THE FIFTH AVENUE SERIES

July 2014
August 2014

September 2014

Praise for KATE HEWITT

‘Hewitt’s couple shines in her intensely emotional tale, spiced with shamelessly funny dialogue and sensual, explosive love scenes.’

—RT Book Reviews on His Brand of Passion

‘Hewitt’s heart-wrenching Corretti drama is an all-encompassing second-chance romance … it’s pure magic. With breathtaking landscapes, over-the-top luxury and ultra-sensual and emotional lovemaking, this is a love story not to be missed.’

—RT Book Reviews on An Inheritance of Shame

‘Hewitt’s excellent second-chance romance will thrill readers with its angst-filled dialogue, incredible characters and exquisite love scenes.’

—RT Book Reviews on The Husband She Never Knew

‘Hewitt gives romance addicts everything they need for a fix, including … memorable characters and a timeless romance set on a picturesque island.’

—RT Book Reviews on Santina’s Scandalous Princess

‘Hewitt’s romance is touchingly haunting and her realistic characters will humble readers with their acts of forgiveness and love in the face of loss.’

—RT Book Reviews on The Darkest of Secrets

KATE HEWITT discovered her first Mills & Boon® romance novel on a trip to England when she was thirteen and she’s continued to read them ever since. She wrote her first story at the age of five, simply because her older brother had written one and she thought she could do it, too. That story was one sentence long—fortunately, they’ve become a bit more detailed as she’s grown older.

She studied drama in college and shortly after graduation moved to New York City to pursue a career in theatre. This was derailed by something far better—meeting the man of her dreams, who happened also to be her older brother’s childhood friend. Ten days after their wedding they moved to England, where Kate worked a variety of different jobs—drama teacher, editorial assistant, youth worker, secretary and, finally, mother.

When her oldest daughter was one year old, Kate sold her first short story to a magazine. Since then she has sold many stories and serials, but writing romance remains her first love—of course!

Besides writing, she enjoys reading, travelling and learning to knit—it’s an ongoing process and she’s made a lot of scarves. After living in England for six years, she now resides in Connecticut with her husband, her three young children and, possibly one day, a dog.

Kate loves to hear from readers. You can contact her through her website, www.kate-hewitt.com.

Expose Me

Fifth Avenue

Kate Hewitt

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Cover

Praise for Kate Hewitt

About the Author

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Copyright

Chapter One

Alex Diaz leaned forward in his seat as the limo pulled to the curb of Seventy-Second Street and West End Avenue. The luxury high-rise building was all soaring modernity and tinted glass, and exactly the sort of place he’d expect Chelsea Maxwell to live in.

His lips curved in an ice-cold smile of anticipation as he pressed the intercom to speak to the driver. “Just wait a few minutes, please.”

“Very good, sir.”

His gaze flicked to his watch and he brushed a near-invisible speck of lint from the crisp sleeve of his tuxedo. Seven twenty-five. The party started in five minutes, but naturally Chelsea Maxwell would be fashionably late.

As would he, since he intended on giving her a lift.

Outside the lights of Manhattan gleamed in a wintry darkness and people hurried past on West End Avenue’s wide pavements, heads bent against the cutting wind that funneled down the street. It was early February and New York was caught in a stranglehold of cold unrelieved by the softness of any snow.

The weather, bitter and relentless, suited Alex perfectly.

Tonight was the beginning of his personal revenge on Jason Treffen, much anticipated and long overdue. They said revenge was a dish best served cold and if so Jason was going to enjoy every icy mouthful.

And for that he needed Chelsea Maxwell. Or at least her television show.

Seven twenty-seven. Had she decided to skip the party? He let out his breath in an impatient hiss. Tonight’s party was a birthday bash for Chelsea’s boss Michael Agnello, and if rumor had it, the man with whom she’d slept her way to host of the number one daytime talk show. She had to be going.

Seven twenty-nine. Alex shifted in his seat, suppressing a flare of irritation. Where was she?

Then the tinted glass doors of her building swooshed open, and she stepped out into the freezing night, her body swathed in a long, elegant coat of ivory cashmere. Her chestnut hair was pulled into an elaborate up-do, and diamond chandelier earrings sparkled and swung against her jawbone. Alex saw her gaze flick toward his limo, and then her face tightened in annoyance, and he knew she was irritated that the driver hadn’t come out to open the door for her. She thought his limo was hers when in actuality hers hadn’t arrived.

Because he’d called and canceled it.

His mouth curling in a smile of pure, predatory anticipation, Alex pressed a button to roll down the window. He leaned out, a blast of wintry air ruffling his hair, as Chelsea started toward the limo, all confident, glittering purpose.

“Ms. Maxwell?”

She stopped, eyes narrowing, as he leaned a little more forward so she could see him. “Alex Diaz,” he said, though she had to know who he was. They’d only met at various media events a handful of times, but most people in the industry knew him and in any case, Chelsea Maxwell didn’t seem like someone to forget a face. “Am I right in thinking we’re both headed to the same place?”

“I suppose that depends where you’re heading.” Her voice was low and throaty, attractive yet decidedly cool, and her eyes were still narrowed. Curled up on one of her trademark pink velour sofas on her talk show, Chelsea Maxwell was all wide eyes and husky sweetness. In real life she was harder, sharper, but then Alex supposed you didn’t get where Chelsea Maxwell had by being stupid or soft.

“Michael Agnello’s fortieth birthday party?” he prompted, and she just cocked her head, waited.

Normally he wouldn’t have bothered going to a party such as this one. He had no time or patience for the petty scheming and schmoozing that was the trademark of such industry events. But he’d known Chelsea would be going, and he needed to talk to her. Find out what she knew, what she planned on doing.

To use her, or at least use her show.

He opened the door of the limo just as another gust of icy wind blew Chelsea’s coat around her long, slim legs. “May I offer you a lift?”

She hesitated and Alex waited, adrenaline and impatience rushing through him even though he remained completely still. He hadn’t considered what he would do if she said no. He never thought about failure.

“Thank you,” she finally said, and slid in next to him in the limo. Alex moved over a bit, but her thigh still nudged his and he inhaled the scent of her perfume, something expensive and understated.

He stretched one arm along the back of the seat as the limo pulled away from the curb, and she turned to him, a knowing little smile curving her lips. “So why did you steal my limo?”

He felt a flare of surprise, a glimmer of cool amusement. So she wanted to work a little flirt? Fine. He could play that way, too. He arched an eyebrow, smiled back. “Do I look like someone who would do that?”

She gave him a deliberately thorough once-over, her gaze sweeping him from head to foot and lingering unapologetically on certain places. His body reacted to her assessment, groin tightening, gut plunging. There was, he acknowledged, something incredibly erotic about her confident perusal of him. “I’d say so.”

He shook his head mockingly. “So suspicious.”

“Isn’t everyone in this business?” She dropped the light tone and leveled him with a hard look. “So, why the cloak-and-dagger routine? What do you want?”

He just smiled and arched an eyebrow. “What makes you think I want something?”

“I wasn’t born yesterday, Mr. Diaz.”

“Call me Alex.”

“I’d be delighted to.” Her smile was flirtatious and yet her eyes were cool. Amazing eyes, really. Gray-green fringed with thick, dark lashes. “So, Alex,” she said, her voice dropping into a purr. “I hire a limo for tonight but I find you in one instead, offering me a lift. Coincidence?” She raised her eyebrows, two thin arcs of incredulity, that knowing smile curving her mouth—quite an amazing mouth, too, now that he was looking at it. Full and lush even when her lips had been pursed. “I don’t think so.”

Alex almost smiled, despite the fact that Chelsea Maxwell’s ability to see straight through his paper-thin ploy should have alarmed, or at least annoyed, him. This wasn’t going to be as simple as he thought. Not nearly. Good thing he enjoyed a challenge. And good thing he intended to publicly ruin Jason Treffen no matter what the cost, or who paid. The fact that he could do it on live television just made it all the sweeter.

He shrugged slightly, relaxed back in his seat. “Fair enough. I do want something, Ms. Maxwell.”

She did not, he observed, tell him to call her Chelsea. She just waited, eyes still narrowed, that cool little smile playing about her mouth.

“How long have you been at AMI?” he asked, naming her network.

Surprise flashed so briefly across her features he almost missed it. Chelsea Maxwell was good at hiding her emotions, Alex suspected. Working on TV would do that to you. “Ten years.”

“And you’ve had Chat with Chelsea for—”

“Nearly four.” She cocked her head, one elegant eyebrow still arched. “And you’re asking this because...?”

“I’m interested in your show.”

She didn’t so much as blink. “You don’t seem like the type to watch celebrities spill their guts on afternoon television, but I suppose everyone has their secret vices.”

He laughed softly, enjoying this unexpected repartee. He was used to people sucking up to him, and the respite was surprisingly pleasant. “It’s the number one daytime talk show on any network,” he pointed out, and that lush mouth curved just a little more.

“I know.”

“I’m not interested in your daytime talk show,” Alex said after a second’s pause. He needed to be careful now, needed to consider how much to reveal. How honest to be. He wasn’t about to give Chelsea any more information than necessary—not until he knew what she’d do with it. “I’m interested in the hour-long interview you’re doing with Jason Treffen on prime time in March.”

