, as he stood gazing out the window of his sitting room. It was still early, just a little past seven, but traffic already clogged Fifth Avenue Back home in San Francisco, most people would still be asleep...most people, but not the ones who earned their living from the sea.

There were times he was still amazed that he wasn’t one of them. It was an honest way to make a buck but, even as a boy, he’d always suspected there was more to life. He hadn’t wanted to begin his day while the rest of San Francisco slept or to pull on clothes that smelled of crabs and fish and sweat no matter how many times you washed them And he sure as hell hadn’t wanted to work his butt off for barely enough money to pay the bills

It was what his father had done, and his grandfather. It was what he’d been expected to do, too.

The smile vanished. Matthew straightened, thrust his fingers through his dark hair and turned his back to the window and to the memories.

All that was years behind him. He worked his butt off, yes, but he loved every minute of what he did. Someday, maybe, he’d want more. A wife. A family.

But not yet.

When he was ready, he’d find himself a wife. He knew exactly the kind of woman she’d be. Beautiful, of course, and serene. Eager to please. He could see himself coming home to her at night, kissing her, leaving behind the rough-and-tumble of business as he settled into his easy chair.

His wife would be a calm haven in the stormy seas he sailed.

He’d said as much once, to his grandmother. Nonna had rolled her eyes and reminded him that even though he towered over her now, that wouldn’t stop her from whacking him across the backside if he needed it. A calm haven? Mama mia, what was he? A rowboat? Such a woman would bore him to tears in a month.

“A woman who can stand up to your Sicilian temper is what you need,” Nonna had said.

Matthew grinned at the memory. His Nonna was right about most things, but she was wrong about this. Who knew what kind of woman he needed better than the man himself?

“And you’re never going to meet the right woman if you don’t look for her,” Nonna had added, stamping her cane on the floor for good measure.

Well, he was looking. Slowly, maybe, but still, he was looking.

Matthew whistled as he strolled into the marble bathroom and turned on the shower.

Why rush something so pleasurable?

He shucked the boxer briefs he’d slept in, stepped into the stall, pressed his palms flat against the wall and bent his head. The water felt good, beating down on his neck and shoulders, and gave him time to think about the morning’s agenda.

He smiled thinly. And what an agenda it was.

He was really looking forward to his meeting with the definitely snide and probably incompetent Susan Something-or-other. Madison? Washington? Coolidge? A President’s name. Not that it mattered. Once it was on a severance check, Susan Whatever and her clever office memos would be history.

What sort of woman wrote stuff like that about a man she didn’t even know? What sort of woman played games with one man and sent love and kisses to another?

A woman who thought the sexual revolution meant she could have the best of both worlds. Susan Hoover figured she could make the kinds of cracks about men that she’d undoubtedly condemned men for making about women, but she saw nothing wrong with insisting on gender neutrality when the situation suited her.

Matthew shut off the shower and reached for a towel. Oh, yeah. He had this broad figured out right down to the dotted line.

He strode into the bedroom and put on a pair of white briefs and navy socks. Then he opened the wall-to-wall mirrored closet and reached for a pale blue shirt.

The woman had made the most incredibly sexist comments about him, then done a one-eighty and blithely assumed she’d been passed over for promotion because she was female. And that was wrong. Dead wrong. Matthew had done a little research into CHIC It had given him everything the company had about her, and from what he could see, Susan Whatever was about as qualified to head a magazine as she was to write material for a stand-up comic.

Which was why she had to go.

His eyes narrowed as he zipped the fly of his customtailored gray trousers and slipped on the matching jacket.

His decision had nothing to do with the stuff she’d said about him, that the women he dated were dumb or for calling him studly and brainless. Or for saying he figured he was the sexiest man alive.

He wasn’t a vindictive man. It didn’t mean a thing to him that half his team had read the woman’s comments, that he’d heard the choked-back laughter at the next couple of meetings, that even now somebody on his staff would look at him and bite back a grin.

