Moonstruck in Manhattan Page 5

  “Well, they should. My first two articles sold copies of your magazine.”

  “I like to look at things in terms of pluses and minuses. On the plus side—”

  “Why?”

  Zach stared at her. “Why what?”

  “Why do you like to look at things in terms of pluses and minuses?”

  “Because it allows me to make intelligent and informed decisions.” When she said nothing, he continued. “On the plus side, your articles have drawn in new readers. On the minus side, these are not the readers I want. In fact, if I continue to publish you, I have a good chance of turning away the very reader I want to attract.”

  “But your emphasis on including only highbrow, intellectual stuff in Metropolitan is going to turn my readers away. And they’ve actually been buying the magazine. Ms. Sinclair told me that newsstand sales have jumped over thirty percent since my first article.”

  Zach’s eyes narrowed. He hadn’t expected an argument from her, especially not an articulate and well-framed one. He decided to change tactics. “I’m willing to make you a very generous offer to buy your contract back.”

  Chelsea folded her arms in front of her. “No.”

  He raised his brows. “You haven’t heard my offer.”

  “I don’t want the money. What I want, what I need, is the exposure. I want my name out there so that readers can get to know it. That’s the plus I’m after and you can’t give me that with a check.”

  “You can take the money and sell the articles to another magazine. Get the exposure some place else.”

  Chelsea shook her head. “That’s not a sure thing. Ms. Sinclair liked my writing and she was willing to take a chance on the skirt thing. I may not find another editor willing to take that kind of risk.” She waved a hand at him. “You’re certainly not.”

  Zach sat down on the edge of the desk and began to enjoy himself. He hadn’t gone through three years of studying law without a love for argument. Chelsea Brockway was a surprisingly able opponent. “Look, the bottom line is I’m not going to publish your articles. Just how hard do you want to make this?”

  Moving forward, she pressed her hands flat on the desk and leaned toward him. “I want to make it impossible. I signed that contract in good faith.”

  “I can find a loophole in it.”

  For a moment she merely looked at him. Anger lightened the shade of her eyes to the color of emeralds, the kind with hints of fire in their depths. But even as he saw the flame, she managed to bank it. Straightening, she said, “Neither one of us wants me to sue.”

  He nodded, almost disappointed that she was about to concede. “Correct. Litigation would only end in some kind of settlement. Name a fair figure and I’ll write a check.”

  “Wait.” She raised a hand. “Your position is that the articles are ‘fluff,’ that the skirt really doesn’t have any effect on men. To borrow your word, the idea is ridiculous. Therefore, it doesn’t make the intellectual or cultural cut to be included in your magazine, right?”

  Zach studied her for a moment, then nodded. “That’s one way of putting it.”

  She put her hands on his desk and leaned toward him again. For one second he caught that exotic scent again.

  “Have you ever gambled, Mr. McDaniels?”

  “Sure.”

  “How about a bet? If I can convince you that the skirt works, you’ll print the first article. If I can’t convince you, you can tear up the whole contract. I won’t ask for a cent.”

  When Esme cleared her throat, they jumped apart and turned. Zach had completely forgotten that anyone else was in the room.

  “I just wanted to mention that your first article is due on my desk tomorrow. You’ll have to convince him pretty quick.”

  Turning back to Zach, Chelsea held out her hand. “No problem. You can follow me to Flannery’s and we’ll see what happens. Do we have a deal?”

  Never bet when it looks like you can’t lose. It was one of the many lessons Zach had learned the hard way at boarding school. But his hand seemed to grasp Chelsea’s of its own accord. “We have a deal.”

  4

  “I’D LIKE TO KNOW how you talked Bill Anderson out of handing in his resignation.”

  Chelsea shifted her glance to the slender, light-haired man who sat directly opposite her in the booth. Hal Davidson wrote a regular column on the political scene for Metropolitan. He had smooth features and a practiced smile that probably served him quite well in his work.