“Really.” She crossed her legs, the coat slipping open, and he saw the thigh-high slit in her silvery-gray gown, revealing a hell of a lot of slim, tanned leg. His libido stirred again and Alex gave it a hard shove back. He wasn’t about to complicate this with sex. Not unless it served a purpose, anyway.

“Really,” he answered.

She cocked her head, her gaze sweeping over him slowly, in that same thorough assessment that had his groin tightening again. So maybe he did want things to be complicated. Sometimes sex was a means to an end, and with Chelsea it would undoubtedly be an enjoyable one. He wondered what she was like in bed. Wild and unrestrained, or coolly controlled? He suspected the latter, but he’d like to see her certainty slip a bit, her coolness replaced by fire.

“Are you making me an offer?” she asked, and there was no mistaking the teasing innuendo in her voice, rich with laughter and full-bodied flirting. Was this what Michael Agnello hadn’t been able to resist? Alex could certainly understand it.

He stretched the arm he had draped over the seat so his fingertips barely brushed her shoulder. The cashmere was cold and soft under his fingers. “No, just telling you I’m curious.”

“You went to quite a lot of trouble for mere curiosity’s sake, Mr. Diaz.” She smiled, shaking her head slowly, her earrings sparkling as they moved. Even though she was acting friendly, flirtatious, Alex knew she was nobody’s fool.

And neither was he.

“Waiting in a limo isn’t that much trouble,” he told her, and she tilted her head again, eyes bright, her mouth still curved in that smile he didn’t know whether he wanted to kiss or wipe off her face. It both annoyed and intrigued him, how coolly certain she was about everything. How unfazed by him.

He realized he had been expecting a little breathless flattery, a little dazed gratitude. He didn’t like anyone kissing his ass, but he’d assumed Chelsea would jump at the carrot he dangled in front of her: the possibility of working on Diaz News. But now that he’d spoken to her he didn’t think Chelsea Maxwell jumped for anyone.

Except she obviously had for Michael Agnello. And damn it, she would for him.

“I’m in contract with AMI for the next three years,” she said and he nodded.

“I know.”

“So...?”

Alex glanced out the window; they were approaching Columbus Circle and would only have a few more minutes before they arrived at the party, and Chelsea was swept up into Michael Agnello’s glittering circle of close friends.

“Let’s talk over dinner.”

She let out a soft, throaty laugh. “I wasn’t aware there was anything to talk about.”

“Don’t play games with me, Chelsea.” His voice came out hard as he turned to look directly into her eyes, but instead of seeing anger or annoyance or better yet, regret, in those hazel depths he saw something that jolted through him so he nearly rocked in his seat.

Desire. Lust. It was gone as soon as he’d locked his gaze with hers, but he still felt its aftershock reverberate through him. Felt the desire he’d seen in her eyes harden his groin.

He wanted, suddenly and quite fiercely, to sweep his hand up that long, lovely expanse of leg. To slip his fingers under the silvery, slippery folds of her dress and see just what it was hiding. And it seemed like Chelsea wanted it, too.

Well, wasn’t that interesting. Complicated, perhaps, but definitely interesting. Maybe he didn’t need to pretend he wanted Chelsea on his network. Maybe he could just show that he wanted her in his bed.

And maybe complicated could become simple.

“You think I’m playing games?” she queried, her expression completely veiled now. “You’re the one hiding out in a limo, acting like you’re James Bond.” She shook her head, laughed softly. “When you want to talk straight with me, Diaz, I’ll listen.” Her smile curved deeper and she gave him another up-and-down, her gaze resting briefly on the bulge in his trousers. “Maybe.”

Alex nearly swore. He felt like a horny teenager, unable to control himself, and the absurdity of it annoyed him. When had he lost control with a woman, with anyone?

The limo pulled up to the curb of The Mandarin Hotel. A doorman stepped forward to open the door and Chelsea fluttered her fingers. “But thanks for the lift,” she added, and then she was gone.

Alex leaned back against the seat, furious, frustrated and yet still buzzing a little bit from the conversation. So Chelsea Maxwell was going to be a little bit more of a challenge than he’d anticipated.

Although if the awareness he’d seen in her eyes was anything to go by, maybe not. Maybe he could play this differently than he’d planned.

His plan, or so he’d told Hunter and Austin when they’d brainstormed together how to bring Treffen down for good, was to dangle the possibility of a show on Diaz News so Chelsea let him work with her on the interview with Treffen. It had seemed simple; she clearly wanted to prove herself as a serious journalist, and as CEO of the country’s top news network he could make that happen. He’d tell her the truth about Treffen when he could be sure what she’d do with it.

Whether he actually offered Chelsea something on Diaz News was another matter entirely.

Revenge was a costly business. A price had to be paid. He’d certainly paid his.

Even now the memory of the last time he’d seen Sarah made his insides freeze with icy determination. He would avenge her, and every other woman Jason Treffen had used and abused. And he’d do whatever it took to accomplish it, Chelsea Maxwell be damned.

“Sir?” The driver peered into the dark interior of the limo and with a nod Alex climbed out.

He didn’t give up that easily. He wasn’t done with Chelsea Maxwell. He’d promised Hunter and Austin; they’d done their part, and it was time for him to do his, whatever it took. Smiling grimly, he headed into the hotel.

* * *

Chelsea slid off her coat and handed it to the young woman at the coat check, barely aware of taking the ticket or getting in the elevator that would take her up to the thirty-fifth floor where Michael’s party was being held. She closed her eyes, breathed in deeply.

That impromptu meeting with Alex Diaz had left her dazed and breathless. A little buzzed, too, and a lot wary. She’d learned too many lessons the hard way not to wonder when a man wanted something.

And Alex Diaz definitely wanted something.

Adrenaline pumped through her as she thought of the way he’d filled the space of the limo, arms stretched out along the back of the seat, legs casually sprawled. Fingers brushing her shoulder. Even through the thick cashmere of her coat she’d felt it. And Alex had too; no way had that little caress been unintentional. It had taken everything she had not to shiver.

She didn’t like being so responsive to a man, any man, but especially one like Alex Diaz. He was overwhelmingly, inarguably male, potent and primal. And her body had responded even as her mind had raced from his words, the obvious implication.

I’m interested in your show.

Not her chat show, but the prime-time interview she’d worked her ass off to get. Ever since she’d started Chat with Chelsea she’d known she wanted more. She wanted to be taken seriously as a journalist, and that wasn’t going to happen as long as she sat on a pink velour sofa and interviewed weepy country singers and washed-up soap stars. It might be popular and it might have made her rich, but it sure as hell didn’t mean anyone actually respected it...or her.

She knew what people said about her and Michael; she was neither stupid nor deaf. But even Michael couldn’t give her an hour-long interview with a serious subject. If she nailed the interview with Treffen, if it became the iconic interview of the decade as she hoped and planned, that wouldn’t be up to Michael.

It would be up to her. And everyone would know it.

She let out a long, slow breath. And if the interview with Treffen led to something on Diaz News? Anchorwoman, or even her own serious interview slot? Her stomach tightened and her mind started racing again.

No, she couldn’t think like that. Not yet. Not till she knew what Diaz really wanted. She thought of the bulge she’d seen in his trousers before she’d left the limo, left him hungry just as she’d intended. He was attracted to her; that had been, at least to him, painfully obvious. She wasn’t above using that attraction. Hell, no.

But life had taught her to be a skeptic, a cynic. To watch her back. And she wasn’t about to jump into bed with a man like Alex Diaz, not even for a job.

Especially not for a job.

Even so just the thought—the remote possibility—of being on Diaz News made her heart beat harder and her fingers curl into determined fists. Diaz’s news network was the most respected on TV, and was the only one that managed to rise above the petty, political squabbling and scaremongering of other networks. “Facts, not opinions” was Diaz News’s motto, and made it the most-watched news channel on television.

And she could be on it, as a serious, respected journalist...

Her mouth twisted cynically. Or maybe Alex Diaz just wanted her in bed.

Which wouldn’t be such a bad a place to be...

Maybe not, but Diaz was so not her type; he was too arrogant and controlling. She liked her men a little meeker. They were meant to do her bidding.

But if she could get Alex Diaz to do her bidding...

Now her smile curved in anticipation. Wouldn’t that be satisfying. Alex Diaz in front of her, on his knees. Begging.

As she once had.

But never again. She didn’t beg, plead or even say please. When it came to sex, she took.

But she needed to stop thinking about sex.

Chelsea took another deep breath and then raised her chin a notch as the elevator stopped at the thirty-fifth floor.

If Diaz did have something legitimate in mind, he’d seek her out again. Legitimately. She wasn’t about to go running to him, asking for favors.

The party was in full swing as the elevator doors opened onto the private room with wraparound views of Manhattan, Central Park an oasis of darkness amidst the endless lights of the city. Chelsea stepped into the room, head held high as she nodded at a few acquaintances. People who would say they were her friends, but Chelsea knew better. She knew a million people like that, but nobody knew her. She didn’t give them the chance.

Still, she worked the room, laughing and chatting, air-kissing and waggling her fingers. The effort was exhausting, but that was something else nobody knew.