“It doesn’t bother me in the slightest,” Matthew said briskly to his reflection.

He snatched up his black leather briefcase, marched to the door, opened it and stepped into the hotel corridor.

“Damned right, it doesn’t,” he muttered, and slammed the door after him, so hard that it rattled.

CHAPTER TWO

IN HER college days, before Susannah had centered her studies on English lit, she’d taken a very popular philosophy course.

Professor Wheeler had made the round of all the talk shows with his theory of how to achieve happiness. Your successes and failures in life, he said, were dependent upon unwritten rules. Not the rules of physics, he’d add, with a condescending little smile, the ones that kept the earth from flying off into the sun or the polar ice caps from draining into the seas. The rules he referred to were very personal. Once you identified them, you could go through life secure in the knowledge that you had a Direction and a Purpose.

The best part was that you didn’t have to wait, like Isaac Newton, and get conked on the head by an apple to discover them. Your Very Own Rules, according to Professor Wheeler, found you.

Six years had passed since then, and some of Susannah’s personal rules had, indeed, discovered her. Unfortunately, as far as she could see, they had nothing to do with either Direction or Purpose—unless she planned to star in a lowbudget sitcom.

Rule number one. White silk dresses worn to Italian restaurants meant the lasagna would fall into your lap. Rule number two. PMS was not an advertising gimmick dreamed up by Madison Avenue. Rule number three. Fat-free ice cream was.

Now, on a clear, chilly fall morning, she’d found not one more rule to add to her list but two.

Never trust an alarm clock on a day that could change your life.

Nobody but Superman could get from Greenwich Village to midtown Manhattan in less than twenty minutes during rush hour.

Sandwiched between an oversize woman who must have breakfasted on Garlic Krispies and a man who defended his eight inches of personal space with elbows that should have been classified as lethal weapons, Susannah rode the subway toward her destination

Sardines had it better than this.

The train, packed with humanity, rumbled, rolled and rocked from side to side. Metal wheels screeched against the tracks. It was the ride from hell, but her fellow travelers, New York stoics all, showed no reaction. Susannah didn’t, either. What was the point? She was trapped, she was late, she was going to make an entrance into the staff-filled boardroom with all the aplomb of a runaway tram.

Susannah winced. Talk about bad images. Still, it was accurate. Why hadn’t she planned the morning better? She should have set a backup alarm. She should have had extra shoelaces tucked away in the drawer. Forget the shoelaces. She had to set the standards now. She should have appeared at this meeting dressed in something that would have impressed everybody with her control and confidence.

If only she had a clever plan to toss on the table, maybe—just maybe—she could redeem herself. She’d spent the weekend on statistics. Why hadn’t she spent it on ideas?

The train jolted to a halt. Susannah glanced out the window. The next station was hers. Her heart thumped. One more stop, then a four-block walk, and she’d be there.

“I need an idea,” she whispered. “Just one idea.”

“You need a head doctor,” the fat woman said indignantly, through waves of garlic-scented breath.

Susannah nodded mournfully “Maybe so,” she said.

The train hurtled into the station. She fought her way to the door, across the platform and up the crowded stairs.

Out on the street, she began to run.

The taxi carrying Matthew Romano pulled to the curb outside the building that housed the CHIC offices.

Matthew paid the driver, collected his black leather briefcase from the seat beside him and stepped from the cab. A surprisingly cool wind sliced down the concrete canyon, and he turned up the collar of his raincoat as he took his first look at the CHIC building.

It was old, for New York. Matthew figured it dated back to the thirties, when Art Deco was all the rage. Grime coated the exterior and dulled the bronze doors, but he could still see the building’s handsome lines beneath the dirt He’d expected as much, considering that some of the brightest names in publishing had once been on the Elerbee Publications roster.

Matthew strode through the lobby to the elevators. He’d already decided to keep CHIC’s office space after he disposed of the magazine, but now he thought it might be worthwhile to check into the building itself. Elerbee owned it, didn’t he?

