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“The guy’s an underhanded son of a bitch,” he’d replied. “Let’s leave it at that.”
“He’s an important son of a bitch,” Laura had reminded him drily. “He’s the news director at one of New York’s most influential television stations. You want him on your side. I don’t know what issue you have with him, but he’s a straight shooter, Alex. In my ten years of working with him I’ve never seen him do anything unethical. Set anyone up. So whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong. Kiss and make up and play nice.”
He’d muttered something to pacify her, then moved on. But the conversation had been playing over in his head ever since. Izzie had steadfastly stuck to her story that their meeting in the elevator had been a coincidence. His receptionist in London had confirmed she’d lied to Izzie about his whereabouts to get rid of her per his standing instructions to do so. Which left him wondering if maybe their elevator meeting had just been a bizarre coincidence.
He located his shoes and jammed his feet into them without care for the supple Italian leather. Izzie was up for a big promotion at NYC-TV. It explained why she’d been so desperate to land this story on Sophoros. And made the heavy weight sitting in his chest sink even deeper. What if his paranoia about the media had led him to a completely wrong judgment of Izzie? What if she was the woman he’d thought he’d met that night in London? And if she was, what did that mean?
His mind buzzing, he recalled the look of complete incomprehension on Curry’s face that night at the Met when he’d accused him of setting him up. Izzie’s frantic attempts to hide the fact that they’d slept together. Curry hadn’t known.
He picked up his watch and strapped it around his wrist. Had that night in London been so intense, so real for him that he’d been willing to believe the worst about Izzie to avoid making the same mistake twice? A search for any reason not to fall for another woman as hard as he had Jess?
He glanced at the clock and gave his head a shake. He had a black-tie party for a hundred people to get through on a night when he’d rather do anything but. But his bigger problem by far was Isabel Peters. And what the hell he was going to do with her.
* * *
If there was anything she should be good at, it was the fine art of negotiating a cocktail party. Izzie plucked a glass of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray and perched herself against a tree in the lantern-lit gardens of Alex’s Malibu hideaway. Years of reluctantly attending her mother’s premieres and engagements, not to mention the local events the station sponsored, should make this all second nature to her. Instead she tended to feel like a fish out of water, always the gauche, awkward daughter of Dayla St. James who did not thrive in the spotlight.
She took a sip of the bubbly, dry vintage, taking in Agape’s party planning genius. Alex’s sister had done an amazing job transforming the pool and garden area into a lush, exotic oasis—as if you’d entered the Garden of Eden on a particularly electric, sensual night. Flaming torches glowed around the outskirts of the gardens, and floral-shaped candles floated on the pool, casting a muted glow across its surface. And the breezy, lazy music coming from the hip-looking DJ in the corner was typical laid-back California cool.
She frowned. She might actually have enjoyed a party for a change if she weren’t wound so tight she felt as though she was going to snap in half. Her confrontation with Alex yesterday had left her shaken—utterly unsure what to do. She had the true story about what had happened on the last night of his career. At least most of it. Had an explosive angle that would ensure a headline story. But she wasn’t sure she could do it. Wasn’t sure she could blow Alex’s life apart like that.
Letting out a long breath, she leaned back against the pillar and scanned the crowd for him. Long, lean and outrageously handsome in a perfectly tailored tux, he was chatting with a group of people in the center of the buzzing, affluent crowd that, according to Agape, consisted of everything from film directors to financiers to every type of entertainment industry professional in between.
She studied the tension written across his strongly carved features. Brooding, tunnel-visioned since their confrontation yesterday, he’d avoided her completely. And she wondered why she just couldn’t stay immune to him. Why her pulse, even now, raced in a zigzag of confusion.
What was it about a brooding, fabulously good-looking man that made you want him to turn all that intensity on you? Even if you knew it was a bad, bad idea?
He turned his head, their gazes meeting and holding. Her breath caught in her throat as an emotion other than anger flickered in his eyes. Desire? Confusion? She’d been expecting hatred. Antagonism. Not this.