In any case, most people at the network were jealous of her meteoric rise to talk show host by age twenty-eight, and the rumors that she’d slept her way to that position still swirled around her four years later, although she ignored them with the airiness of someone who didn’t give a damn. And she didn’t. Wouldn’t.

That route to success might have worked for her once—or not—but she was a different woman now. Harder. Smarter. And nobody’s fool—or plaything.

“Chelsea.” Michael came toward her, hands outstretched. Chelsea took them and leaned in as Michael brushed his lips against her cheek. She could feel people watching them, eyes narrowed, ears pricked for some overheard salacious snippet. Not that they needed any; they could just make them up. She never denied anything. Denying rumors put you on the defensive, and ended up just stoking the fires of gossip higher. Let people wonder. Let them smirk. She’d still come out on top.

“Your hands are cold,” he said, and she laughed lightly.

“It’s freezing outside, Michael.” She slipped her hands from his, suddenly conscious of someone watching them. She didn’t need to look to see who it was. She’d felt his gaze on her ever since the elevator doors had pinged open after her, had felt his presence, dark and forceful, even though she’d refused to look at him even out of the corner of her eye.

Alex Diaz was there. And she felt him.

Michael leaned back, studying her for a moment, concern making his eyes narrow and the dignified crow’s-feet at their corners look more pronounced. He was always worried about her, even though Chelsea told him not to be. Pretended as if she didn’t need someone’s concern or care, because admitting to that was both weakness and need and she never showed either.

But she did need Michael. He’d discovered her when she was twenty-two: desperate, damaged and determined, and she’d told him more about herself than she had anyone else, even her sister. Yet she still hadn’t told him everything, and never would.

“You look tired,” he said, and she laughed again.

“Thank you very much.”

“And gorgeous, of course,” he added with a smile. “It goes without saying. But I hope you’re not working too hard.”

“Don’t fuss.” Despite only eight years between their ages, Michael tended to act like a father toward her, or perhaps a big brother. Protective and just a little bit bossy. They’d never been romantic, not even close, but as always Chelsea had done nothing to dispel the rumors. Neither had Michael, at her request. It was always better to hold your head high than to trip over yourself explaining what people were determined to believe anyway.

And in any case, they had good reason to believe it. Or they would, if Chelsea wasn’t so good at hiding her past. Hiding herself.

“All right.” He smiled, his teeth blindingly white in his tanned face—he’d been skiing in Aspen last week—and Chelsea was reminded just how charismatic he was, how good-looking and good-natured. If she’d ever wanted a sure bet for a relationship, she would have chosen Michael. He almost made her feel safe.

But she’d never wanted a relationship; men were for the occasional satiation of physical needs only. And for some reason that thought made her think of Alex Diaz. Damn.

She couldn’t keep her gaze from seeking him out; she knew right where to look, even though she’d been determinedly not looking at him for the past fifteen minutes. He stood in the center of the room, breathtaking in a tuxedo, his gaze narrowed even as he smiled at a passing acquaintance, everything about him dark and powerful and just a little bit intimidating.

He was, Chelsea acknowledged, an incredibly attractive man. Michael Agnello had charisma, but Alex Diaz had something more powerful, primal and raw. Sex appeal, pure and simple. Muscles rippled under his tuxedo jacket, his body seeming to take up so much space the huge room suddenly felt small. He had to be at least six-three, Chelsea decided. She was an inch under six feet and in her three-inch heels—she never conceded to flats because of her height—she was still an inch or two shorter than him. She liked a man who didn’t make her feel like a giraffe, she acknowledged, and then banished the thought.

She didn’t like men. She used them.

And she wondered then what it would feel like to use Alex Diaz.

Dangerous.

And almost as dangerous was the realization that he was coming straight toward her. She felt a frisson of anticipation, mixed with just a little alarm. Something about Diaz felt...off. There was too much grim focus in his gaze, too much predatory intent in his measured walk. If he wanted her for his network, he’d be easygoing, friendly. He’d have gone through her agent and set up a dinner at Le Cirque with them both. It would have been all insider jokes over five bottles of wine, not this hooded, hawklike look as if she were a baby squirrel who had just tumbled all soft and downy from her nest.

She straightened her shoulders, turned to him with a glittering smile. No baby squirrels here, sucker, she thought, still smiling right into his narrowed eyes.

He had beautiful eyes, deep brown with golden glints, and lashes that were incredibly thick and full. His hair was ink-black and cut very short, but it still made Chelsea wonder how it felt, if it would be soft as she threaded it through her fingers.

And as for his body...a confident, rangy power in every limb and muscle. She yanked her gaze away from his thighs, curved her mouth into a flirty little smile. “Hello again.”

“Hello, Chelsea.” How did he manage to inject a simple salutation with so much intent? So much...sex?

Or was her libido going into hyperdrive because she hadn’t felt this magnetic tug of attraction in a long, long time?

Maybe ever.

“May I get you a drink?” he asked, coming to stand close enough so she could breathe in the woodsy scent of his aftershave, feel that almost irresistible pull toward him. She stepped back. Resisted. She wasn’t about to jump into bed with a man like Alex Diaz. That wouldn’t just be foolish, it would be insane. Not with her track record. Not when he wanted to talk business.

She’d learned that much, at least.

“Seltzer water, please.”

“Of course.”

She watched him head toward the bar, admiring the muscular back, the trim hips and taut butt. Yes, he was an attractive man. That had clearly been established. Moving on.

She took another deep breath and willed the knots of tension in her shoulders to untangle, or at least loosen a little. She hated parties, had for ten years, and now she felt that first prickle of anxiety at being in a crowd and resolutely forced it back. Alex returned with her glass of seltzer in one hand, a beer bottle in the other. “Here you go,” he said, and gently but with clear purpose, his hand coming around her back, he steered her toward a private space near the window. She didn’t resist, but as soon as possible she stepped away from him, gave herself a little needed distance.

“Amazing view,” Alex commented, the beer bottle raised to his lips. “I never get tired of it.”

Chelsea didn’t even glance out the floor-to-ceiling windows. She had virtually the same view from her penthouse apartment, and her eyes were on this man. “So why are you interested in my show, Alex?” Might as well spell it out. Spit it out, no needless sugarcoating.

His lips twitched in something close to a smile. “You’re good at what you do.”

“Which is?”

“Seeming sympathetic while slipping a dagger between the ribs.”

She blinked, surprised, and then smiled because yes, that was definitely one description of what she did. Cozying up to celebrities so she could make them confess and cry. But they liked it; they needed the absolution her show seemed to provide.

“And you like that?” She hadn’t meant to load that question with sexual innuendo, of course she hadn’t, yet somehow it came out anyway, and she saw Alex’s pupils flare, felt that same hard kick of attraction she’d felt in the limo. Painful. Unwanted.

“I like people who are good at what they do.”

“Still, it doesn’t seem like the type of thing you’d feature on your network, if you are in fact implying you’d want to go somewhere with this.”

“No, it doesn’t.” He took a sip of his beer, and Chelsea kept her face neutral. Waited—but for what?

She could still feel the aftershock of attraction, like pins and needles on her skin. She knew Alex felt it, too, and wondered just how complicated this would be.

She didn’t do complicated. Didn’t mix business with pleasure, or sex with emotion, or sex with anything. Not anymore. She kept sex in the same mental box as annual physicals or biannual dental cleanings. Sometimes it was fun, and sometimes it was very fun, and sometimes it was just boring. But necessary, no matter what, to good health.

Alex lowered his beer bottle, gave her a considering glance. “How did you end up getting Treffen to agree to a prime-time interview with you?”

She bristled, because he sounded so incredulous. As if he couldn’t imagine how a ditzy used-to-be-blonde like her had been capable of it. “I worked hard.”

“Treffen’s never done a television interview before.”

“I realize. I did do my homework, you know.” Inwardly Chelsea winced. She sounded defensive. Pathetic. And she didn’t do either.

Alex’s mouth curved, and Chelsea felt her pulse skyrocket. The man had the sexiest smile she’d ever seen. Just the twitch of his lips made her shift where she stood, feel a rush of warmth she tried to ignore. “So tell me,” he said in a low voice that rolled over her like a wave of honey. “How did you do it?”

“I was patient.” The words came out clipped, because now terseness was her only defense against the tide of desire that was washing over her, wrecking her resolve like castles in sand. “I spent a year getting to know him, making sure I was at the same parties he was, admiring his work—”

“Sucking up.”

Chelsea drew back, startled by the scorn in his voice. And a few seconds ago she’d been semicontemplating having sex with this man. “He’s an incredible person,” she said shortly, “who has done a world of good for women’s rights—”

“I know what he’s done.” Alex smiled coldly, and the eyes she’d thought were so amazing with their golden glints now looked like chips of black ice. “But I wonder if you do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Are you going to put him on your sofa? Have him spill his secrets and make him cry?”

His voice was a low purr but Chelsea still heard the sneer. Felt it. “It’s not that kind of interview,” she answered coolly. “I’m not interested in shock value with Treffen. But frankly, I’m not really sure why you care.”

“Because I care about Treffen.”

“You sound like you hate the man.”

“Hate isn’t the right word. But I’d like to see what he does with an interview. What you do with it.” He raised his beer bottle to his lips again, his mouth still curved in a cool smile, his eyes still hard.

