Expose Me. Kate Hewitt
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as they moved. Even though she was acting friendly, flirtatious, Alex knew she was nobody’s fool.
And neither was he.
“Waiting in a limo isn’t that much trouble,” he told her, and she tilted her head again, eyes bright, her mouth still curved in that smile he didn’t know whether he wanted to kiss or wipe off her face. It both annoyed and intrigued him, how coolly certain she was about everything. How unfazed by him.
He realized he had been expecting a little breathless flattery, a little dazed gratitude. He didn’t like anyone kissing his ass, but he’d assumed Chelsea would jump at the carrot he dangled in front of her: the possibility of working on Diaz News. But now that he’d spoken to her he didn’t think Chelsea Maxwell jumped for anyone.
Except she obviously had for Michael Agnello. And damn it, she would for him.
“I’m in contract with AMI for the next three years,” she said and he nodded.
“I know.”
“So...?”
Alex glanced out the window; they were approaching Columbus Circle and would only have a few more minutes before they arrived at the party, and Chelsea was swept up into Michael Agnello’s glittering circle of close friends.
“Let’s talk over dinner.”
She let out a soft, throaty laugh. “I wasn’t aware there was anything to talk about.”
“Don’t play games with me, Chelsea.” His voice came out hard as he turned to look directly into her eyes, but instead of seeing anger or annoyance or better yet, regret, in those hazel depths he saw something that jolted through him so he nearly rocked in his seat.
Desire. Lust. It was gone as soon as he’d locked his gaze with hers, but he still felt its aftershock reverberate through him. Felt the desire he’d seen in her eyes harden his groin.
He wanted, suddenly and quite fiercely, to sweep his hand up that long, lovely expanse of leg. To slip his fingers under the silvery, slippery folds of her dress and see just what it was hiding. And it seemed like Chelsea wanted it, too.
Well, wasn’t that interesting. Complicated, perhaps, but definitely interesting. Maybe he didn’t need to pretend he wanted Chelsea on his network. Maybe he could just show that he wanted her in his bed.
And maybe complicated could become simple.
“You think I’m playing games?” she queried, her expression completely veiled now. “You’re the one hiding out in a limo, acting like you’re James Bond.” She shook her head, laughed softly. “When you want to talk straight with me, Diaz, I’ll listen.” Her smile curved deeper and she gave him another up-and-down, her gaze resting briefly on the bulge in his trousers. “Maybe.”
Alex nearly swore. He felt like a horny teenager, unable to control himself, and the absurdity of it annoyed him. When had he lost control with a woman, with anyone?
The limo pulled up to the curb of The Mandarin Hotel. A doorman stepped forward to open the door and Chelsea fluttered her fingers. “But thanks for the lift,” she added, and then she was gone.
Alex leaned back against the seat, furious, frustrated and yet still buzzing a little bit from the conversation. So Chelsea Maxwell was going to be a little bit more of a challenge than he’d anticipated.
Although if the awareness he’d seen in her eyes was anything to go by, maybe not. Maybe he could play this differently than he’d planned.
His plan, or so he’d told Hunter and Austin when they’d brainstormed together how to bring Treffen down for good, was to dangle the possibility of a show on Diaz News so Chelsea let him work with her on the interview with Treffen. It had seemed simple; she clearly wanted to prove herself as a serious journalist, and as CEO of the country’s top news network he could make that happen. He’d tell her the truth about Treffen when he could be sure what she’d do with it.
Whether he actually offered Chelsea something on Diaz News was another matter entirely.
Revenge was a costly business. A price had to be paid. He’d certainly paid his.
Even now the memory of the last time he’d seen Sarah made his insides freeze with icy determination. He would avenge her, and every other woman Jason Treffen had used and abused. And he’d do whatever it took to accomplish it, Chelsea Maxwell be damned.
“Sir?” The driver peered into the dark interior of the limo and with a nod Alex climbed out.
He didn’t give up that easily. He wasn’t done with Chelsea Maxwell. He’d promised Hunter and Austin; they’d done their part, and it was time for him to do his, whatever it took. Smiling grimly, he headed into the hotel.
* * *
Chelsea slid off her coat and handed it to the young woman at the coat check, barely aware of taking the ticket or getting in the elevator that would take her up to the thirty-fifth floor where Michael’s party was being held. She closed her eyes, breathed in deeply.
That impromptu meeting with Alex Diaz had left her dazed and breathless. A little buzzed, too, and a lot wary. She’d learned too many lessons the hard way not to wonder when a man wanted something.
And Alex Diaz definitely wanted something.
Adrenaline pumped through her as she thought of the way he’d filled the space of the limo, arms stretched out along the back of the seat, legs casually sprawled. Fingers brushing her shoulder. Even through the thick cashmere of her coat she’d felt it. And Alex had too; no way had that little caress been unintentional. It had taken everything she had not to shiver.
She didn’t like being so responsive to a man, any man, but especially one like Alex Diaz. He was overwhelmingly, inarguably male, potent and primal. And her body had responded even as her mind had raced from his words, the obvious implication.
I’m interested in your show.
Not her chat show, but the prime-time interview she’d worked her ass off to get. Ever since she’d started Chat with Chelsea she’d known she wanted more. She wanted to be taken seriously as a journalist, and that wasn’t going to happen as long as she sat on a pink velour sofa and interviewed weepy country singers and washed-up soap stars. It might be popular and it might have made her rich, but it sure as hell didn’t mean anyone actually respected it...or her.
She knew what people said about her and Michael; she was neither stupid nor deaf. But even Michael couldn’t give her an hour-long interview with a serious subject. If she nailed the interview with Treffen, if it became the iconic interview of the decade as she hoped and planned, that wouldn’t be up to Michael.
It would be up to her. And everyone would know it.
She let out a long, slow breath. And if the interview with Treffen led to something on Diaz News? Anchorwoman, or even her own serious interview slot? Her stomach tightened and her mind started racing again.
No, she couldn’t think like that. Not yet. Not till she knew what Diaz really wanted. She thought of the bulge she’d seen in his trousers before she’d left the limo, left him hungry just as she’d intended. He was attracted to her; that had been, at least to him, painfully obvious. She wasn’t above using that attraction. Hell, no.
But life had taught her to be a skeptic, a cynic. To watch her back. And she wasn’t about to jump into bed with a man like Alex Diaz, not even for a job.
Especially not for a job.
Even so just the thought—the remote possibility—of being on Diaz News made her heart beat harder and her fingers curl into determined fists. Diaz’s news network was the most respected on TV, and was the only one that managed to rise above the petty, political squabbling and scaremongering of other networks. “Facts, not opinions” was Diaz News’s motto, and made it the most-watched news channel on television.
And she could be on it, as a serious, respected journalist...
Her