Expose Me. Кейт Хьюит
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good, sir.”
His gaze flicked to his watch and he brushed a near-invisible speck of lint from the crisp sleeve of his tuxedo. Seven twenty-five. The party started in five minutes, but naturally Chelsea Maxwell would be fashionably late.
As would he, since he intended on giving her a lift.
Outside the lights of Manhattan gleamed in a wintry darkness and people hurried past on West End Avenue’s wide pavements, heads bent against the cutting wind that funneled down the street. It was early February and New York was caught in a stranglehold of cold unrelieved by the softness of any snow.
The weather, bitter and relentless, suited Alex perfectly.
Tonight was the beginning of his personal revenge on Jason Treffen, much anticipated and long overdue. They said revenge was a dish best served cold and if so Jason was going to enjoy every icy mouthful.
And for that he needed Chelsea Maxwell. Or at least her television show.
Seven twenty-seven. Had she decided to skip the party? He let out his breath in an impatient hiss. Tonight’s party was a birthday bash for Chelsea’s boss Michael Agnello, and if rumor had it, the man with whom she’d slept her way to host of the number one daytime talk show. She had to be going.
Seven twenty-nine. Alex shifted in his seat, suppressing a flare of irritation. Where was she?
Then the tinted glass doors of her building swooshed open, and she stepped out into the freezing night, her body swathed in a long, elegant coat of ivory cashmere. Her chestnut hair was pulled into an elaborate up-do, and diamond chandelier earrings sparkled and swung against her jawbone. Alex saw her gaze flick toward his limo, and then her face tightened in annoyance, and he knew she was irritated that the driver hadn’t come out to open the door for her. She thought his limo was hers when in actuality hers hadn’t arrived.
Because he’d called and canceled it.
His mouth curling in a smile of pure, predatory anticipation, Alex pressed a button to roll down the window. He leaned out, a blast of wintry air ruffling his hair, as Chelsea started toward the limo, all confident, glittering purpose.
“Ms. Maxwell?”
She stopped, eyes narrowing, as he leaned a little more forward so she could see him. “Alex Diaz,” he said, though she had to know who he was. They’d only met at various media events a handful of times, but most people in the industry knew him and in any case, Chelsea Maxwell didn’t seem like someone to forget a face. “Am I right in thinking we’re both headed to the same place?”
“I suppose that depends where you’re heading.” Her voice was low and throaty, attractive yet decidedly cool, and her eyes were still narrowed. Curled up on one of her trademark pink velour sofas on her talk show, Chelsea Maxwell was all wide eyes and husky sweetness. In real life she was harder, sharper, but then Alex supposed you didn’t get where Chelsea Maxwell had by being stupid or soft.
“Michael Agnello’s fortieth birthday party?” he prompted, and she just cocked her head, waited.
Normally he wouldn’t have bothered going to a party such as this one. He had no time or patience for the petty scheming and schmoozing that was the trademark of such industry events. But he’d known Chelsea would be going, and he needed to talk to her. Find out what she knew, what she planned on doing.
To use her, or at least use her show.
He opened the door of the limo just as another gust of icy wind blew Chelsea’s coat around her long, slim legs. “May I offer you a lift?”
She hesitated and Alex waited, adrenaline and impatience rushing through him even though he remained completely still. He hadn’t considered what he would do if she said no. He never thought about failure.
“Thank you,” she finally said, and slid in next to him in the limo. Alex moved over a bit, but her thigh still nudged his and he inhaled the scent of her perfume, something expensive and understated.
He stretched one arm along the back of the seat as the limo pulled away from the curb, and she turned to him, a knowing little smile curving her lips. “So why did you steal my limo?”
He felt a flare of surprise, a glimmer of cool amusement. So she wanted to work a little flirt? Fine. He could play that way, too. He arched an eyebrow, smiled back. “Do I look like someone who would do that?”
She gave him a deliberately thorough once-over, her gaze sweeping him from head to foot and lingering unapologetically on certain places. His body reacted to her assessment, groin tightening, gut plunging. There was, he acknowledged, something incredibly erotic about her confident perusal of him. “I’d say so.”
He shook his head mockingly. “So suspicious.”
“Isn’t everyone in this business?” She dropped the light tone and leveled him with a hard look. “So, why the cloak-and-dagger routine? What do you want?”
He just smiled and arched an eyebrow. “What makes you think I want something?”
“I wasn’t born yesterday, Mr. Diaz.”
“Call me Alex.”
“I’d be delighted to.” Her smile was flirtatious and yet her eyes were cool. Amazing eyes, really. Gray-green fringed with thick, dark lashes. “So, Alex,” she said, her voice dropping into a purr. “I hire a limo for tonight but I find you in one instead, offering me a lift. Coincidence?” She raised her eyebrows, two thin arcs of incredulity, that knowing smile curving her mouth—quite an amazing mouth, too, now that he was looking at it. Full and lush even when her lips had been pursed. “I don’t think so.”
Alex almost smiled, despite the fact that Chelsea Maxwell’s ability to see straight through his paper-thin ploy should have alarmed, or at least annoyed, him. This wasn’t going to be as simple as he thought. Not nearly. Good thing he enjoyed a challenge. And good thing he intended to publicly ruin Jason Treffen no matter what the cost, or who paid. The fact that he could do it on live television just made it all the sweeter.
He shrugged slightly, relaxed back in his seat. “Fair enough. I do want something, Ms. Maxwell.”
She did not, he observed, tell him to call her Chelsea. She just waited, eyes still narrowed, that cool little smile playing about her mouth.
“How long have you been at AMI?” he asked, naming her network.
Surprise flashed so briefly across her features he almost missed it. Chelsea Maxwell was good at hiding her emotions, Alex suspected. Working on TV would do that to you. “Ten years.”
“And you’ve had Chat with Chelsea for—”
“Nearly four.” She cocked her head, one elegant eyebrow still arched. “And you’re asking this because...?”
“I’m interested in your show.”
She didn’t so much as blink. “You don’t seem like the type to watch celebrities spill their guts on afternoon television, but I suppose everyone has their secret vices.”
He laughed softly, enjoying this unexpected repartee. He was used to people sucking up to him, and the respite was surprisingly pleasant. “It’s the number one daytime talk show on any network,” he pointed out, and that lush mouth curved just a little more.
“I know.”
“I’m not interested in your daytime talk show,” Alex said after a second’s pause. He needed to be careful now, needed to consider how much to reveal. How honest to be. He wasn’t about to give Chelsea any more information than necessary—not until he knew what she’d do with it. “I’m interested in the hour-long interview you’re doing with Jason Treffen on prime time in March.”
“Really.” She crossed her legs, the coat slipping open, and he saw the thigh-high slit in her silvery-gray gown, revealing a hell of a lot of slim, tanned leg. His libido stirred again and Alex gave it a hard shove