The Dirty Series 1(8)

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

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

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

He doesn’t mention it.

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

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

I might never recover.





Chapter Five





Jax



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

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

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

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

I don’t think a woman ever has.

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

No.

No.

I can’t get caught up like this.

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

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

Close all of them. Including this one.

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

Sarzó leans back, crossing one leg neatly over the other. “I assumed as much. But my main concern is, of course, Basiqué’s standing.” She doesn’t 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.”