Matthew reached into the inside breast pocket of his suit, took out a computerized recorder the size of a credit card and brought it to his lips.

“CHIC building,” he said quietly. “Possible purchase?” The elevator doors whisked open. Matthew put the recorder into his pocket and stepped into the car.

After this morning, CHIC was finished. His accountants would breathe a deep sigh of relief. Normally, he’d have put the magazine out of its misery as quickly and humanely as possible, but Susan Lincoln had made that impossible.

Not that he was vindictive, Matthew reminded himself as the elevator doors shut.

Not in the slightest.

Susannah came pounding around the corner.

The office was just ahead. She was in the home stretch. A minute to the lobby, another in the elevator...five minutes, max, she’d be at her desk. And then all she’d need was another few seconds to make a quick note about the absolutely incredible idea she’d come up with as she raced down the street from the subway.

She really had to start carrying a notebook. Or one of those little recorders.

But not today.

Susannah darted into the lobby and pounded the elevator call button. Her reflection stared at her from the bronze doors, and she shuddered.

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, middleaged 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 jellycovered 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 morning. 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.”

“A retraction?”

She nodded. She had him now. Oh, the confused look or his handsome—if you liked the type—face! “It will be my pleasure to tell the world that I was wrong. You are most definitely not studly.” She eyed him up and down. “I don’t think you could turn a real woman on if you tried.”

His face went white, and something that sounded suspiciously like a growl broke from his throat. Warning sirens shrieked in Susannah’s head, but she wasn’t about to stop.

“But I’ll stand behind everything else I said about you You’re an arrogant SOB, and now that we’ve met, I understand your propensity for blondes. Dumb ones, I mean. Let’s face it, Mr. Romano. They’re the only ones who’d put up with your overinflated ego.”

That last sound had definitely been a growl. He was moving, heading toward her, with a glint in his eye that was truly terrifying.

Susannah picked up speed. It wasn’t easy, making for the door while going backward, especially since she’d left one sneaker behind, but she kept going until she figured she hac only to reach back to touch the doorknob.

“As for this job, and your magazine, you know what you can do with them, Mr. Romano. Oh, by the way, my surname isn’t Clinton. It’s Madison, as in James Madison, the fourth president of the United States—if that’s not too much for you to remember When you write out my severance check please make it out properly, to Madison. Susannah Madison Capital M, a, d, i, s, o, n.”

She laughed. She couldn’t help it. Studliness had given way to fury, and the sight warmed her heart.

“Goodbye, Mr. Romano. Have a nice—Whoa!”

Susannah’s bare foot went down on something soft and slippery. In the blink of an eye, she was airborne.

CHAPTER THREE

IT ALL seemed to happen in slow motion.

The woman with one sneaker. The jelly doughnut on th floor—

The pratfall.

Matthew leaped into action, coming up behind her, catchin her in midair before she could hit the floor.

There hadn’t seemed to be much to her, as far as he’d bee able to see She was small and skinny, not curvy the way woman ought to be. But she was a full armload. Her weight as she fell against him, had enough force to knock the breat out of them both.

“Ooof,” he gasped, as his arms closed around her

He lurched, staggered, tripped over his own feet. Susanna gave a thin shriek. She turned, and her arms closed around hi neck, and whatever air he might have drawn in to replace what he’d exhaled never made it to his lungs.

What could a man who is being choked to death say to th woman who was choking him?

“Aagh,” Matthew said, backpedaling wildly.

Overbalancing, they skated in reverse, smashed into the table, careened off a cabinet and fell into the unforgiving em- brace of the high-backed armchair Matthew had been sittin in before Susannah Madison had come marching through th door.

The chair groaned, flew backward and glanced off the table A lamp went down with a crash, followed by the telephone which made a sad, tinkling sound as it hit the floor.

And then, mercifully, there was silence

But just for a second.

Somebody pounded on the closed boardroom door.

