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“Oh, you’re all such sweethearts,” she’d said, at which point Matthew had made a decision.
He could watch Susannah laugh and smile and have a good time with the four overgrown, overmuscled, oversexed pretty boys and end up in a straitjacket, or he could rationally, reasonably and intelligently point out that the layout, as they’d planned it, just wasn’t going to work.
And so he’d called them all together, sat them down in Susannah’s suite—the corporate suite, as he now referred to it—and he’d explained, with the same touch of concern in his voice he used when he explained things to the worried executives of failing corporations, that CHIC had made a mistake.
“I know,” he’d said gently, “that you think this is going to work. Letting your readers experience this weekend through Susannah, I mean.”
“Well, sure,” Claire had said, and Matthew had sighed, looked to the ceiling, and shaken his head with regret.
“I’m afraid not.”
Susannah hadn’t spoken. She’d sat across from him, her face giving nothing away. Claire, however, had leaped to her feet.
“Of course it’ll work. Maybe Suze hasn’t explained it completely. She’s…how can I put it? She’s our readers’ surrogate, Matthew. She’s their conduit to pleasure.”
The picture that artful phrase had put into his head had been enough to make him want to abduct Susannah and hide her away forever. Instead, he’d spouted some nonsense about how readers would feel if Susannah, their dear friend and guide to sexy pleasures, turned out to be the focus of the finalists’ attentions.
“They’ll feel cheated,” he’d said solemnly. “As if someone had stolen their fantasy.”
There’d been a silence. Claire had looked at Susannah, Susannah had looked at Claire, they’d both looked at the photographer…
“He’s right,” the photographer had said. “It’s like that ad campaign for Lollapalooza Lipsticks, you know? Where they shot the movie star and his latest love? The company figured every woman in the world would buy their stuff, but it didn’t work out Chicks took one look at the guy’s lady and thought, well, if she’s got him, what hope is there for me?”
“But this isn’t like that,” Susannah said, and then, all at once, everybody was talking, even the hairdresser, all of them looking at Matthew as if he’d just discovered the cure for the common cold, and what could she say that wouldn’t have sounded as if she were upset about being shut out of the photos? And, dammit, it had nothing to do with that. If anything, Matthew’s pronouncement had come as a relief.
She hadn’t stopped to think what it would be like, having the camera focus on her, having Jimmy telling her to smile, to flirt, to tilt her head. The Sexiests were turning out to be nice guys, nicer than she’d expected, but they were accustomed to the flash of the camera. She wasn’t.
In fact, she’d found that she hated it.
And yet, she didn’t hate the camera half as much as she hated Matthew. Oh, he’d given her an explanation for his being here, but she didn’t buy it. What was the real reason? He’d trusted her with CHIC until now, so what had changed? Was he really so convinced she’d mess up that he’d felt it necessary to come marching onto her turf? Or was he simply determined to do what he’d sworn not to do—to undermine her authority?
She wasn’t about to ask him. And she wasn’t going to knuckle under. She would be a constant, silent, critical presence.
At least, that had been her intention.
Now, glowering at him over the circumference of a tiny, glass-topped table, her resolve was slipping.
“You’re making a mistake,” she said icily. “You can bark out all the orders you want, but you’re doing this all wrong.”
Everyone fell silent and stared at her.
“Now, wait just a minute, Madison…”
“No. No, you wait, Romano.” And then, because business was business and anger was anger and the two had nothing to do with each other, she tossed him a bone. “All right. Maybe you were right about readers not wanting to see me with the Sexiests.”
Matthew’s brows lifted. “Maybe?”
“But they’ll want to see something. Someone. Some girl dancing with Zeke or looking into Bart’s eyes.”
Matthew frowned. “You know, you just might be right.”
For a moment, she thought he might be about to apologize. Instead, he turned toward Claire.
“Do we have contacts at any French modeling agencies?”
“French modeling…” Claire frowned. “Yes. Yes, we do. I’ve dealt with this one place.”
