Читать книгу The Sexiest Man Alive - Сандра Мартон, Sandra Marton - Страница 7

CHAPTER ONE

SUSANNAH stepped from the shower, wrapped herself in a towel and raced down the chilly hallway to the kitchen.

This day—this very important day—was not off to a good start.

The shower had been so cold it had made her teeth chatter. The radiators were rattling enough to wake the dead, but the heat trickling out of them wouldn’t have heated a dollhouse. And, as she set the kettle on to boil, a cockroach the size of Godzilla scurried across the linoleum.

But it was what she read on the clock over the stove that set her heart pounding

Seven-fifteen?

It couldn’t be. No way. It was six-fifteen, it had to be. She’d set her alarm an hour earlier than usual, given herself more than enough time to get dressed, put on her makeup and blow-dry her hair, have a slice of toast with her coffee, make Peter his breakfast and still arrive at the office before anyone else.

It was important to seem cool, calm and collected when she started today’s meeting, and never mind that her heart would be in her throat. Even the fortune cookie that had come with last night’s order of take-out General Tso’s chicken had said that much.

Tomorrow, the little slip of paper in the cookie had promised, is the first day of the rest of your life.

Well, of course it is, the practical little voice in Susannah’s head had whispered, but the other voice, the one that lived in her heart or her soul or wherever it was hopes and prayers lived, that voice had said, You see, Susannah? The whole world knows that you’re standing on the edge of your dream.

Editor-in-chief. Not in five years, or ten, but right now. A giant step up the ladder. A Career, capital C, and all that went with it—independence, respect and security. That was the dream. Now, long before she’d ever imagined it would happen, she had her shot at achieving it. And she wasn’t going to be shoved off course by a malfunctioning kitchen clock.

The clock was definitely’broken, that was all there was to it. She’d set her alarm, it had gone off...and if she needed any further proof that it was after six, not after seven, all she had to do was take a look at Peter, who was still lying asleep in her bed.

Susannah gave a sigh of relief. That was something, anyway The last thing she needed right now was to have to deal with Peter’s early-morning grumpiness. He was gorgeous, and she adored him, but there were times you had to tiptoe around his ego. He was, typically, disgustingly, arrogantly male.

Well, no Mr. Matthew Romano, he of the smug smiles and the decorative blondes, he was typically male. Peter, on the other hand, could be a sweetheart when he wanted to. And he understood that her life could not revolve around him. He didn’t complain if she worked late or expect her to put her career on hold so she could be there to take care of his needs.

“It’s because he doesn’t really love you, Suze,” Claire had said more than once.

But he did, in his own way. He put what he could into the relationship, which was undoubtedly more than could be said of someone like Matthew Romano....

What on earth was wrong with her this morning? Why was she wasting precious time thinking about a man she’d never even met?

“Ridiculous,” she said.

Ridiculous, indeed. There was absolutely no reason for the insufferable Mr. Romano to wander through her thoughts, but this was the second or third time it had happened since she’d seen him on the Cape. Actually, it had been equally ridiculous for her to have taken such an instant dislike to him It was just the way he’d strutted along with the blonde on his arm and that smug, I-am-the-world’s-gift-to-womankind smile on his face.

Positively insufferable.

She’d never even have noticed him if she hadn’t been thinking about CHIC and about publishing. There was Ted Turner, who everybody knew was brilliant and who looked like a nice guy, and then, by contrast, there was Matthew Romano, who’d probably never done anything more difficult in his life than play with his money and his groupies, looking as if he figured every woman on the planet wanted his body

Not that it was a bad-looking body.

Susannah frowned and plucked her watch from the dresser. By now, it should be just about a quarter after six....

Oh God.

Her stomach tumbled to her toes.

Mickey Mouse grinned at her, one white-gloved, fourfingered hand pointing at the number four, and the other...

The other pointed straight at seven.

She tossed the bath towel across the room. It soared through the air and onto the bed, landing, with a dreadful accuracy, on Peter’s head.

“No,” she whispered, but it was too late. Peter came awake in a flash, bristling with anger. He shot to his feet and glared at her through cold green eyes. “Peter Oh, Petey, sweetheart, I didn’t mean. ”

Whether she’d meant it or not didn’t matter Peter didn’t believe in apologies. He never had, not since the day he’d come into her life. She watched as he turned his back on her and stalked from the room.

“Do your thing, Peter,” she muttered. “I couldn’t care less. I’ve got more important things to worry about this morning than you and your attitude.”

Peter muttered something out in the hall, but Susannah paid no attention. She was going to be late. Later than late, and on this, the first day of the rest of her life.

Well, it was.

She was holding the very first meeting she’d ever called at CHIC, the first she’d oversee as its editor-in-chief. That was the good news. The bad was that the meeting might be her last, unless this morning’s brainstorming session ended in some wild and wonderful idea that would make the brass from Update Publications decide their latest acquisition was worth keeping alive Otherwise, CHIC and the biggest chance she’d ever had in her career, along with all the magazine’s staffers, were going to be flushed out to sea.

Susannah threw another harried glance at her watch as she pulled on her jeans.