“Suze?” Claire’s voice was shrill. “Suze, are you okay?”

Matthew dragged one of Susannah’s arms from aroun his neck.

“She’s fine,” he called.

Susannah glared at him. “I’m not—”

He clamped a hand over her mouth

“You want them to see this mess?” he hissed, his mouth at her ear “Do you have an explanation that’s going to keep everybody out there from figuring we just slugged it out?”

Susannah threw a wild look around the room. Papers were strewn across the floor The heavy conference table stood at an angle to the wall. The lamp had shattered, and the telephone was emitting a pathetic bleep. And on top of all that, here she was, sitting cozily in Matthew Romano’s lap.

She wrapped her hand around his and lifted it from her mouth.

“Everything’s fine, Claire,” she called. “Just fine.”

“You sure?”

“Positive ” Positive? The room looked as if an inmate had rearranged the furniture in the asylum. For a second, Susannah wanted to burst out laughing.

“Mr. Romano, ah, Mr. Romano had a little accident, that’s all.”

“Mr. Romano had an accident?” Matthew whispered indignantly

A tremor raced along her skin as his breath tickled her ear

“He, um, he backed into the table. And, uh, some stuff fell down.”

There was silence. Susannah could imagine the way Claire and the rest would be looking at each other.

“Okay,” Claire said finally, “but if you want me, I’ll be right in my office.”

Susannah nodded. “Yeah,” she muttered, “great.”

Footsteps tapped down the hall. She waited a moment and then cleared her throat

“You can let me up now, Mr. Romano.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine”

“What’s with the martyred tone of voice, Madison? This mess wasn’t my idea, you know.”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t mine!”

“No. That’s true enough. Attempting a crash landing on your butt was definitely your idea.”

Susannah glared at Matthew, and he glared back Oh, hell, she thought. He was right. If he hadn’t managed to grab her, to break her fall...

“I suppose there’s some validity to that,” she said stiffly.

“Is that supposed to be a thank-you?”

Susannah blew out a breath. A dark curl lifted on her forehead.

“Very well. Thank you.”

Matthew grinned. She’d said the words as if he were an executioner who’d just offered to cut off her head with a newly sharpened blade instead of a dull one.

“You see? It didn’t hurt, did it?”

“Don’t push it, Mr. Romano,” she said, fixing him with a cold eye. “You got your thank-you. Leave it at that. I don’t suppose you’d believe I’m not usually so clumsy.”

“Actually, Miss Madison, you stepped on something.”

Susannah shifted her weight and looked at him. Not a good idea, Matthew thought. Shifting like that, while she was sitting in his lap. Whatever had made him think she was skinny? She wasn’t an armful, he had to admit, but skinny? Not with those firm breasts brushing against his chest. Not with that nicely rounded little bottom against his thighs.

“Stepped on what?” she said.

Matthew frowned, cleared his throat and dragged his mind back to the conversation.

“A jelly doughnut.”

Susannah’s brows shot skyward. “A jelly—” Delicate waves of pink surged into her cheeks. “Oh, damn.”

“Yup. You might say that you really put your foot into it this time.”

He knew the image would be forever etched into his memory. Susannah, figuring she’d leveled him with a barrage of words, making for the door with a clever exit in mind until one sneakerless foot came down on the doughnut and she executed a takeoff that could have only been improved by a guy with a big red nose and a clown suit.

Matthew couldn’t help it. He snorted. Big mistake. He knew it instantly, but it was too late.

Susannah’s eyes dashed.

“You find this amusing, Mr. Romano?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “no, certainly not. It’s just...”

Oh, hell. He couldn’t help it. He snorted again.

Her face flamed. “I was right,” she said, slamming her hand against his chest. “You really are a horrible human being! I almost broke my neck, and you sit there laughing?”

“I’m not Laughing at you, I mean. It’s just that—”

“It was all your fault, anyway. I’d never have slipped if you hadn’t come after me.”