Chelsea decided she’d had enough of his innuendo and snark. So he didn’t like Jason Treffen. Considering the lawyer and human rights activist was lauded as a modern-day saint, that was a little strange, but it had nothing to do with her.

Except maybe it did. Because she was interviewing the man, and if she wanted to make it as a serious investigative journalist, she needed to know. Needed to dig.

But not right now. Not when Alex Diaz was making her feel so weak, both from his mockery and the attraction she still, damn it, felt. It coursed through her relentlessly, a river of want that carried her will right along with it.

Almost.

She straightened, flashed him one of her glittering smiles. “Well, stay tuned, then. It airs live on March twentieth.”

And without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away from him, her shoulders thrown back, her chin held high.

* * *

Alex raised his beer to his lips as he tracked Chelsea’s movements around the room. For a moment there he’d considered telling her the truth about Jason Treffen, but then he’d thankfully thought better of it. It was hardly cocktail party chitchat, and he didn’t know her well enough to trust her with that particular powder keg. Not yet, anyway.

She was ambitious, he got that, and tough. He was pretty sure she had the balls to bring down Treffen on live television, if she wanted to.

The question was, did she? Could he convince her? He possessed a savage need to see Treffen with his world crumbling around him, and everyone else seeing it, too. No longer would the man fool everyone into believing he was such a damned saint. They would know him not just as a sinner, but a devil.

Austin had already exposed Treffen to his family, with the help of Sarah’s sister, Katy. Hunter was working on ousting Treffen from his law firm. And Alex had been charged with confronting the man on national television, showing the world what he really was: a monster who used the women he said he was saving. Who damned them to lives of shame, scandal and sin. Everything in Alex ached to see Jason publicly exposed—and he would do whatever it took to make it happen.

Including use Chelsea in whatever way he could. The woman was cold; she’d slept her way to the top. He didn’t feel so much as a flicker of guilt for using her. Sleeping with her, if it came to that.

But he did feel a certain amount of frustration. Sexual frustration. Never mind Treffen, he wanted Chelsea Maxwell in bed, beneath him, those gray-green eyes turned to molten silver with desire. He wanted her haughty little smile to become a desperate, begging kiss, to turn her tinkling laugh into a breathy sigh of pleasure and need.

He wanted to be the one to do it. To shatter her icy control and make her melt. For him.

He glanced at her walking away from him, her dress flowing over her like mercury. The front might have been high-necked and as chaste as a nun’s habit, but the back plunged right down to the tempting curve of her butt. Alex had always considered himself more of a breast man, but the sight of Chelsea Maxwell’s back, golden and perfect, made him reconsider.

He watched her glide away from the crowd and then instinctively followed, curious as to why she was leaving the party so soon. He stopped when he saw she was just heading toward the narrow hall that led to the ladies’. What the hell was wrong with him?

He was letting this woman lead him around by the balls, and she didn’t even know it.

Or maybe she did.

* * *

Chelsea checked her makeup in the mirror of the ladies’ toilet and took a deep breath. And another, because parties like this—and exchanges like the one she’d had with Alex Diaz—brought her to the brink of an anxiety attack. Not that she’d ever show it. Ten years on and she’d learned not just to live with it, but to hide it.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror, willed the color to return to her cheeks, her heartbeat to slow and her palms to stop tingling. You’re better than this, Chelsea. Stronger. Will it away.

A breath. Another. She continued to stare at her reflection, her face composed, her eyes hard. And finally, finally, the color returned and the tingling went away and she breathed deeply, her heart rate normal.

There. See?

Taking one last breath to steady herself, she turned from the mirror and left the ladies’ room.

Twenty minutes more and she’d call it a night. The thought brought an almost painful wave of relief. Her exchange with Alex Diaz had made her feel particularly edgy, everything just a little too close to the surface even though she knew, intellectually at least, that it was all still well hidden away.

Thank God.

Even Michael didn’t know how hard these occasions could be for her. When you had a high-profile career in television, you could hardly admit that socializing sometimes made you almost cripplingly anxious. That people scared you.

People like Alex Diaz.

She’d continued to feel his eyes on her as she’d moved around the room, and while his attention hadn’t scared her precisely, it had made her wary. Wary and aware, because even from fifty feet away he had the power to affect her. Make her ache. And that was too much power for one man to have.

She turned away from the mirror and headed back out to the party, stopping suddenly when a familiar bulk blocked the narrow hallway.

Paul Bates, AMI’s leading news anchorman and a complete ass. A drunken ass, judging from the fumes Chelsea could smell from ten feet away, and the way he lurched toward her. She took another deep breath and started to move past him.

He grabbed her arm, fingers digging in, nails snagging onto the slippery fabric of her dress. “Where you going, beautiful?” he slurred, and the whisky fumes now hit her full on the face. Chelsea didn’t move, didn’t pull her arm away. She knew better than that; men like Paul Bates liked a little resistance. Or even a lot.

“Back to the party, Paul,” she answered calmly. “But I’d suggest you remove your hand from my arm unless you want to be slapped with a sexual harassment suit.”

“Oh, come on, Chelsea.” She could get drunk off his breath alone, Chelsea thought dispassionately. “You could be a little friendlier to me, you know,” he continued, his voice turning both insistent and wheedling. “I could help you the way Agnello does.”

As if. She’d seen Paul eyeing her at the studio before, had ignored a few thinly veiled insults, some offensive innuendo, but he’d never actually come on to her before. He’d never touched her.

“Oh, I’m sure you could, Paul,” Chelsea murmured, tossing in a throaty chuckle for good measure. He made a clumsy grab for her hand and started drawing it to his crotch. Chelsea let him, felt his rather unimpressive hard-on. And smiling sweetly, she squeezed his balls hard enough for him to choke.

With a gasped curse he released her hand.

Chelsea moved past him, stopping abruptly when she saw another figure blocking her exit.

Alex Diaz.

He was gazing at her with narrowed eyes, his mouth twisted into something like a smile.

“And here I was about to charge to your rescue,” he murmured.

“Watch out you’re not next,” Chelsea fired back, keeping her voice flirtatious, and she heard him laugh softly.

“I’d better move out of the way, then.”

He moved to the side and Chelsea slipped past him, her breasts brushing his chest. Her breath hitched and she tilted her head up, gave him a slow smile. “Although maybe you’d enjoy it,” she murmured, and he gazed back, his face expressionless now.

“Maybe I would.”

She felt her heart lurch inside her. Why was she doing this? Alex Diaz was dangerous, and exactly the wrong kind of man for her.

And that was exactly why she was doing it. Because playing with fire proved you were strong and smart enough not to get burned—or at least not to mind a few singed fingers.

Still smiling, she dropped her hand and let her fingers brush against the front of his trousers. He didn’t so much as twitch, but she could still feel his arousal and answering desire arrowed through her. She leaned forward so her earrings grazed his jaw, and he still didn’t move. “I don’t need rescuing, Diaz,” she murmured into his ear.

Alex turned slightly so his lips brushed her cheek, less than an inch from her mouth. Everything in Chelsea clenched hard. “You sure as hell don’t, Miss Maxwell,” he murmured back and before she lost it completely she stepped away and walked back into the ballroom.

She felt his gaze on her back all the way to the elevators.

Chapter Two

Alex watched Chelsea Maxwell walk away and shook his head slowly. The woman was incredible, and he wasn’t sure he meant that in a good way.

Although maybe he did. A certain part of his anatomy certainly did, because when she’d brushed against him with her fingers he’d had to resist the urge to grab her by the arms and push her against the wall, kiss her until they both were senseless. And more.

Which didn’t make him all that different from Bates, who was still bent over and wheezing from Chelsea’s smiling squeeze of his balls.

The woman was no victim. No Sarah, used and abused by men with power, and the thought gave him a strange, savage satisfaction because that was the kind of woman he needed.

But first he had to get her to agree.

His gaze narrowed as he saw her heading for the elevator. Was she leaving the party already? For a moment he considered following her, but then decided against it. He’d laid the groundwork tonight; he needed to think about the best way to handle Chelsea Maxwell before he spoke with her again. And he also needed to get a handle on the obvious attraction he felt for her. He didn’t like feeling out of control, especially not when it came to sex. Men started making stupid decisions when they let themselves be led by their dicks.

And Alex had no intention of letting that happen. If he slept with Chelsea, it would be on his terms, because it served a purpose.

Even if he suspected it would be incredibly enjoyable.

The elevator doors opened and she stepped inside, head held high, her chin tilted at an almost defiant angle. She looked haughty and magnificent, the ultimate ice queen—and then Alex noticed one hand clenched in the folds of her gown. That little, telling action surprised him, and he wondered just what it revealed. Was she angry with the drunken idiot who had come onto her? She’d seemed no more than coldly amused when Bates had stumbled up to her.

From behind him Alex heard Paul Bates mutter a wheezy curse.

“What a bitch,” he mumbled and Alex glanced at him in derision.

“You’re just saying that because she got you in the balls.”

“Like I said—”

“And you deserved it.” Alex shook his head, taking in the man’s golden good looks that were now on the wrong side of forty, with broken veins and bloodshot eyes—not to mention a sizeable paunch—revealing a lifetime of reckless living.

