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Susannah, who had been staring at Matthew Romano, switched her gaze to the second man. What, exactly, did that mean? What had the detestable Mr. Romano said? If he’d talked about what had happened in the boardroom, she’d have bet anything he hadn’t been honest, hadn’t told his brother—who looked like a very nice man—that he’d taken advantage of the situation to confuse, intimidate and infuriate her so he could come on to her.
Because that was what he’d done, all right. Taken advantage. Otherwise, he’d never have been gotten away with kissing her. And she’d never have responded. Not that she had responded. Why would she? She’d been kissed before, caressed before…
But not driven wild before, she thought, and she felt the color race into her face.
Stop that, she told herself fiercely, and took Joe’s outstretched hand.
“I’ll make a deal with you, Mr Romano,” she said, with a cool smile. “If you’ll remember to discount ninety-nine percent of whatever your brother said, I won’t hold it against you that you and he are related.”
Joe laughed with delight. Matthew’s eyes narrowed to slits.
“Miss Madison. I’m a busy man. In fact, my brother and I were just—”
“Just about to have a second cup of coffee. Won’t you join us?”
“Joe,” Matthew said tersely, “we have a plane to catch.”
“Matt’s such a joker.” Joe chuckled as he pulled out a chair. “The plane belongs to him. It doesn’t leave until he does. Isn’t that right, Matt?”
“Oh, yeah,” Matthew said through his teeth. “I just love to joke around.” Susannah had already seated herself at the table, and Joe was slipping into his seat, too. He bit back the urge to bark at them both. He’d lost control once today, thanks to this woman. It wasn’t going to happen a second time, especially with Joe to witness it. “Okay,” he snapped, and sat down, arms folded over his chest. “You’ve got five minutes to explain what you’re doing here.”
Susannah nodded. Five minutes was four minutes more than she’d let herself hope for. The question was, where to begin? Everybody at CHIC was singing Matthew Romano’s praises. Only she knew the man was a gold-plated, icy-hearted rat.
And a rat, even in a suit and tie, would always be a rat.
The staff had gone crazy after he’d left.
“Oh, Suze,” Claire had squealed, “Suze, you’re a miracle worker! What did you do to convince the man to give us a chance?”
That, she was sure, had been her cue to blush and stammer and make up a story that would cover the fact that he expected her to sleep with him if she wanted the magazine to survive. Did Romano really think she was that desperate? Or that naive? She wouldn’t have slept with him if giant bugs from Betelgeuse conquered Earth and he and she were humankind’s last chance at survival.
Well, maybe she’d do it, then. After all, there’d be a serious reason to make such a sacrifice, to sleep with a man even if she hated his guts.
Even if he was gorgeous. Susannah’s heart gave a little kick. Gorgeous was the word.
Studly.
Still, she’d never sleep with him. She didn’t do that kind of thing.
And he would never suggest it.
There were laws against sexual harassment. No matter what else he was, the man was a savvy businessman. One whiff of a scandalous lawsuit and Romano Inc. would be up to its knees in nasty publicity.
So he’d tossed out the four-weeks, she’s-made-me-very happy lifeline for only one reason. To torture her. To make her spend every day of those next weeks knowing, knowing the chances he’d change his mind about CHIC ranged from zero to none. Her people would hope and dream and work their tails off—and it would all be for nothing. She and the heartless Matthew Romano would be the only ones who knew it.
Standing there, facing Claire and the others, Susannah had realized that it didn’t have to be that way. Romano was a savvy businessman, and if she could find a way to make CHIC’s circulation and advertising rates increase, he’d be a fool to shut it down just to get even with her.
If there was a buck to be made, Romano would want to make it.
All she had to do was find the way. And that’s when she’d remembered the idea she’d come up with on the way to work. So she’d phoned his secretary, started to race out the door, remembered how she looked and asked herself if the CEO of a multimillion-dollar firm would pay more attention to a proposal made by a woman wearing jeans and a sweatshirt or one made by a woman dressed like an executive.
The answer had been so obvious it hadn’t required any effort at all. What had required effort was figuring out how to change clothes without heading all the way downtown, then turning around and heading uptown again. Her only hope had been to cross her fingers and tell everybody a white he. She said she’d just had a call inviting her to lunch with Romano at his hotel.
“Impressive,” Claire had breathed.
“I know,” Susannah had answered, “but I have to be there in fifteen minutes, and just look at me.”