“Now, wait just a minute, Miss Madison. I did not—”

“You did I should have expected it. I mean, a man like you would never let anybody get away with one-upping him.”

Matthew jerked back “What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” Susannah said coldly. “I showed you up for the rat you are, and you couldn’t handle it. So you—you came stalking after me.”

“I what?”

“Who knew what you were going to do? No wonder I tried to get away. No wonder I tripped and fell. No wonder—”

“Either you’re a world-class har, Miss Madison—”

“I never lie, Mr. Romano!”

“Or you’ve got an imagination big enough to fill this room!”

“Are you trying to deny that you came after me a few minutes ago?”

Matthew glared at her. “Are you trying to deny that you insulted me?”

“I just told you the truth.”

“You insulted me, Miss Madison. And you challenged my manhood.”

Susannah blinked. “Excuse me?”

“All that garbage about me not being able to turn a real woman on and dumb blondes being the only ones who’d go out with me—”

“Not all blondes are dumb, of course,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I guess that limits your field.”

Matthew’s eyes narrowed. “Doesn’t it bother you to condemn the members of your own sex that way?”

“Why should it? I’m not a card-carryng feminist. I believe in equal opportunity for women, but I don’t believe all women are equal. If there are lowbrow idiots out there who can be turned on by a man with a lot of money and a little bit of looks—a very little bit—so be it.”

“So, I’m incapable of turning a woman on?”

“If she doesn’t owe points on an intelligence scale? Damned right, Mr. Romano!”

“Would it surprise you to know that the woman I’m currently seeing is an attorney?”

Susannah laughed. Dammit, he didn’t blame her. What was he going to do? Trot out the pedigree of every female in his past?

“I suppose,” he said coldly, “your IQ is high enough so that you consider yourself immune to—how did you put it? A man with a whole lot of money and a little bit of good looks.”

“Definitely.”

“That, then, is why you don’t find me...” He smiled nastily. “What was your phrase, Miss Madison? Ah, yes. Studly.”

Pink color swept into her cheeks. What kind of conversation was this? And why were they having it with her seated in Matthew Romano’s lap?

In his lap? Good grief! What she doing still sitting, in his arms?

Susannah pulled back.

“Let me up, please.”

“Does Peter have a whole lot of money and a little bit of good looks?”

“What?”

What, indeed? Why had he asked her about Peter? The men in Susannah Madison’s life were none of his business.

“What do you know about Peter?” she demanded. “Have you been spying on my private life, too?”

“The next time you send hugs and kisses to the man in your life, don’t do it via office E-mail.”

“That’s it,” Susannah said with quiet fury. “Let me up,!”

It was, Matthew knew, a logical request. There was no reason to keep her here, with her spiky hair inches from his nose. He leaned closer and sniffed. Her hair smelled faintly of flowers. And it only looked spiky. When his nose brushed against it, it felt silky. And soft.

“If you don’t let me up, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” He chuckled. “Yell? Scream? Call for your colleagues to break down the door and see their boss cozily occupying the lap of the studly enemy?”

Lord, oh, lord, why had she ever called him that?

“I am not cozily occupying your lap,” she said, with great dignity. “And I’ve already told you, you are not—”

“Studly?” Matthew said, and laughed.

The laugh, sly and low in his throat, did it. Susannah punched her fist into his shoulder.

“Let go,” she said furiously. “And tell me what’s so damned funny!”

“You, Miss Madison. You seem to think you can waltz through life saying whatever you like about people without ever having to pay the price.”

“If you mean that I speak my mind—”

“I mean exactly what I said. You’ve made some unpleasant accusations about me.”

“Let go,” Susannah panted, as she struggled to free herself from his arms.

Romano held her tighter.

“Unpleasant, and unwarranted. And I resent it.”

“Too bad.”

Matthew shifted his weight in the chair. The sudden movement tipped Susannah forward. Without thinking, she threw both arms around his neck to recapture her balance.