  She smiled right back at him. “I didn’t do anything except suggest that he might want to sleep on an important decision like that.”

  Hal shook his head. “Well, you must be very persuasive. Before he walked into McDaniels’s office, he had everyone fired up to resign. When he came out, he’d completely changed his tune.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  Hal shook his head. “No. Merely surprised.”

  “I also suggested he might want to discuss it with his wife and daughter.” Chelsea glanced down to the end of the booth where Bill Anderson sat in a chair. In the short time since she’d arrived at Flannery’s, she’d observed that the sports editor clearly had a lot of influence over the other staff. She’d barely had time to take in the wood-paneled room and the mahogany bar trimmed in brass before Bill had spotted her and waved her over to the booth to introduce her to everyone as Esme’s protégée, the one who’d written the articles on hotties. Since then she’d been wedged between a staff photographer named Chuck and the entertainment editor, a rather formidable-looking man in his early sixties named Carleton Bushnell.

  The discussion at the table was centered mostly on the new boss and two things were very clear. They’d been very loyal to his father even when the magazine had begun to lose readers, and they didn’t trust Zach. Bill Anderson and Hal Davidson were his most vocal critics. Their reasons ranged from his being too young to the fact that at the age of thirty, he’d hopscotched through several careers. First he’d gone to law school, then instead of going into practice he’d moved all over the country writing freelance for several newspapers and magazines.

  Letting the conversation hum around her, Chelsea looked around the bar. Flannery’s was a six-block walk from the Metropolitan offices at Rockefeller Center, and it was nearly filled with what looked like an after-work crowd, mostly men and a few women in suits. Even the four men who spoke with definite Texas drawls at a nearby table struck her as business travelers rather than tourists. The scent of whiskey, beer and popcorn filled the air, and in a corner a jukebox played the blues.

  Each time the heavy, beveled glass door was pushed open, she glanced toward it, but so far Zach McDaniels hadn’t arrived. The good news was he hadn’t missed anything. The bad news was he hadn’t missed anything. So far the skirt hadn’t gotten much attention. Of course, it was a little difficult for it to have much of an effect on anyone when it was completely hidden by a table and the staff of Metropolitan.

  “Bill said you have absolute faith in McDaniels.”

  The moment Chelsea realized Hal Davidson was talking to her, she dragged her gaze from the door back to him.

  “You’ve known him for a while, I take it?”

  “Well,” Chelsea paused when she realized that everyone in the booth was looking at her. She couldn’t very well tell them that she’d told Bill that on the spur of the moment to defuse a fight. “Not that long. But he seems to be a man who knows how to get what he wants.”

  “Yeah, but what he wants could easily sink this magazine,” Hal pointed out.

  “If you think he’s wrong, why don’t you tell him so?” Chelsea asked.

  Hal reached for his glass, the ring on his pinky catching the light. “Are you going to be doing any more articles?”

  “Three more, I hope.”

  Hal stared at her in surprise. “Not in the same vein as your last one, I’ll bet.”

  “Actually, I’m writing about my adventures when I wear this skirt one of my college roommates gave me
.” Pausing, she leaned forward and pitched her voice lower. “It’s supposed to attract men.”

  “You’re kidding,” Carleton Bushell said, turning to her. “You can’t think a piece of clothing possesses special powers.”

  “Who knows?” Chelsea said. “Don’t all of you have something that you think brings you luck—like a special tie that you always wear to an interview?”

  Carleton narrowed his eyes and she noticed that once more all of the men at the table were looking at her. Some of their expressions were skeptical; others were thoughtful. Bill Anderson was the one who finally spoke. “I have a special hat I always wear when I go fishing.”

  “There you go.” Glancing around the table, she decided to push her advantage. “Think about your wives and girlfriends. Don’t they have something that they wear that you like a whole lot, something that sort of gives off a signal?”