“You know she’s Agnello’s tart, don’t you?” Bates demanded, and Alex just shrugged.

“She’s not yours, at any rate,” he said with deliberate mildness, and walked away with Bates still gasping behind him.

* * *

The next morning he headed to his office on Hudson Street, scanning the headlines on his smartphone as he took the elevator up to his penthouse office.

He stepped into the soaring room of glass and steel, glanced again at his phone as he powered up his computer, and wondered whether to call Chelsea now. He needed to think carefully about his next move, and yet he couldn’t deny he was looking forward to sparring with her again, craving the little buzz conversation with her had given him. There weren’t many women like Chelsea, he mused: ruthless, ambitious, and sexually confident.

Yes, she would definitely be a match for him in bed. And no matter what happened with Treffen, he decided, he was going to find a way to get her there.

But first he needed to think about Treffen. That little curl of anticipation he’d felt low in his belly now soured into a churning mix of regret and resolve.

Jason Treffen was lauded far and wide as an advocate for the downtrodden and oppressed, especially those who were women. He’d gained a reputation for mentoring smart, driven young women who’d gone to the Ivy League schools on scholarship—with no one knowing that he was actually coercing them into committing the most sordid of acts.

His gut roiled as he remembered what Austin, Jason’s son and one of Alex’s best friends, had discovered from Sarah’s sister Katy just before Christmas. All those years ago after Sarah’s death they’d assumed it had been a sadly simple case of sexual harassment. Then they’d learned the truth in all of its incredible horror when Katy had approached Austin with the information that Treffen hadn’t just been coming onto his young female employees, he’d been roping them into a high-end prostitution ring.

Sarah hadn’t just been harassed by Jason, she’d been forced into servicing his clients. The thought still had the power to bring bile to Alex’s throat. Since that night, the tenth anniversary of Sarah’s death, when Austin had lobbed that grenade into their usual desultory chat about work and women, they’d discovered more of the grim truth. Not only had Jason run a prostitution ring, he’d blackmailed the clients, men of power and position who got off on having a desperate and upwardly mobile young woman on her knees.

Austin had revealed the truth to his family, alienating his father from his wife and children. Together he and Hunter, along with Katy’s help, had begun the process of ousting Jason as partner in his law firm.

So far Treffen had managed to retain his public image. His separation from his wife had simply and sorrowfully been explained as being caused by stress from his high-powered job. Austin’s mother had been too ashamed to admit the truth.

Hunter was working on getting Treffen to step down from his law practice, but so far the man was clinging to his credentials. To his saintly reputation. Alex wouldn’t be satisfied, and neither would Austin or Hunter or now Katy Michaels, until Jason Treffen was completely and publicly ruined. Until the truth was known, and Sarah’s memory avenged.

And the perfect way to do that was on Chelsea’s live television show, watched by thirty million people.

Yet after talking to her last night, Alex wasn’t ready to trust Chelsea with the truth. I’m not interested in shock value.

What Treffen had done was the ultimate in shocking.

He just had to convince Chelsea of it—and of the need to take the man down.

Alex reached for his phone.

He dialed American Media Industries, Chelsea’s network, and within a few seconds was connected to her assistant, who told him that Chelsea was in a meeting and would call him back.

Alex wondered if she really was. Chelsea definitely seemed the type who would keep him waiting just because she could. His mouth thinned into a hard line. She might think she had all the control, but he looked forward to proving her wrong. To taking it away from her...both in bed and out of it.

Impatiently he drummed his fingers against the polished teak of his desk. He might look forward to stripping away Chelsea Maxwell’s arrogant certainties—as well as a few other things—but right now she was the one who was calling the shots. All he could do was get on with his work and wait for her to call.

Eight hours later he’d left his office and headed uptown to meet his friend Jaiven Rodriguez for a beer. He and Jaiven had known each since childhood in a Dominican-dominated neighborhood in the Bronx; while Alex had escaped on a scholarship to Walkerton Prep, an exclusive boarding school in Connecticut, Jaiven had stayed in the Bronx and had earned his way out by his sweat and his fists.

The first time Alex had come back from Connecticut, Jaiven had punched him in the face.

Alex still smiled to remember the belligerent look on his friend’s face, and his own slack-jawed shock at his split lip and swelling eye.

“If you’re going to turn into some preppy asshole,” Jaiven had said, “don’t bother coming back here.”

The words had gone deep. He’d been putting on airs, Alex had realized, without even being aware that he was doing it. Collar up on his polo shirt. Rolling his eyes when Jaiven had started talking about their old friends. Dropping names of rich, entitled boys who went to his school, boys who’d relished humiliating the half-Dominican scholarship kid from the Bronx, who wore secondhand uniforms and came to school not in a chauffeured Rolls but on the public bus. And he’d been pretending to Jaiven that they were his friends.

Even now he felt the burn of shame at how quickly he’d lost the sense of himself, even if he’d only been fourteen. How he’d wanted to fit in rather than claim who he was.

Never again. He never would forget his roots, never wanted to pretend he hadn’t worked hard and earned everything he had. It hadn’t been given to him on a silver platter, the way it had for just about everyone else at Walkerton, and then later, Harvard.

That had been what had initially drawn him to Sarah; they’d shared a freshman business class and he’d seen the same hungry ambition and hard-won hope in her that he’d felt in himself. They’d been best friends, even after Sarah had started dating Hunter, a football quarterback and, along with Austin and Zair, his freshman roommate. He’d had no time for what he saw as three over-privileged trust fund babies until Sarah had softened him, shown him that rich kids were real people, too. After college Zair had gone back to his home country in the Middle East, and he, Austin and Hunter, and Sarah, too, had been damn near inseparable until her death.

After she’d died he’d focused solely on work, on building a news network that promised honesty. He was known throughout the industry for telling it straight.

So maybe he should tell it straight to Chelsea.

He hesitated, let that thought roll around in his mind for a little while. No, not yet. He might have founded his career on honesty, but revenge, revenge on Treffen, was something else entirely. If the end had ever justified the means, it was now.

Now he stepped into the bar in the Bronx that was one step down from a dive and looked for Jaiven. His friend was parked in a booth of ripped vinyl in the back, a beer bottle already in front of him. “Hey.” Alex slid in across from his friend and hailed the waitress for his own beer.

“You look like shit,” Jaiven remarked.

“Thanks very much.” With a murmured thanks Alex took the bottle from the waitress. “As it happens, I didn’t sleep much last night.”

Jaiven cocked an eyebrow. “Good reason for that?”

“Not the one you’re thinking.” Alex thought, briefly, of Chelsea. Chelsea naked, that silver dress slithering off her like a snakeskin. Her hair down, long, wavy, mussed. Her mouth parted, lips rosy and swollen—

Damn it. He was getting a hard-on just thinking about her. Alex shifted in his seat, forced his gaze back to Jaiven who chuckled knowingly, the sound rich and deep. “What, the great Alex Diaz didn’t get lucky? Unbelievable.”

Alex smiled coolly and shook his head. “I wasn’t trying.”

“Sure you weren’t.” Jaiven stretched out in the booth and drained half his beer. “So were you out at some swanky media thing?”

“A birthday party.”

Jaiven just shrugged and took another swig of his beer. Although Jaiven’s fortune rivaled Alex’s own, his friend steadfastly refused to rub elbows with the people he still considered snobs and he never attended any society parties or events.

He’d quit school at sixteen and started his own shipping business with nothing more than with a strong back and a beat-up van with expired plates, and in the fifteen years since then he’d built it up into a multimillion-dollar shipping enterprise. In all that time he’d never left the Bronx behind.

He still lived there, admittedly in a much nicer place, and he was proud of where he’d come from, who he was and always would be. He often told Alex he’d punch him in the face any time he started acting like an ass again, and Alex took him at his word.

“But there is a woman, right?” he asked now, and Alex lifted one shoulder in a shrugging answer.

“There might be.”

“What, she’s playing hard to get?”

“Not exactly.”

Jaiven shook his head, let out another laugh. “Whoever it is, she’s got you by the balls, my friend. You’re looking like you need to get laid.”

Alex smiled grimly. “Maybe I do.” He and Jaiven had always shared the same approach to sex and love: one-night stands, the occasional week-long fling, and absolutely no expectations of anything else. He was honest about that as he was about everything else; he made sure a woman knew the rules before he’d so much as got her bra off.

Except he doubted Chelsea Maxwell was looking for a relationship. No, he was pretty sure she’d view sex the same way he did. Mutually enjoyable for an evening, and no more.

He felt his insides clench with anticipation. That would be plenty.

* * *

Chelsea stared at the little pink slip with Alex Diaz’s name scrawled on it and wondered again just what the man wanted.

He’d called two hours ago, and she wasn’t about to trip all over herself to call him back. No, let him wait. Let him wonder. She tucked the slip in her purse—no need for anyone to know Alex Diaz was calling her—and reached for her laptop.

“Chelsea? Do you have a minute?”

She looked up to see Michael Agnello entering her office. “Of course.” She shut her laptop, pushed her chair away from her desk and crossed her legs. “Just answering some emails.”

“I wanted to talk about the Treffen interview.”