“Do you happen to know your IQ, Miss Madison?”

Susannah looked at Matthew Romano. His face was inches from hers, the cool blue eyes bottomless. She could see a tiny scar feathering out from beneath one eyebrow. Did it have something to do with that little jog in his nose? Somehow or other, despite the expensive suit, the faint but elegant cologne, the trappings of wealth that clung to this man, she had no difficulty picturing him getting his nose broken or his forehead cut. There was something intensely masculine about Matthew Romano, something that could surely make female hearts flutter.

Close up, he wasn’t quite the empty suit she’d imagined.

Actually, there was nothing empty about this suit, nothing at all. The arms that held her were powerful. The chest she leaned against was muscular, as were the thighs that cradled her bottom.

Susannah flushed.

All right. Perhaps there were things about him some women might find attractive. Some Not her.

“Doing an assessment?” he asked softly.

Susannah blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Matthew’s smile tilted “You seemed to be taking inventory, Miss Madison. I wonder—do I come up to par?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said coldly.

He laughed, and settled his arms more comfortably around her. “Let’s return to my question, shall we? Do you know your IQ?”

“I don’t see what my IQ has to do with anything, Mr. Romano.”

“Humor me.”

Susannah folded her arms. “Take two of your female friends, add them together and tack on half of one more, and you’re getting close.”

Matthew grinned. “That’s perfect.”

“I’ve always thought so.”

“It’s excellent.”

“I’m delighted you approve, but I fail to see what my IQ has to do with anything,”

“It’s quite simple, Miss Madison.” Matthew shifted her so that she was facing him. “I’m going to prove that you’re wrong, and I want to be sure to do it by a wide enough martin.”

“What?” Susannah said.

It was all she had time to say, because less than a heartbeat later, Matthew Romano’s mouth closed over hers.

His lips were firm and warm. They settled over hers with an authority that, for a second, anyway, stunned her into immobility.

But it didn’t last.

He knew the instant reality hit. She went from shocked compliance to horrified rigidity m his arms. Next, she’d begin to struggle. Except he wouldn’t let things go that far.

Matthew wasn’t a man who got pleasure from overpowering women. Pleasure, especially sexual pleasure, came from giving as well as receiving. He liked to feel a woman’s heartbeat quicken, to have her sigh his name and turn to warm honey in his arms. And he certainly didn’t enjoy making love to a woman he found unattractive, in spirit as well as body.

As soon as Susannah Madison began fighting him, he would let her go. All this was about, all he wanted, was to show her for the sharp-tongued witch she was.

She couldn’t claw his male dignity to shreds and get away with it.

It was a fine idea. Unfortunately, there were factors he’d failed to take into consideration.

The softness of Susannah’s mouth.

The scent of her skin.

The race of her heart.

The feel of her in his arms.

He’d expected to be kissing a sour old maid. But he found himself kissing a dream instead.

She began to struggle. It was time to let her go.

But he didn’t want to

He wanted to stroke her hair. To slip his tongue into her mouth. To shape her body with his hands and taste all its sweet, hidden places.

“Susannah,” he whispered against her lips “Susannah.”

He sank his hands into her hair, fit his mouth more carefully over hers and softened the kiss. And all at once she wasn’t fighting him She was kissing him back.

She was kissing him, this man who’d just forced his kiss upon her, this man she’d despised on sight. She was kissing him, and loving it.

The taste of him.

The feel.

The incredible hardness of his body.

The shocking tenderness of his mouth.

What am I doing? Susannah asked herself. And then she gave up thinking and tumbled into the magic of the kiss.

She’d never known a kiss could be like this, that her heart could hammer in her throat just at the feel of a man’s lips on hers The sensation was beyond comprehension. She felt as if she were slipping away from herself, and it was wonderful. Nothing existed but the moment and Matthew.

He moved so that she was lying fully against him. When he did, she lifted her arms and wound them around his neck. There was a thudding sound somewhere m the distance. Was it the sound of her heart?