  Carleton Bushnell chuckled. “Well, if young McDaniels is going to print an article like that, maybe the shift he’s making in the magazine won’t be as drastic as he outlined this afternoon.”

  “Well, I’m—” Chelsea began, intending to tell them that she was still trying to convince Zach to publish the articles, but Carleton Bushnell had turned to Bill Anderson.

  “I think you were right to hold off on that letter of resignation. Perhaps we ought to tell the guy what we think and then cut him a little slack. We all know that some changes have to be made. The magazine’s been losing subscribers ever since the old man got ill. Could be that a new direction is what we need.”

  “Yeah, but what direction? That’s the question,” Bill Anderson said.

  “He’s hardly going to increase sales numbers by turning Metropolitan into a literary magazine,” Hal pointed out.

  “Well, this young lady isn’t exactly writing literature, and young McDaniels is buying her articles.” Carleton winked at Chelsea. “You got any tips for someone my age.”

  Bill let out a whoop of laughter. “There isn’t a fire hot enough to heat you up, Bushnell.”

  Since he was old enough to be her father, Chelsea winked at Carleton. It was her chance to get out of the booth. “Ask me to dance and I’ll share a few secrets.”

  “Whoa,” the photographer said. “He’s a dangerous man, Ms. Brockway. You’d be safer dancing with me.”

  “Safe?” Carleton’s crack of laughter filled the air. “The lady doesn’t want safe. You’re either a hottie or you’re not,” he said as he slid from the booth drawing Chelsea with him.

  She was just stepping into his arms on the small square of parquet floor in front of the jukebox when she felt the chill of the door opening again. Chelsea knew instantly that Zach had entered the bar. She felt the pressure of his gaze on the back of her neck, a tightening in her stomach and a weakness in her legs.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she managed not to sag against Carleton. When he swung her around, she saw Esme first and then her gaze locked with Zach’s. For one long moment there might have been no one else in the room. Every sensation that had flooded her system when he’d kissed her moved through her again—the spiraling pleasure, the urgency, the incredible craving for more. It had been too much. It hadn’t been nearly enough.

  Carleton swung her around again, and she very nearly lost her balance.

  “Sorry,” she said, glancing up at him.

  “Some guys have all the luck.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not too old to know when the woman I’m dancing with is looking at another man.”

  “If you mean… It’s not what you’re thinking,” she made the mistake of glancing at Zach again. He was scowling. “I’m not. We’re not…” She stumbled.

  Carleton grinned at her. “Make sure you tell him that when he comes over to pound his fist into my face.”

  “Maybe I should go powder my nose.”

  “Much obliged. My nose owes you one.”

  Unfortunately, the rest rooms were located down a corridor near the entrance to the bar and although she kept her gaze averted, Chelsea was sure that she could feel Zach’s eyes on her every step of the way. She even imagined that she could feel the pressure of his gaze as it moved down the length of her body. That was ridiculous. Her legs were tingling because she’d been sitting too long—or because she hadn’t danced in a long time. But the feeling was still there even after she turned down the narrow hallway. Running the last few steps, she grabbed a door handle and pulled.

  “Whoa, little lady.” Huge hands gripped her arms from behind, lifting her off her feet and setting her down in the hallway. “I don’t think you want to go in there.”

  Chelsea glanced at the stick figure of a man on the door she’d just opened. Then turning around, she faced her rescuer—one of the biggest men she’d ever seen.

  “Thank you,” she managed.

  “No thank you is…neceshary.” He hiccuped. “Pardon me.” One huge hand patted his stomach. “In my part of the country, we enjoy rescuing pretty ladies.”

  Chelsea recognized him as one of the men with the Texas drawls she’d noticed earlier. “Thanks anyway.”

  “No problem. But aren’t you forgetting shhomething?” He took a shuffling step forward, which she countered by taking a quick step back. His face was flushed and after one quick but thorough glance from the top of her head to her feet and back again, he looked as though he might like to swallow her whole.