“All right.” Seemed like everyone did, she thought. Coincidence? Probably not. Probably everyone, even Michael, was surprised she’d actually scored a prime-time interview with Treffen. Everyone but her. She’d worked hard for it, and she’d earned it, and she fully intended to have it make her career.

“What about it?” she asked as Michael sat down across from her.

“Treffen and his lawyer want to meet with you before the interview to go over exactly how it’s going to proceed.”

Chelsea frowned, even though she wasn’t really all that surprised. “That seems a bit counterproductive. I’d like to have our conversation progress naturally.”

“Treffen wants a little more control.”

“Why?”

Michael shrugged. “Why not? The man has a reputation, Chelsea, and it’s not to sob on a pink velour sofa.”

Annoyance prickled, even though she knew Michael had a point. “You know this interview isn’t going to be like that.”

“I know, which is why you should meet with him. It makes sense.”

“Maybe.”

In the past week she’d taped two shows, one with a disgraced Olympian who’d had to give back her bronze medal after a doping scandal, and another with a country Western star trying to resurrect her career after several album flops and public meltdowns. Chelsea had brought them to tears both times.

But her interview with Treffen was going to be different. No sordid secrets, no noisy tears. Just honest, respectable journalism. Treffen, after all, wasn’t a washed-up has-been trying to resurrect his career.

I know what he’s done.

She thought suddenly of the hard look on Alex Diaz’s face when he’d spoken about Treffen. No matter what he had or hadn’t said, he clearly didn’t like the man.

And now, Chelsea realized, she wanted to know why. She needed to know, especially if Treffen intended on imposing his control over the interview.

“I’m happy to meet with him,” she told Michael. “But he’d better not expect to dictate all the terms of the interview.”

“He just might,” Michael warned her with a shake of his head. “And if you want Treffen to do this interview, you just might have to agree.”

Chelsea pressed her lips together in silent, if unwilling, acceptance. Nothing could jeopardize this opportunity to interview Treffen, to finally make her career. Rise above the rumors she had always refused to deny. Nothing—not even the man himself.

Chapter Three

Several hours later she was still mulling over the upcoming meeting with Treffen, set for next week, when her administrative assistant buzzed through. “I’ve got Alex Diaz on the line.”

Chelsea felt a surge of satisfaction. So he’d called. Twice. A smile of anticipation on her lips, she reached for the phone. “Alex.”

“Hello, Chelsea.”

Her insides contracted at the sound of his husky murmur. His voice seemed to steal right inside her and wrap around her soul. It wasn’t fair, to be affected by a voice so much.

More importantly, it was stupid. And Chelsea was never stupid about men. Not anymore. She’d ignore that kick of attraction for now. Play it businesslike. Smart. Safe.

“What can I do for you?” she asked briskly.

“Interesting that you ask,” he answered, and that soul-stealing voice took just a little bit more away from her.

“And why is it so interesting?”

“Because what you can do is go out to dinner with me.”

Heat flared. He made it sound like a date. And maybe it was. “Why would I do that?” she asked, and this time she kept her tone on the wobbly line between challenge and flirt.

“Because I’d like to get to know you a bit better,” he answered, and it was impossible to tell what he meant. Personally? Professionally? Chelsea had no idea, and she was pretty sure that was how Alex wanted it.

“Interesting,” she drawled, “but I’m not sure it’s mutual.”

Alex laughed softly, the sound strangely, stupidly intimate over the phone. “Are you sure about that, Chelsea?”

The sound of her name on his lips made her feel weirdly exposed, especially considering it wasn’t even her real name. “I never said I wanted to get to know you,” she answered flippantly. “Now, if you’re offering something else...” She dropped her voice suggestively, wondered what he’d do with her innuendo. What she would.

“And what would you like me to offer?” Alex asked after only a second’s pause, his voice still a sexy rumble.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve made up my mind.”

“Then let’s discuss it over dinner.”

She hesitated, her hand suddenly slippery on the phone. It was just dinner, she told herself. With a very sexy man. And something about Alex Diaz, about his cold sense of purpose...well, scared wasn’t quite the word. But close to it.

He was a man, she realized, who would take absolute control. And she was the one who needed to be in control, who insisted on it in all of her relationships, no matter if it was the man who fixed her dishwasher or the one she took to her bed. She called the shots. Always.

Somehow she didn’t think Alex Diaz would play by her rules, with her in charge.

And yet she wasn’t ever one to back down from a challenge. “All right,” she finally said. “I have a standing reservation at Le Bernardin—”

“Very nice, but we’ll do this my way. See you tomorrow.”

And then, to her immense irritation, he hung up on her. Chelsea stared at the telephone receiver for a full ten seconds before slamming it back in its cradle. She cursed aloud. He’d only hung up on her because he knew exactly what she was trying to do—and he wouldn’t let her do it.

Her irritation turned to amusement, even a grudging admiration. Maybe she’d finally met her match.

Twenty minutes later she received a text on her phone: Your place. 7 pm.

She wondered how he’d got her private mobile number, but then realized that Alex Diaz could probably get any information he wanted. He owned the most respected news network in the country. She suppressed the twinge of alarm that thought caused. She had far too many secrets to have a man like Alex Diaz curious about her.

It would, she acknowledged reluctantly, be safer to nip this one in the bud. Say no to dinner, no to any possible opportunity on his network, and definitely no to sex.

How would Alex Diaz be in bed? As arrogant and assured as he was in person? She pictured those strong, capable hands on her body, that mobile mouth on her skin. He would dominate in the bedroom, she thought, but he would do it so wonderfully that the woman in question wouldn’t care.

Desire coursed through her in a hot rush, doused quickly by the ensuing icy shock. Just what the hell was she thinking, getting excited by a man like Alex Diaz? He was arrogant, controlling, and he could potentially be her boss. Three strikes against him already. And yet she couldn’t deny that she wanted him, and she wanted him the way he was: in charge. Commanding. Dominating.

Good Lord.

Slowly Chelsea shook her head, disgusted with herself. Had she learned nothing in ten years? Hadn’t three years of humiliation and heartache, not to mention a significant stint in intensive care, been enough?

She might consider working for Alex Diaz, she decided, but she definitely wouldn’t think about sleeping with him.

Or perhaps vice versa.

Shaking her head, annoyed with her own flip-flopping thoughts, she opened her laptop and turned back to her work.

The next evening she stood in front of the floor-length mirror in her bedroom and inspected her reflection. She’d put her hair back in a tight, sleek bun, and wore discreet pearl studs in her ears. Her makeup was smoky but understated: nothing come hither about just a touch of mascara and lip gloss. And the dress was definitely on the modest side, while highlighting her assets. Made of cream cashmere, cinched at the waist with a gold link belt, it covered her up from neck to knee. It looked subtly sexy, but still professional. And that’s what she needed to be tonight...because she still wasn’t sure what Alex Diaz wanted with her, or what she wanted with him.

In the twenty-four hours since their phone call, she’d thought about canceling their dinner, just not going in that direction at all. As tempting as the possibility of working for Diaz News was, and possibly having a respected news show on his network, she also knew Alex wasn’t promising anything and it would be far safer, far saner to stay away from a man who already affected her too much. But walking away was weakness, and Chelsea never let herself be weak.

No, she’d go to dinner with Alex Diaz, find out if he really was considering her for something on his network, or if, like so many other men, he was just trying to talk her into bed.

And if he was?

Well, maybe she’d take him up on it. The thought made alarm and excitement churn inside her, an unsettling mix. Alex Diaz was so, so different from the men she normally took to bed.

But that made him exciting. A challenge. If she could control him, make him weak with wanting her...

Hell, if that wasn’t the most potent aphrodisiac in the world.

The phone connecting her apartment to the lobby rang, and answering it Chelsea told the doorman she’d meet Alex in the lobby. He wouldn’t come upstairs unless she invited him.

This evening, like everything else in her life, would be on her terms...no matter what Alex intended or thought.

Alex was inspecting a modern sculpture on display in the lobby when she came out of the elevator. Dressed in a charcoal business suit, cheeks flushed with cold and a faint five o’clock shadow drawing attention to the hard line of his jaw, he was too gorgeous for words, damn the man.

“What do you think this is supposed to be?” he asked and Chelsea tore her gaze away from him to glance at the twisted iron-and-copper monstrosity she’d never bothered to notice before.

“I don’t know. A tree?”

“Some tree.”

Her lips twitched in a sudden smile. “Not a fan of modern art?”

“Not this kind.” He swept his gaze over her, leaving warmth in its wake. “But I am an admirer of the art of understatement.” His gaze lingered on her figure in its close-fitting cashmere dress. “Definitely that.”

She tingled. Everywhere he looked, she felt her body treacherously, wonderfully respond. Melt and ache and want.

She smiled coolly, forced all those feelings away—and almost succeeded. “So where are we going, if not Le Bernardin?”

He placed his hand on the small of her back as he guided her out of the building. “Le Cirque.”

Chelsea slid into the limo idling at the curb, every nerve ending tingling from his light touch. Alex followed her inside, stretching his arm out along the back of the seat so his fingers just barely brushed her shoulder, as they had the last time she’d been in his limo. He looked completely relaxed and barely aware of what he was doing, but Chelsea knew right down to her bones that the little touch had been intentional. And it had had, she suspected, Alex’s intended effect. She felt edgy and aching, restless and uncertain.