Her mouth went dry as he worked his way down over the sexy spaghetti-strap dress she’d bought in Malibu today to fit the occasion. To catch his attention if she was honest. And why do that? Why play with fire now, when she was so close to escape?
She swallowed hard. It was irresistible.
He moved the heated intensity of his gaze back up to her face. Electricity arced between them, along with thoughts of a career-ending variety. How much damage would one more night do if no one ever knew? And how could she even be thinking that, now of all times?
And then it came to her. What she should have known from the beginning...she had never been nor would she ever be objective when it came to Alex Constantinou. She could not turn his personal tragedy into the most-watched interview of the year. Whatever had made him play that night, take those drugs, it didn’t belong in her story. It didn’t belong in anyone’s story.
Someone grabbed a hold of Alex’s arm and commanded his attention. She exhaled a long, shaky breath. And suddenly knew exactly what she was going to do. She was going to bury the information. Tell James he was going to have to go with a different angle. And in doing so throw away her best chance at landing this anchor job. At making her career.
Her trembling fingers bit into her glass to keep it from falling to the ground. A cold knot formed in her stomach. She was risking her job. Her vow to tell the truth no matter what. For a man who thought she was a cold-hearted opportunist. Nice one, Izzie.
She made it through the next couple of hours in a muted haze as the party wound down and the crowd began thinning out. Agape was witty and charming and they hit it off. Debated the merits of some of the eligible men in the crowd. She was at her side when the last few guests made their way toward the driveway and Agape declared herself done.
“Walk me out?” she said to Izzie. “We’ll have to do drinks when we’re back in New York.”
She said goodbye to Agape. Found herself standing beside Alex as he waved her off and finished chatting with the last remaining guest, the CEO of an offshore drilling company that operated off the coast of California. The sideways look he gave her as the taillights of Agape’s bright red convertible zigzagged down the driveway had her stepping backward.
The weight of his hand came down on her shoulder. “Don’t even think about it,” he muttered under his breath. She stood there while he shook the CEO’s hand, her heartbeat accelerating in a painful mixture of fear and anticipation. The tall Southerner clapped Alex on the back, folded himself into his sports car and drove off.
She cleared her throat. “Alex, I’m really tired. Maybe we can—”
He squared to face her. “If you don’t think we’re settling this tonight, you are seriously deluded, Izzie.”
Her breath caught in her throat. The heat of his palm burned into the bare skin of her shoulder as he marched her toward the house.
“Stay put,” he instructed, when they reached the legions of catering staff packing up in the pool area. He disappeared, then came back with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. Her heart beat like a snare drum as he propelled her toward the back of the house.
“Where are we going?”
He gave her a sideways look. “I thought you’d prefer doing this in private rather than broadcasting it to every gossip magazine in L.A.”
Good point. She picked up her pace to keep up as he turned the corner of the house and headed for the terrace off his master suite. The sheer drop to the Pacific was gobsmackingly gorgeous. Her stomach felt as though it was going down along with it.
Alex deposited the bottle and glasses on the table and stripped off his jacket. The lump in her stomach increased to the size of a grapefruit. He shot her a sideways look. “Why don’t you open the champagne?”
His quietly spoken words struck her as glaringly symbolic. She went completely still, studying the expression on his face. Searching for the softening she’d seen earlier.
“I know you didn’t set me up, Izzie.”
Her eyes widened. “How?”
“I talked to Laura Reed this morning and she gave me an earful. Said James was the type who plays by the rules. That setting me up wasn’t something he would do.”
“But you didn’t believe that before,” she said slowly. “Why now?”
He shrugged and loosened his tie. “I’m a little—a lot,” he corrected, “paranoid about the media. They’ve made my life hell with their lies and speculation. And sometimes I get a little crazy about it.” He pulled off the tie and slung it over a chair. “After I talked to Laura, I remembered how desperately you tried to get James to leave that night at the Met, and I realized he had no idea about us. Then my rational brain finally kicked in. It isn’t you, Izzie.”