  “What?” she asked, watching him warily.

  He hiccuped. “In Texas, one good turn deserves another. Even you Yankees must live by that rule.”

  “Sometimes.” She tried to figure out a way past him. The man seemed harmless enough, but he literally blocked the entire width of the hallway.

  “How about a…dance?”

  “I’d love to, but I have to use the ladies’ room. It’s got to be the next one down.”

  He smiled at her as he stepped back into the wall and used one hand to wave her by. “Go right ahead, sugar. I’ll be waiting for that dance.”

  She hurried past him and pulled open the door of the ladies’ room.

  “You’re gonna love the Texas two-step, little lady.”

  Chelsea shut the door and leaned against it for a moment. She’d worry about Mr. Texas later. Right now she had to figure out what to do about Zach McDaniels.

  What in the world was the matter with her, she thought as she walked toward the woman she saw reflected in the wall-to-wall vanity mirror. She had to get a grip. She’d been thinking so much about Zach McDaniels that she’d very nearly walked into the men’s room.

  She stared at her reflection in the mirror. “Focus.”

  She had to prove to Zach that the skirt worked. In her mind, she tried to picture herself doing the two-step with Mr. Texas. Would that do it? Then she tried to visualize herself sitting on one of those burgundy upholstered stools at the bar, her legs crossed, surrounded by men who were laughing at something she’d just said.

  That would be better, but even as the image formed, her gaze dropped to her mouth and the memory of Zach’s kiss flooded into her mind instead. Lifting her hand, she touched her fingers to her bottom lip. Never had anything stirred her that deeply, that intensely. And it had happened so fast. He’d pressed his mouth to hers and… Bam! Her response had been instantaneous. So…elemental. Nothing, no one had ever made her react like that before.

  Narrowing her eyes, Chelsea studied her reflection more closely. There had to be an explanation. But she looked like the same old Chelsea. Her gaze and her thoughts both drifted lower to the skirt.

  No. It couldn’t be. Zach McDaniels was not her true love. If the skirt was working any magic on him, she’d have to find a way to reverse it. He was all wrong for her. He didn’t even want to publish her because her writing style didn’t mesh with his new direction for the magazine.

  Slowly, she met her own gaze in the mirror. He was exactly the kind of man her mother had warned her about. He was rich and charming—just the type who would walk away from her l
ike her father had.

  Hadn’t he admitted he’d asked women in bars for their phone numbers before? He’d probably kissed women on the floor of his office before, too!

  Hadn’t her experience with Boyd the bum taught her anything? She’d been in New York less than a year when she’d fallen for a man who was only interested in a brief fling. She was not going to make that mistake again.

  Pressing a hand against her stomach, she tried to push down the panic. She had to get a grip. She didn’t really believe in the power of the skirt, did she? Narrowing her gaze, she stepped back from the mirror. It was just a plain, black skirt. Just a plain, black skirt. If she kept repeating that to herself, and if she worked fast enough, she could win her bet with Zach, write the articles and then never have to wear it again. She’d overnight it to Kate or Gwen. Then she’d be safe.

  “Have you given up on winning your bet?”

  Startled, Chelsea raised her eyes to see Esme Sinclair shutting the door to the ladies’ room behind her.

  “No,” she said, smiling at the older woman. She hoped that when she reached Esme’s age, she could look half as put together as the older woman did. Glancing back at her own image she decided it was a long shot.

  “Zach sent me to check on you.” Moving to the vanity counter, Esme pulled a lipstick out of her purse. “I think that was a foolish move you made back at the office.”

  Chelsea’s eyes flew to Esme’s in the mirror and she could feel the heat rise in her cheeks. “If you mean… I didn’t. I mean…the kiss…wasn’t what you think.”

  The woman’s perfectly plucked brows rose slightly. “Actually, I was referring to how you convinced him to let you demonstrate how the skirt works. It would have been smarter to take his offer. He would have been very generous, I think.”