Not the way she wanted to start the evening.

“Le Cirque?” she repeated. “Now, that’s a bit predictable.”

He glanced at her, his expression inscrutable in the dim interior of the car. “How disappointing for you. I suppose I’ll have to try harder next time.”

“You don’t strike me as the type to try hard at all,” Chelsea answered flippantly. “I’m sure you expect women to fall at your feet.”

He arched an eyebrow, clearly amused. “They’re not much use to me there.”

“Oh?” She let her gaze sweep over him in lingering assessment, and felt a fierce stab of satisfaction at the sight of the heat flaring in his eyes. “Where are they of use to you, Alex?”

“Oh, in a variety of places. And positions.”

Chelsea arched an eyebrow. “How intriguing. Care to specify?”

His lips curved in a cool smile, his gaze locked on hers. “Not at the moment.”

“Perhaps later?”

“Perhaps.”

She smiled, even though inside she was seething. Whenever she tried to turn the tables on him, he turned them right back at her. Made her feel desperate, not just with desire but this need somehow to prove herself to him.

She wasn’t like that. Not anymore.

Except with this man, it seemed she was.

“It’s not polite to stare, you know,” he said softly, and she realized she had been openly, hungrily looking at him. Damn it. She’d stopped talking, stopped thinking, because her brain had snagged on the sight of him: long, lean legs stretched out, his hard jaw glinting with that sexy five o’clock shadow, those ink-black lashes feathering his cheeks. Long lashes and lush lips on the most masculine man she’d ever encountered.

How was that even possible?

She slowly lifted her gaze to his. “Just checking out what’s on offer,” she answered, and his mouth kicked up at one corner.

“I never actually said what was on offer.”

“Care to clarify, then?”

He didn’t answer, just waited, his eyes glinting in the darkness as the awareness stretched and tautened between them. Chelsea had to remind herself to breathe.

“I guess not,” she said softly, and made a show of sorrowfully shaking her head. Alex just smiled. Nothing fazed him. Nothing shocked him. Nothing made his precious control slip, and it infuriated her because hers was skidding all over the place.

Alex Diaz had been in the driver’s seat of this relationship from the moment he’d waited outside her apartment in his limo, no matter how many times she kept trying to take the wheel.

“So let’s talk business,” she said, recrossing her legs and making her voice brisk. “Do you really want me for Diaz News?”

Alex’s gaze didn’t falter for a second as he answered. “No.”

Chelsea blinked. She kept her face neutral, but only with a lot of effort. After several fraught seconds where she scrambled for something to say, she finally pursed her lips and stated coolly, “So you are just dicking me around.”

“No. Interesting choice of words, though.”

“Very amusing.” She narrowed her eyes, crossed her arms. She wanted to go on the attack, but she felt defensive. Raw. Exposed.

So he didn’t want her for his stupid network. It shouldn’t surprise her. It shouldn’t hurt.

“Why did you ask me out to dinner, Alex? Are you just trying to get laid?”

“If that were my sole purpose, there would be far simpler ways to accomplish it,” he answered calmly.

Annoyed and still smarting, she snapped, “I’m sure there would be. Just cruise down Forty-Second Street—”

“Don’t be childish, Chelsea.”

“Don’t patronize me—”

“I’m not. I’m just stating facts. I’m not interested in having you on my network, but I am interested in your prime-time interview.”

“Treffen.” She spat the word, and Alex remained calm, unruffled.

“Yes.”

She shook her head, feeling angry and vulnerable, needing to lash out but knowing it would just reveal her all the more. She took a breath, let it out slowly and forced herself to calm. “You don’t like him.”

“Not particularly.”

“Why not?”

“We’ll get to that.”

“All in good time?” she mocked. “I don’t like being used, Diaz. Or manipulated.”

“A few moments ago you called me Alex. And if anyone is planning to manipulate you, it’s Treffen.”

She thought of the meeting next week with Treffen and his lawyer. There might be some truth to what Alex was saying, but she still didn’t want to be his, or any man’s, pawn. “I won’t have my interview sabotaged.”

“That’s not my intent.”

Looking into those dark, fathomless eyes, she didn’t believe him. Didn’t believe for a moment that he wouldn’t sabotage her interview or even her whole career to get what he wanted.

And yet, even now, especially now, she felt her body ache and pulse for him. No matter how hard or ruthless Alex Diaz was, she still wanted him. Maybe because he was so hard and ruthless. Maybe because the thought of him wanting her, needing her, made her blood surge and her heart sing. She wanted this man to bend for her. To break.

No matter how many petty shots Alex called now, that would really show who was in control.

“We’re here,” Alex said and let his hand drop from the back of the seat onto her shoulder, his palm warm through her coat and cashmere dress, his fingers almost brushing her breast.

His golden-brown gaze locked with hers and she felt as if she were trapped in a vise. Barely able to breathe. She slipped from the limo and away from his hand, wondering how on earth she was going to get through this evening.

* * *

Alex watched Chelsea, her back straight, her hips swaying slightly as she preceded him into the restaurant. Every exchange they’d had was loaded with innuendo, heavy with intent. But he had her. He could tell he had her; she was curious as well as ambitious and hungry. She would do what he said, and sex would be a sweet way to seal the deal. To celebrate it. He’d seen the desire in her eyes, the hunger, even though she would never admit it.

He’d make her admit it. He’d bring her to her knees, sobbing out his name, begging for his touch. The thought made him smile.

It also made him hard.

Shifting to ease his discomfort, he followed Chelsea into the restaurant.

“So tell me about yourself,” he said once they were seated, menus open before them and linen napkins placed in their laps. “I don’t know anything about you except the bullet points of your résumé.”

Her eyes narrowed like a cat’s, and he could see her debating the merit of a snappy comeback. Finally she shrugged and took a sip of water. “There’s not much more to know beyond that. I’ve pretty much lived for my career.”

“As have I, but that doesn’t mean you could compress my personality into a single sheet of paper. What do you like to do in your spare time?”

She looked surprised, as if no one had ever asked her such a thing before. “Hobbies?” she said, leaning back in her seat. “I work out. A lot.”

“I could have guessed that.”

“Oh?”

“You’re a control freak.”

She cocked her head. “Takes one to know one.”

“Absolutely.”

He felt the clash of their wills as if a metallic clang had reverberated through the room. It was going to be so good to take her to bed, he thought. And then leave her there.

“I foresee a problem,” she said, glancing down at her menu so her long, chocolate-coloured lashes feathered her cheeks.

Alex leaned back in his seat. “Which is?”

“We can’t both be in control.”

“Definitely not.” He felt heat unfurl in his belly as he saw her eyes flare. Knew what they were both thinking of. Knew then, with an absolutely solid certainty, how this evening was going to end.

The air between them seemed to snap and crackle with electric tension. Alex could almost hear the sizzle.

Time to bring it down a notch. He wanted to make it through dinner, at least. “In any case, I don’t believe you. Everyone’s got a hobby.”

“All right then, what’s yours?”

“Scuba diving.”

“That’s not something you can do everyday.”

“No. Holidays only.”

“So what do you do to relax on a daily basis?”

“Besides the obvious?”

Her mouth curved. “I’m not talking about basic needs.”

“I also swim,” he said, and her mouth curved wider, drawing Alex’s attention to it. It was delicious, full and lush. He wanted to feel it against his own.

“Doesn’t that count as working out?”

“So does fulfilling my, ah, basic needs.”

She laughed softly, the sound no more than a breath. “So you must be very fit.”

“You’ll have to judge for yourself.”

“Is that a promise?”

“More just a statement of fact.”

Her smile widened, revealing a dimple in one cheek. “Does it relax you?” she asked and for a second he thought she was talking about sex. Then he remembered what they’d been at least pretending to talk about. Swimming.

“I’ve learned to let it relax me.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

“I didn’t learn to swim until I was in high school.” Alex paused; suddenly he could almost smell the chlorine and sweat of Walkerton Prep’s pool. Could feel the hard shove on his back.

“Alex.” He glanced up, blinking, and saw Chelsea giving him a teasing smile. “Whatever you’re thinking about, it feels like a bit of a buzz kill.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Maybe, but it motivated me to learn how to swim.” She raised her eyebrows, waiting, and he continued. “I got a scholarship to Walkerton Prep. You know it?”

“The boarding school in Connecticut? Who doesn’t? It seems like everyone with money is trying to get their kid in there.”

“Exactly. I fulfilled their diversity quotient, I guess. Half-Dominican kid from the Bronx.”

“I didn’t know that,” she said, and her voice had turned thoughtful, her head tilted to one side as she gazed at him.

“Which part? Dominican or the Bronx?”

Her mouth curved again in a small smile; she really did have the most amazing lips. “Both, I guess. But you were telling me how you learned to swim.”

“We had to take swimming at Walkerton. The first day one of the kids in my class pushed me into the deep end of the pool, when the coach was in his office.” Alex swallowed; he could still remember the feel of the water closing over his head, filling his mouth and nose as he choked and flailed and a dozen preppy boys watched him dispassionately.

“Did he know you couldn’t swim?”

