Dirty Rich(5)

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

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

Snap the hell out of it, Hunter.

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

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

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

"And you think that makes Basiqué a worthwhile investment?"

"Do you find fault with that level of circulation?"

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

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

"Have I?"

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

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

     



 

"Not immediately."

"When?"

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

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

"I'm looking forward to it. Now, if you'll excuse me-"

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

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

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

The only problem?

She's not here.

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

She's not fucking here.

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

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

There's only one thing to do: find another fuckable woman and take her  out. Tonight. Before I lose every scrap of my self-control to Catherine  Schaffer.





Chapter 6

Cate





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

He's gone.

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

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

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

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

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

Hunter.

Hunter.

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

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

I need my job.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     



 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's him or my work, and I know which one has to come first.

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

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

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

I close the window and lean back in my seat, considering what I've just learned.

It doesn't make much of a difference.

I wanted him on sight, and it had nothing to do with what he could buy.

Just what he could do with those hands, that body …

There will be no work at the office tomorrow. I'll finally get at least half a chance to catch my breath.

By Wednesday I'll be back in my desk, my focus where it needs to be.

Not on the slick wetness between my legs. Not on the heat rising to my cheeks.

Not on the cocky, mysterious Mr. Hunter.





Chapter 7

Jax