So, here she was, wearing a black wool suit scrounged from a fashion shoot and a pair of shoes donated by Amy, CHIC’s very own fashion maven. The jacket was too snug, the skirt too short, the heels too high, but none of that mattered. What mattered was that she’d made it. She was here., seated opposite a glowering man who probably suspected she’d figured out his game and, by God, she was going to make the most of her allotted five minutes if—
“Three minutes left, Miss Madison.”
Joe Romano gave an exaggerated sigh.
“Pay no attention, Susannah. You don’t mind if I call you that, do you?”
“No. No, I—”
“I don’t believe in formality, do I, Matt?” Joe decided to ignore Matthew’s warning look. His big brother was rattled. It was a rare, hell, a unique sight, and he wasn’t about to let the opportunity to have a little fun at Matt’s expense slip by. “My brother, on the other hand, is always formal. And always polite. He’s just not himself today. Are you, Matt?”
“I am completely myself,” Matthew said coldly. “And the seconds are ticking away.”
Susannah slipped her leather bag from her shoulder. “That’s okay,” she said. Her hands were icy with fear, and she fumbled at the clasp. “I don’t need much time to show you this.”
She shoved a notepad across the table. Matthew turned it toward him and looked at it, his brows arcing at the nearly indecipherable scrawls.
“Hieroglyphics? Interesting, but, unfortunately, I am not an Egyptologist.”
“Those are project notes,” Susannah said politely, even though she ached to shove the notepad up that arrogant, masculine nose. “I’m sorry if you can’t make them out, but I wrote them in a rush. I’ll be happy to read them to you.”
“No,” Matthew said.
“Yes,” Joe said.
Matthew looked at his brother. “Didn’t you have an appointment?”
His tone was calm. It had been known to make recalcitrant bankers turn pale. Unfortunately, it didn’t even make Joe blink.
“An appointment? No. How could I? We’re going back to L.A., remember?” Joe smiled at Susannah. “Notes for a project for CHIC? Sounds interesting. I used to manage a magazine myself, once upon a time.”
“It was a college yearbook,” Matthew said, through his teeth.
Susannah cleared her throat. “I’m sure that must have been interesting,” she said carefully.
“Oh, it was.” Joe grinned. “Maybe I could help you develop this plan, whatever it is, for your magazine. I’ve got time on my hands. My brother doesn’t always know what to do with my talents.”
“I’ve got some ideas for your talents that might surprise you,” Matthew said grimly. “And the lady doesn’t have a magazine I have it, and I’m not interested in doing anything but putting it out of its misery.”
“That’s what my notes are all about, Mr. Romano.” Susannah took a deep breath. “I’ve come up with an idea that will turn CHIC around.”
&
nbsp; Matthew laughed. “Only Houdini could turn CHIC around, Miss Madison. Or are you telling me those are notes you took at a séance?”
“CHIC used to be the top-selling magazine for women between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five,” Susannah said, refusing to rise to the bait. She picked up the notepad, flipped a page and tapped her fingers against it. “Just look at these circulation figures: There’s not a publication in the country that wouldn’t kill for numbers like those.”
Matthew dismissed the page with a glance. “Those numbers are five years old,” he said. “They have no relevance.”
“But they do! We lost those readers because we went in the wrong direction. American women in the target age group lead busy lives, Mr. Romano. They have jobs, husbands, children. They don’t want recipes that take two hours to prepare and they don’t need hints on how to vacuum their way to happiness.”
“Do you really think this is news, Miss Madison?”
“They want features that make them forget their troubles, if only for a while. Fantasy, Mr. Romano. Fantasy, that’s what they want. They want to read about—about Venice by moonlight. They want recipes for candlelit suppers even if the reality is that they’re going to end up ordering in pizza.”
“Fascinating,” Matthew said, in a way that sent Susannah’s blood pressure skyrocketing. “There is a diversity of readers—and, I’m certain, a diversity of magazines on the market. If you’re going to suggest CHIC join their ranks—”
“The diversity is the problem, Mr Romano.”
Matthew shot his cuff and looked pointedly at his watch. “As I said, this is fascinating, but I have a dinner appointment on the coast, and—”
“I believe I can double our readership and our advertising revenue by focusing on the one common interest they all share.”
“Your time is up, Miss Madison.” Matthew pushed back his chair and rose. “Joe?”