“Oh, yeah.” He’d had the naïve idiocy to share that little nugget of information before he’d been pushed. He shook his head, managed a wry smile even as surprise rippled through him that he was telling this to Chelsea Maxwell. He didn’t talk about his years at Walkerton Prep to anyone. He didn’t like to remember the lonely boy he’d been, desperate to fit in, to matter. He would have sold his soul then, just to belong. Thank God Jaiven had snapped him out of it with a right hook to his eye. Thank God he’d learned to be harder, tougher, and to stamp all over spoiled, entitled kids like that. “Fortunately the coach returned before I deep-sixed it. But I think those kids would have let me drown.”

“That’s awful.” Chelsea was quiet for a moment, her expression serious and yet somehow closed. “But I believe it,” she added, and there was too much understanding in that statement, too much experience. He almost asked her about it, and then decided not to.

If he thought sex might complicate things, some kind of emotional connection would screw it up completely. He didn’t go there. Ever.

“Well, like I said, it motivated me. I learned how to swim and I ended up on the varsity diving team. I ended up being captain my senior year, which infuriated the guys who tried to drown me. Sweet revenge.”

“I bet.”

“In college I learned how to scuba dive, and now I spend a lot of time in the water.”

“Do you like it?” she asked, and he saw a gleam of shrewdness in her eyes that jolted him. No one had asked him that before.

“Do you think I’d do it if I didn’t?” he asked back, and she tilted her head as her gaze swept over him.

“You’re a control freak, right? Absolutely. Anything to feel in control.”

He laughed and held up his hands in mock defeat, even though her insight made him feel a little more exposed than he’d have preferred. “Well, you’re right, Miss Maxwell. I still hate the water. But I do it.”

She nodded slowly. “I understand that.”

Her tone was heartfelt, and again he wondered. Wanted to know what she hated and still did. Her show? He knew she was hungry to prove herself professionally but did she actually dislike going on the pink sofa with those washed-up stars?

Something else he wasn’t going to ask. He didn’t actually want to know this woman. He just wanted to use her.

In more ways than one.

“Shall we order?” he asked and she nodded again. After the waiter had come and gone he decided to steer the conversation onto safer ground. Keep it innocuous, at least for the moment.

“So you’re from Alabama, right?” And just like that she tensed right up, her expression closing like a fan. Interesting. Strange, but interesting.

She took a sip of water and then slowly, carefully put the glass back on the table. “Yes,” she said, and even that seemed like more information than she was comfortable imparting.

“You’ve lost your accent.”

Her face was utterly blank as she gazed at him. “Yes.”

Alex leaned back in his chair. “Why do I get the feeling you don’t like to talk about your past?”

“It’s not very interesting.”

“And if I’m interested?”

“Somehow I doubt you actually are. But you can read my bio online.”

“I have.” He’d read the question-and-answer interview with her on her show’s website. He’d started out as a journalist; he did his homework, just like Chelsea. According to her bio, she’d an idyllic childhood in Alabama, all homemade cookies and trips to the state fair, and then she’d joined AMI as an intern when she was twenty-two. There was the inevitable list of awards and charities she supported, and that was it.

Pretty bland, really, and she obviously liked it that way, for she shrugged now, the movement invariably drawing his gaze to her breasts, their round shape outlined in cream cashmere. He wanted to slowly peel that dress off her, and soon. “Then you know all there is to know.”

He raised his eyebrows as well as his gaze. “Which is nothing.”

She just shrugged again, and he felt a sharp spike of curiosity again. Who was this woman?

Better not to wonder. Not to know.

Their appetizers came then and they didn’t talk about anything more alarming than industry gossip and news for the rest of the meal, which suited Alex fine. He was at a good restaurant with a beautiful woman, and he intended to enjoy it for a little while.

And then he intended to enjoy a whole lot more.

* * *

What was it about this man, Chelsea wondered, that made her say things? Feel things? She’d told more about herself to Alex than she had to any other person, except for Michael and her sister Louise. And she barely knew the man. Admittedly, what she’d told wasn’t that much, but she still felt exposed. He could dig into her history now, search Alabama records, and knowing him, he’d find something. He’d find too much.

Her insides iced and she told herself she wouldn’t say another word. She’d keep it professional or physical, one or the other, but no more of this talking.

Damn it, she was not that kind of woman. She didn’t let men get close. She didn’t tell them things. She used them for business or sex and that was it. That was how it had to be.

And she intended on using Alex in one way or another. Hell, maybe both ways. After their charged, innuendo-laced conversation she knew he wanted her. She wanted him.

That, at least, could be simple.

As for business? He’d deliberately not mentioned Treffen for the entire meal, and that suited Chelsea fine. She wasn’t ready for that conversation, didn’t want to be wrong-footed.

But no matter what happened between them, she’d keep it from being intimate. Emotional.

Except it already felt emotional. Already she felt a hard tug of sympathy for that boy perched on the edge of the pool, flailing in the water. God knew she understood how that felt. Everyone enjoying watching you fail. Smiling as you were humiliated, laughing when you were hurt.

No, she had to stop thinking like that. Wanting to know more about this man, cracking open the window of her soul to let him in just a little.

Sex would cure her, she thought. Sex made things simple. A bodily function, a basic transaction, and when it was over she invariably moved on to someone else. She’d never slept with the same man twice, not in ten years.

Sex would get him out of her system.

She smiled at him, pushed away her coffee cup and barely-touched dessert plate. She’d chosen fruit sorbet, the lowest calorie item on the menu, but she’d only eaten a mouthful. Television was unforgiving on a figure. Now she smiled, arched her eyebrows in obvious expectation. No innuendo in her voice, just simple fact. “Ready to go?”

Alex gazed back at her, gold flaring in the depths of his brown eyes. He slid a black credit card that she recognized as an exclusive, invitation-only card from his wallet and dropped it carelessly onto the table. “Yes,” he said. “I’m ready.”

They left the restaurant, Alex’s hand low and sure on her back. He had already texted the driver and the limo was waiting by the curb.

He guided her inside, his thigh nudging hers as he slid next to her on the spacious leather seat. She suppressed the urge to lay her hand on that hard muscle, slide her palm upward...

Her hand jerked of its own accord and she pulled it back into her lap. Would his skin be hot or cool? Smooth or rough? Her hand jerked again.

Belatedly she realized they were heading downtown. She turned to Alex. “Where are we going?”

“My apartment.”

“What?” She shut her mouth with a snap. “Aren’t you Mr. Manners. I don’t recall you asking me to go home with you, Alex.”

“I didn’t.”

She stared at him; he looked so unruffled she would have thought he was bored, save for the magnetic gleam in his eyes. She felt a tangle of emotions: fascination, frustration, even a little fear.

And she was more excited, more aroused, than she’d been in a long, long time.

Which showed how screwed up she really was.

She folded her arms across her chest. “Do you think the caveman tactic is attractive?”

“No, I simply prefer to cut to the chase. You knew we’d be sleeping together from the moment you agreed to dinner, Chelsea.”

“A foregone conclusion, was it?” Her voice, thankfully, came out dry.

“We’re attracted to each other. We both view sex as—what did you call it? A basic need?”

“So?”

“So of course we’d sleep together.” He shrugged, as if the matter were of no consequence. “It is a foregone conclusion.”

“You’re very romantic,” she said, and her voice had taken on an edge. “Lay on the violins and roses, why don’t you?”

“I thought you’d appreciate my plain speaking.”

And normally she would, because that was how she always approached sex. She just didn’t like him approaching it that way. She was the one who told men how it was going to play out, and then she kicked them out the door when she was done.

She never went home with them. She never let them call the shots. She was always in control, always on top. Literally. And she usually didn’t even take off all of her clothes.

At least not her shirt.

The limo slowed and she saw they were already downtown, somewhere in Tribeca, near the Hudson River. And as amazed and aroused as she was by his sheer arrogance, she knew she wasn’t going to go into his apartment.

She wasn’t that stupid.

“Sorry, Diaz,” she said, “but I have my rules. I’m not going home with you.”

His gaze locked with hers, and his expression didn’t change. “Fine,” he answered. “Who said we needed a bed?”

A thrill ran through her, jolting her to her core. Why, she wondered distantly, was that sexy? Was it just because he was so incredibly good-looking, that she ignored his arrogance?

But no, it was his absolute assurance that made her weak with want. Thrilled and excited her. And considering her past experience, that made her one sick puppy.

Still she didn’t move. Didn’t speak. And neither did he. The chauffeur waited in the driver’s seat, separated by a soundproof, tinted window. Chelsea had no illusions that the man would know what they were up to. Maybe he’d done this before. Waited for Alex to finish his business.

Her palms went damp and she resisted the urge to wipe them against the side of her dress. Alex’s expression didn’t so much as flicker as he said in a low, sure voice, “Come here, Chelsea.”

Of course she shouldn’t move. Shouldn’t obey that absurd command. No way. Absolutely not. In fact, she should tell him just what he could do with his ridiculous, arrogant attitude. Shove it up his—

And yet she felt herself move, as if her body had a will of its own. She slid across the seat, her dress and coat whispering against the leather, her gaze glued to his. She couldn’t have looked away if she’d tried, which she didn’t. She could hear her own breath, almost a pant, loud in the utter silence of the car. So revealing, and yet she was unable to stop herself.

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