Seven twenty-four. If she got out of here in the next ten minutes—make that eight minutes—she had a chance. All she had to do was put on a shirt, her sneakers, find the notes she’d worked on all weekend, dump them into her handbag...

Peter yelled.

All she had to do was finish dressing, get her stuff together, give Peter his breakfast, and she’d be on her way.

She yanked a Beethoven’s Got the Beat T-shirt over her head. Droplets of water flew from her short black curls. She shrugged impatiently and tunneled her fingers through her hair. Forget about the luxury of blow-drying. Forget about toast, or even coffee. Forget about everything but the meeting. Assuming the subway trains weren’t running late, assuming the construction mess around Third Avenue had been cleaned up, assuming all was right with the world, maybe, maybe, she could make it into the office on time.

She had to.

On Friday, she’d laid down the rules for today’s conference. She’d done it not by E-mail or interoffice memo—it was too important for that. Instead, she’d told her secretary to phone each person in the CHIC organization, from Eddie the mail-room boy...

“Eddie, the mail-room intern,” Pam had said, raising her eyebrows.

“I don’t care if he’s Eddie, the mail-room CEO,” Susannah had answered. “Just make sure he and everybody else knows I want them assembled in the boardroom today at ten minutes to five.”

They’d straggled in, which she’d expected. CHIC was casual when it came to dress, something that was pretty common in the publishing world, but now, thanks to the revolving-door editor-in-chief policy, some of the staff had an attitude of indifference that verged on apathy. Her staffers had crowded into the room with their containers of coffee, their cans of diet cola, and once they were all there, Susannah held up her hands for quiet.

“Here’s the deal,” she’d said briskly. “It’s just a matter of time before this Update outfit decides to take a closer look at us. When they do, we’d better be ready to dazzle ’em with facts and figures and plans for the future so they leave thinking that CHIC is an eagle, ready to fly—instead of a dying swan that needs to be shot to put it out of its misery.”

“I don’t think they do that to swans,” the features editorial assistant had said, but she was shushed to silence

“I want you all to go home and think about what we need to do to kick start this magazine into the twenty-first century,” Susannah had continued. “And then I want you to show up here Monday morning, ready with innovative projects that will work, not just ideas that are impractical and expensive. And I want you all here promptly at eight.”

There were grumbles and protests, but Susannah had stood firm.

“Look at it this way, people,” she’d said. “If we’re not ready with an A-number-one plan when Update comes in, we might as well figure on convening our next meeting at the unemployment office.”

That had stopped the protests. CHIC’s staffers had filed out of the boardroom looking unhappy but determined.

“Eight sharp,” Claire had said, and Susannah had nodded.

“Exactly,” she’d replied.

The big hand on the twelve. The little hand on the eight. Eight exactly. Not eight oh-five, or eight-ten. Eight.

Susannah puffed out her breath. There was nothing like setting a good example for the troops.

Okay. Zip up the jeans. Fluff up the hair one more time so maybe it wouldn’t dry plastered to her head. Pull on socks, tuck feet into sneakers, tie laces...

Tear lace on right sneaker in half.

Easy. She had to stay calm. There had to be another pair of laces somewhere in the room In the dresser drawers. In the closet...

There wasn’t. Susannah said a word that would have made her grandmother blush. She grabbed two safety pins from the top drawer, hooked them through the eyelets on the sneaker, linked them together and closed them.

Then she stood and looked in the mirror.

Oh, boy.

No makeup. A hairdo that would have brought tears to the eyes of her hairdresser. A T-shirt that had a bleach spot on the sleeve and jeans that had really seen better days.

There was no sense even thinking about the safety pins and the sneaker.

Nevertheless, she was ready, and wasn’t it a good thing that CHIC was so casual, because if she’d had to put on panty hose and iron a blouse, pick out a suit, buff a pair of pumps, put on makeup and jewelry and fix her hair, it would be noon before she got herself out the door.

As it was, Mickey was already pointing his white-gloved hand at...

Oh, hell.

Susannah raced from the bedroom and nearly collided with Peter, who was waiting for her in the middle of the hall. He opened his mouth, but she didn’t give him the chance to say anything.

“I know, I know. You’re starved. You’re famished. And you’re incapable of doing a thing about it without my help.”

Peter sat down, his green eyes fixed on her as she banged open the cabinet over the stove.

“Sardine Soufflé,” she said. “How’s that sound?”

Peter yawned.

“Salmon Surprise? Bacon Bordelaise? Mmm, mmm, good.”

Peter scratched his ribs.

“Tuna,” Susannah said through her teeth. “You love tuna, Petey. You know you do.”

Peter looked toward the window. Susannah could have sworn she heard him whistling.

“All right,” she said grimly. “You win. Lobster and Shrimp Ragout, and you’d better remember this moment, Peter, because now you owe me one.”

Peter turned and looked at her “Meowr,” he said in the sweetest voice any Persian pussycat had ever possessed. He jumped gracefully onto the counter and butted his furry head against Susannah’s chin.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Susannah said wearily, but she smiled and kissed him right between his silky ears

Whatever else happened today, at least she had Peter to come home to.