“Call them. Ask them to send over…” Matthew looked at the four Sexiests, who were trying to look inconspicuous. “Fellas? Blonde? Brunette? Redhead? If you have preferences, sing out now.”
“One of each,” Zeke said, with a grin.
Everybody but Susannah laughed.
“You heard the man,” Matthew said. “Only make it two of each, so we can be sure we get only the best.”
* * *
Night was falling over Paris.
Susannah stood at the window in her sitting room. She’d showered, washed her hair, put on a long, pink silk robe, and now she was toasting the sun as it set behind the chimney-pot rooftops.
“Cheers,” she said softly, and lifted her glass of diet cola to the sight.
It had been one hell of a long, terrible day, but now it was over. Tomorrow morning, her finalists and the French models would head for Versailles and the first of six photo shoots. She’d never been there, but she’d seen pictures of the palace. It was magnificent. The Sexiests would do it proud.. and so would the girls Matthew had hired.
He had certainly put himself into his work.
Susannah frowned and took another sip.
“You do the interviewing, Madison,” he’d said, with a pompous, aren’t-I-generous smile.
“Don’t be silly, Mr. Romano,” she’d said, with a smile that more than matched his. “You do it. You’re the expert on blondes, but I’m sure you can handle redheads and brunettes if you put your mind to it. I’ll just sit here and take notes.”
The bastard hadn’t had the good sense to know she was insulting him. He’d simply shrugged, said they’d do it whatever way she liked and told Claire to send in the first girl.
The first was a DB. No surprise there.
“And what is your name, mademoiselle?” Matthew had asked, purring.
“Yvette, monsieur.” Yvette had giggled. “And I understand it would please you to have me be of some service.”
Service, indeed, Susannah had thought.
Matthew had given her a sexy grin. “Just hold that thought, Yvette,” he’d said.
There was more give-and-take, but Susannah had tuned out. Why listen to a man make an ass of himself over a woman? Why pay attention to a woman making a fool of herself over a man
?
Yvonne followed Yvette, Clara followed Claudette, blah, blah, blah. Susannah had participated by yawning. Matthew was in charge. Let him pick the winners.
Or let the winners pick him.
“I am late for an appointment, monsieur,” a blonde with big violet eyes had whispered in a bad mutation of Marilyn Monroe. “Perhaps we could conduct the rest of this interview this evening…if monsieur should be interested, that is.”
And she’d bent low over the desk, low enough so her breasts had threatened to bounce out of her dress, and handed Matthew a card with her address scrawled across it.
Susannah paced away from the window.
That was probably where he was now. Celebrating in his own fashion. Everyone else had gone out to dinner. Claire had phoned to ask her to join them.
“You don’t have to worry about clashing with Matthew, either,” she’d added. “He begged off.”
Of course, he’d begged off. Why would he choose to spend an evening battling with her when he could be out dancing with Claudette or Yvonne? Or not dancing. Maybe they were sipping champagne. Maybe they were dining by candlelight. Maybe they were—maybe they were…
“Stop it,” Susannah whispered angrily.
What did it matter? Matthew could do what he liked, where he liked, with whom he liked. She certainly didn’t care. He was her employer, and business didn’t mix with pleasure.
Tears blurred her vision. She shook her head, wiped her hand across her eyes. What was there to cry about? She’d made wonderful progress in her career. Her life was going exactly the way she wanted it.
There was a knock at the door. Susannah sighed. It had to be Claire. She meant well, but she just wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“Just a minute,” she yelled.
Quickly, she detoured into the bathroom, snatched a tissue from the vanity and dabbed at her eyes. She ran her hands through her hair, fixed what she hoped would be a passable smile to her lips and hurried to the door.
“Claire,” she said, as she opened it, “really, I don’t feel—”
But it wasn’t Claire. It was Matthew. Matthew, looking heart-stoppingly handsome in a dark suit and with a bouquet of flowers in his hand.
