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He blew out a long breath and pressed a hand against the glass. Laura Reed was one of the best PR people in the country. The lawyers were okay with the strategy, with certain ground rules. It was the right thing to do. Except every bone in his body was telling him not to do it. He’d spent eight years avoiding the media. Eight years avoiding any chance that some fame-seeking reporter would smell something wrong about the night his career had ended and expose his biggest mistake. And now he was going to jeopardize that?
His stomach twisted, contracted as though it was being put through a sieve. Laura Reed had called this a contained story. There was only one person on the planet who knew about his biggest lapse in judgment, and that person would never talk. He had to do this. Had to contain Frank Messer in the only way possible. But to give the interview to Izzie after she’d deceived him like that? It made his soul burn.
He slammed his palm against the glass. That he’d fallen into James Curry’s trap so easily was downright embarrassing. How had his radar not picked up on what Izzie was? Because of course she’d been staking him out. He’d deliberately waited until the crowds were gone to get on that elevator, and she’d stood there jabbering on her phone until exactly the right moment to jump on with him.
What he wanted to know was why she hadn’t asked him about the interview that night in London while she’d had the chance. Why had she waited until the charity event to ambush him? Had she been trying to soften him up first? Then make the ask?
He rubbed his hand over his face, fatigue attacking every cell of his body. If he were to be honest, the disappointment was the worst. Yes, he’d lusted after her that night as any red-blooded male would have. But it had been more than that. He’d liked Izzie. She’d seemed different from the jaded, ambitious women who filled his social circles. And when he’d seen her again that night, he couldn’t stay away. Hadn’t wanted to.
His mouth tightened as he looked down at the midday traffic jamming Lexington Avenue. He’d broken his iron-clad rule not to trust another female after one night of potently good sex. Crazy, when there couldn’t be a man alive who’d received such a clear demonstration of the untrustworthiness of women than him, not once but twice in his life. First with his mother, who’d walked out on his family for another man. Then with his own blind faith in the fiancée he’d been so madly in love with he hadn’t seen her betrayal coming until she’d set her engagement ring down on the kitchen table and told him she was leaving him for his biggest competition—the man who’d taken his job and his dream along with it.
He would never trust a woman again. Ever. So why had Izzie gotten to him so?
Why did he still want her?
He let out a curse and levered himself away from the window. Even after everything she’d done, he still burned for her. Maybe it was the desire for revenge...maybe he just couldn’t get enough. Whatever it was, it was still insistently there.
He walked to his desk and picked up his espresso. The plan he’d devised would rid him of both problems. He would handle Isabel Peters far more deftly than she’d tried to handle him. He would take what he wanted and walk away. And he was going to enjoy every minute of it.
A knock sounded on the door. Grace slipped in, set a pile of papers on his desk and turned her curious gaze on him. “Isabel Peters is here.”
“Thanks. Show her in.”
He leaned against the front of his solid wooden desk as Izzie appeared in the doorway, wearing a simple green dress that hugged her lush figure. He zeroed in on the stiff set of her face and shoulders. She was nervous. Good.
He gestured toward the sitting area by the windows. “Have a seat.”
She walked past him and perched on the corner of one of the matching leather chairs. He sauntered over and sat opposite her, deliberately letting silence reign until she squirmed in her seat.
“What made you change your mind?”
“My management team thinks we need the public on our side.”
“You’ll do the interview then?”
He nodded. “With a few conditions.”
A guarded look replaced the relieved glimmer in her eyes. “Which are?”
“We have complete control over the final edit.”
“That’ll never happen.”
“Then you won’t get the interview.”
She frowned. “What else?”
“You’ll be the reporter.”
“James assigned the story to me. It’s mine.”
He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “That part I don’t understand. The community reporter doing an investigative feature? Working your way up the ladder Hollywood-style, Iz?”
She clenched her hands in her lap, fire flashing in her dark eyes. “What’s it going to take for you to believe the truth? I didn’t know it was you, Alex.”
“Give it up,” he encouraged in a bored tone. “We’re wasting time here. What I am interested in,” he said deliberately, “is if you’re still part of the package?”
Her face turned the exact color of his fire-engine-red Ferrari. “That was way over the line.”
“Too bad,” he gibed. “I’m in the driver’s seat now. You need me.”
She looked down at her hands, twisted them together in her lap. “You said a few conditions...”
He nodded. “I’m assuming you want to get started on the interview right away?”
She inclined her head.
“I have business in California this week,” he drawled. “You’ll need to come with me.”
Her mouth fell open. “I—we—I can’t do that. We can do the pre-interviews by phone.”
He shook his head. “We do it in person or we don’t do it at all.”
She chewed on her lip, uncertainty glittering in those big brown eyes. “What’s the matter?” he goaded. “You were all over me that night in London.”
“That was real,” she hissed. “This has to be strictly business now.”
He moved his gaze leisurely over her curves in the sexy, understated dress. “Why, when we clearly mix business and pleasure so well?”
Her back went ramrod straight. “That’s enough.”
A slow smile stretched his lips. “I recognize ambition, Iz. I get it. I’m ruthless too. Why not scratch the itch? Get it out of our systems?”
She flashed him a heated look. “If we do this it’s business.”
He crossed one leg over the other in an indolent gesture. “Does your boss know we’ve slept together? How far you decided to take it? Or was that just because you were enjoying it and you made the call?”
She stood up. “I’m done with this conversation.”
“Get your bag packed, Iz.” He rolled to his feet. “We leave tomorrow morning.”
“I can’t do that.” She gaped at him. “I have stories I’m working on.”
“Hand them off,” he ordered, striding over to his desk. “Grace will call you with the details. Oh,” he added, sitting down in his chair. “Don’t forget your bathing suit. The pool is spectacular.”
Her mouth tightened. She walked out without a backward glance. He smiled and pulled a file toward him. He’d bet his Ferrari Izzie looked amazing in a bikini. He couldn’t wait to find out.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHE REALLY SHOULD get out of the sun, Izzie thought lazily, staring up at the perfect, clear blue California sky. Except after the stress of the past couple of days, heaven right now was floating on her back in Alex’s infinity pool and escaping the heat.
She sighed and trailed her hands through the water. It was one of those sweat-inducing, steaming-hot summer California days that made everyone go a little crazy. So she’d done what any self-respecting native Californian would have done while Alex was in San Francisco in meetings and the ever-present tension between them was gone for a few hours. She’d headed outside to the pool, armed with a pitcher of cold lemonade and a book.
She should get out of the sun. And she would soon. It was just that the infinity pool with its gasp-inducing, hundred-foot drop to the Pacific was like teetering on the edge of heaven. In fact, everything about Alex’s excessively private Spanish-style home perched over the wildly beautiful golden beaches of Malibu was heavenly. Acres of tropical gardens swamped the grounds with color, its expansive outdoor living spaces encouraging one to spend all their time outside. And then there was the house, with the works of the great Impressionists on the walls.
She flicked her hand through the water and sent an arc of diamond-shaped drops through the air. It was a privileged, luxurious slice of paradise, as elusive to most as the man she’d been interviewing all week. Four days into their stay, three days into their background interviews, and she still knew so little about the man behind the trophies she was afraid to pick up James’s calls. That night in London hadn’t been an outlier. Alex didn’t talk about himself. Had given one-line answers to every question she’d asked and nothing more.
She shut her eyes against the blinding rays of the sun, sweat dripping down her forehead and beneath her lashes. Alex was hosting a party for business associates tomorrow, after which she was headed back to New York, with or without the story. Which meant today she had to get him to talk. A near impossible task when your interview subject had zero trust in you.