The view from Matthew Romano’s suite in the new and elegant Manhattan Towers Hotel was, the concierge had assured him on checking in, spectacular.

“Spe-tac-u-lair, Monsieur Romano,” was actually what the guy had said, in a gurgling French accent Matthew suspected to be about as legitimate as the Rolex watches hawked on the sidewalk a couple of streets over, but Matthew had nodded politely and said he was delighted to hear it.

The truth was, he didn’t much care about the view. A man who’d built what the experts had taken to calling an empire in less than ten years was a man who spent a lot of time in hotel rooms. The rooms had improved as the Romano holdings had grown, but a hotel was still a hotel. Spe-tac-u-lair views, chilled Dom Pérignon, baskets of flowers and gold-plated bathroom fixtures couldn’t change that one whit

Whatever a whit might be, Matthew thought, as he stood gazing out the window of his sitting room. It was still early, just a little past seven, but traffic already clogged Fifth Avenue Back home in San Francisco, most people would still be asleep...most people, but not the ones who earned their living from the sea.

There were times he was still amazed that he wasn’t one of them. It was an honest way to make a buck but, even as a boy, he’d always suspected there was more to life. He hadn’t wanted to begin his day while the rest of San Francisco slept or to pull on clothes that smelled of crabs and fish and sweat no matter how many times you washed them And he sure as hell hadn’t wanted to work his butt off for barely enough money to pay the bills

It was what his father had done, and his grandfather. It was what he’d been expected to do, too.

The smile vanished. Matthew straightened, thrust his fingers through his dark hair and turned his back to the window and to the memories.

All that was years behind him. He worked his butt off, yes, but he loved every minute of what he did. Someday, maybe, he’d want more. A wife. A family.

But not yet.

When he was ready, he’d find himself a wife. He knew exactly the kind of woman she’d be. Beautiful, of course, and serene. Eager to please. He could see himself coming home to her at night, kissing her, leaving behind the rough-and-tumble of business as he settled into his easy chair.

His wife would be a calm haven in the stormy seas he sailed.

He’d said as much once, to his grandmother. Nonna had rolled her eyes and reminded him that even though he towered over her now, that wouldn’t stop her from whacking him across the backside if he needed it. A calm haven? Mama mia, what was he? A rowboat? Such a woman would bore him to tears in a month.

“A woman who can stand up to your Sicilian temper is what you need,” Nonna had said.

Matthew grinned at the memory. His Nonna was right about most things, but she was wrong about this. Who knew what kind of woman he needed better than the man himself?

“And you’re never going to meet the right woman if you don’t look for her,” Nonna had added, stamping her cane on the floor for good measure.

Well, he was looking. Slowly, maybe, but still, he was looking.

Matthew whistled as he strolled into the marble bathroom and turned on the shower.

Why rush something so pleasurable?

He shucked the boxer briefs he’d slept in, stepped into the stall, pressed his palms flat against the wall and bent his head. The water felt good, beating down on his neck and shoulders, and gave him time to think about the morning’s agenda.

He smiled thinly. And what an agenda it was.

He was really looking forward to his meeting with the definitely snide and probably incompetent Susan Something-or-other. Madison? Washington? Coolidge? A President’s name. Not that it mattered. Once it was on a severance check, Susan Whatever and her clever office memos would be history.

What sort of woman wrote stuff like that about a man she didn’t even know? What sort of woman played games with one man and sent love and kisses to another?

A woman who thought the sexual revolution meant she could have the best of both worlds. Susan Hoover figured she could make the kinds of cracks about men that she’d undoubtedly condemned men for making about women, but she saw nothing wrong with insisting on gender neutrality when the situation suited her.

Matthew shut off the shower and reached for a towel. Oh, yeah. He had this broad figured out right down to the dotted line.

He strode into the bedroom and put on a pair of white briefs and navy socks. Then he opened the wall-to-wall mirrored closet and reached for a pale blue shirt.

The woman had made the most incredibly sexist comments about him, then done a one-eighty and blithely assumed she’d been passed over for promotion because she was female. And that was wrong. Dead wrong. Matthew had done a little research into CHIC It had given him everything the company had about her, and from what he could see, Susan Whatever was about as qualified to head a magazine as she was to write material for a stand-up comic.

Which was why she had to go.

His eyes narrowed as he zipped the fly of his customtailored gray trousers and slipped on the matching jacket.

His decision had nothing to do with the stuff she’d said about him, that the women he dated were dumb or for calling him studly and brainless. Or for saying he figured he was the sexiest man alive.

He wasn’t a vindictive man. It didn’t mean a thing to him that half his team had read the woman’s comments, that he’d heard the choked-back laughter at the next couple of meetings, that even now somebody on his staff would look at him and bite back a grin.

“It doesn’t bother me in the slightest,” Matthew said briskly to his reflection.

He snatched up his black leather briefcase, marched to the door, opened it and stepped into the hotel corridor.

“Damned right, it doesn’t,” he muttered, and slammed the door after him, so hard that it rattled.