Was somebody calling her name?

Was a voice saying, “Suze?”

It wasn’t Matthew. He hadn’t seemed to know her name a little while ago. Now he was holding her, kissing her, whispering “Susannah,” over and over against her lips.

“Matthew,” she sighed.

He groaned, bent his head, gently nipped her throat.

She dug her fingers into his hair. Desire shot through her. She felt reckless and bold.

He was silk and steel, fire and ice. And she was burning.

His hand swept up, cupped her breast. She arched against the caress, riding the sensation of his touch. Her breath caught in an ecstatic sob as he shoved up her sweatshirt and stroked his fingertips over the satin of her flesh. She cried out and ground her bottom against the hardness of him.

He rose, holding her. His embrace was powerful. She felt fragile, eager, filled with need for him. She clung to him, her hands locked behind his head, her mouth opening to his hot, hungry kisses. Papers, books, pencils flew from the conference table as he lay her down upon it.

“Susannah,” he said fiercely.

She looked at him. His eyes were hot and dark with desire.

A shudder raced through her. She knew that what was going to happen between them would change her life forever, would make any other lover impossible.

“Yes,” she said, raising her arms to him, “yes. yes...”

The door swung open, hitting the wall like a clap of thunder rolling over the canyons of the city. “Oh, my God! Susannah!”

Susannah almost fell off the table.

She sat up. Matthew stepped back. Both of them stared at the open door, where Claire and Eddie and Judy and, Susannah thought desperately, what looked like a million other CHIC staffers stood crowded together in stunned silence. It was like staring into a sea of disbelief. Mouths hung open. Eyes grew round as saucers. Heads swiveled, as if this were a tennis match, while everyone looked from Susannah to Matthew, from Matthew to Susannah...

Susannah’s stomach clenched as the enormity of what had happened—what had almost happened—began seeping in. She’d almost—she and Matthew Romano had almost—they had come very close to—

And, as if that weren’t awful enough, everybody at CHIC knew it. And she would have to live with that forever.

“Suze?”

Susannah shut her eyes, then blinked them open. Claire was staring at her as if she were a stranger. Why wouldn’t she? She knew how she must look. Her disheveled clothes. Her hot face. Her kiss-swollen lips.

“Claire,” she said. Her voice sounded rusty, and she cleared her throat and began again. “I know how this must look, but—”

But? But what? But the man standing beside me, the one I swear to you I absolutely, positively, wholeheartedly abhor, hate and despise, kissed me, simply kissed me, and I went crazy?

“Claire.” Susannah lifted her hands in a gesture of defeat. “I know what you want to hear. But—but really, I can’t—I just can’t explain why—why—”

“Of course she can’t,” Matthew Romano said.

Authority resonated in his deep voice. Every eye swiveled in his direction, Susannah’s included. He looked perfectly at ease and in control of the situation. Not even his tie was askew.

“Can’t what?” Claire asked suspiciously.

Good question, Susannah thought, and waited for the detestable Mr Romano to field it. He did, along with a smile that oozed concern.

“She can’t explain why she fainted, Miss...?”

“Haines,” Claire said, and looked even more suspiciously at Susannah. “You fainted?”

Susannah licked her lips. “Ah... Yes. Yes, that’s right. I fainted.”

Claire’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

“Why?” Susannah asked stupidly, and Claire nodded.

“That’s what I said, Suze. Why’d you faint? People don’t simply keel over for no reason at all ”

Susannah looked at Matthew. You’re the one with the answers, her eyes said, so go ahead. Come up with a good one.

“It was the shock,” Romano said smoothly, and offered her his hand. “Miss Madison? Are you feeling well enough to stand?”

“Thank you.” Her tone was as polite as his. “I don’t need any help.”

But she did. Her legs weren’t as steady as her voice. She rocked on her heels when she slid from the table, and he slipped a gentlemanly arm around her shoulders.

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