Читать книгу Expose Me - Кейт Хьюит - Страница 8
ОглавлениеAlex 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.
