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Patrice was talking again. “I don’t know how this man has managed to remain single, but after this issue comes out...we might be able to do a follow-up for the engagement because someone is going to snag him up, I can guarantee it.”
“Maybe he’s an asshole?” I suggested, and the table erupted with nervous laughter, except Patrice, who frowned. I shrugged, just pointing out what everyone else was thinking but was too afraid to voice. “I mean, that seems like the obvious answer, right? Good-looking, rich but maybe his personality is rotten. There isn’t enough money in the world to compensate for a shitty attitude.”
“I’m sure he’s a lovely human being,” Patrice said pointedly. “And it’ll be your job to make sure that comes across.”
“And what if, just clarifying, he isn’t a lovely human being?”
Patrice tapped her Montblanc pen on the polished table surface, the chipped ice in her blue eyes growing colder. “I’m sure he is,” she finally answered. “And you’ll do a fine job. I look forward to reading your copy.”
More anxious laughter floated around the conference table. Why was I poking the bear in the designer suit? I don’t know. Maybe I was PMSing. Maybe I was tired of writing stupid, fluff articles that did nothing but perpetuate the stereotype that all women cared about were hot men with big cocks.
Or I was PMSing.
Honestly, it could go either way.
It was now or never if I wanted to throw something serious into the ring. I stilled the sudden bouncing of my knee beneath the table and pushed forward with my own idea for the magazine.
“I was thinking we could do an article on Associate Justice Elena Kagan, maybe focus on how women still have to fight for positions historically held by men?”
The silence was not only deafening, but the disdain was actually painful.
Patrice sniffed with distaste. “This is Luxe, not The Legal Review. No one wants to read about a dusty old woman in a black robe unless she’s wearing Donna Karan on the bench.”
Daphne tittered and I wanted to shake some sense into the young twit, but Patrice was right. Luxe wasn’t going to be breaking ground in the advancement of women’s rights anytime soon. Luxe was all about designer shoes, perpetuating the harmful stereotypes that fostered unattainable body goals and kept women bitching and fighting among themselves.
God, maybe I was beginning to hate Luxe, or maybe I was just becoming a bitter bitch because I hadn’t gotten laid in forever. Seeing as that wasn’t likely to change anytime soon, I had to suck it up, smile and agree to interview Mr. Big Cock or else I could lose my ability to pay rent.
“I’ll make the arrangements,” I said, privately scribbling, Sacrifice dignity and interview man-slut. “Have you already set up the photographer?”
“All done. Jacques will be shooting the spread. We’re thinking...Hamptons...beach time...crisp whites and blues.”
“It’ll make for good pictures,” I agreed but inside I was rolling my eyes. Like that idea hasn’t been done a million times before. “Everyone loves a hot guy on the beach,” I said, parroting what I knew Patrice wanted to hear.
“That they do.” Patrice nodded in wholehearted agreement as if she were relieved I’d finally agreed to pull my head from my ass. “And it’s easy to sell advertising for beach-themed spreads. Anyway, you all have your assignments. Go on, go forth, amaze me.”
As I left the conference room, Daphne attached herself to my hip, saying, “Have you seen Nico’s picture? He’s gorgeous. Blue eyes to die for, a body made for sin, and he’s so sweet. A real charmer.”
“How do you know he’s sweet?” I countered, wryly amused and vastly curious. “Have you met?”
“Oh, no,” Daphne admitted but added quickly, “just look at that face...he seems so sweet. You can tell from the eyes. His eyes tell a story.”
“I’m sure they tell some sort of story,” I agreed, resisting the urge to roll my eyes so hard they bounced from my skull. Perhaps I should burst her bubble and tell her the story of my sweet ex. The one who bailed on me and our son when he realized being a parent was going to be a full-time job that would likely cut into his playtime? I swallowed the urge because I wasn’t into wasting energy, and I doubted Daphne would see anything but my being a salty bitch—especially if she found out who my ex was.
Instead, I said, “Sounds like trouble to me, but I’d be happy to be wrong. It’s not likely, but it would be a nice surprise.”
“You seriously don’t want this assignment?” Daphne said, flabbergasted that I would turn my nose up at the opportunity to fawn over some rich guy. “I mean, Nico Donato is mega rich. I’m talking obscenely rich. Like golden toilets, I-wipe-my-ass-with-hundred-dollar-bills Dubai rich.”
I smirked. “That rich, huh? Sounds like a delight.” Although, why would anyone want to be that rich? Seemed like a lot of headaches. I’d rather be comfortable, not obscenely wealthy. Apparently, I was in the minority, considering present company. “Personally, I prefer actual toilet paper, but the good stuff, not the tissue paper that shreds the minute you slide it across your ass.”
“Are you seriously talking about toilet paper?” Daphne stepped in front of me just as I headed for the break room to grab my yogurt. “Take me with you,” she pleaded. “Please? He’s the man of my dreams. I’d kill to meet him. What if he’s my soul mate?”
“And that’s exactly why I won’t let you tag along,” I said, maneuvering around her. “Trust me, I’m doing you a favor. Men like Donato are narcissists and they spread heartbreak like disease. I’ll bet if I did a little digging I’d find scores of women who were used and tossed aside by this rich prick. Just because he’s got a nice face—”
Daphne injected, “And body.”
I exhaled in irritation as I continued. “Yes, and body, doesn’t mean he’s not the devil.” I retrieved my yogurt, adding for Daphne’s sake, “You’re young. When you get a little more seasoning, you’ll figure out that Dubai-rich guys are usually the ones you want to steer clear from.”
“You’re not that much older than me,” Daphne pointed out with a frown. “Why do you act like you’re an old lady?”
Are we close to the same age? Impossible. Most days I felt a hundred.
“Because I don’t think I was ever your age,” I answered, popping the spoon in my mouth. “But if you must know, I’ve been burned before by a sweet talker, and experience breeds wisdom, you know?”
“So, because you got your heart broken you’re never going to let anyone else in?”
Ick. When did this conversation turn into a Dr. Phil session? “As much as I adore this little tête-à-tête, I have work to do so...”
Daphne pouted but didn’t continue to dog me to my desk (thank God), and I was able to eat my yogurt in relative peace while I did some poking around on the net about Donato.
My Google-fu was pretty decent, and with a few clicks I had pictures and background information on the youngest Donato.
Okay, so he was handsome, I’d give him that.
Yeah, those blue eyes were panty-droppers, and that body looked fairly chiseled from clay.
And Nico was Dubai rich, as Daphne liked to call it.
But I couldn’t find any information on anything useful or worthwhile that he might’ve been associated with.
No philanthropy.
No peace work.
No good deeds on record.
However, I did find some paparazzi photos of Nico doing body shots off the belly of a hot-bodied coed during spring break at Lake Havasu.
Yep. I took another bite. Total douchebag. Life was so unfair. How did guys like Nico always get ahead when hardworking people, like myself, had to struggle and scrape for every dime?
I wallowed in a moment of self-pity before sighing and printing out the relevant information I would need for my fluff article.
“I love my job,” I murmured to myself. “I love my job.” To ground my motivation more firmly, I glanced at the picture of my son on my desk. Grady’s gap-toothed smile was all the motivation I needed to shut my mouth, put my head down and get the job done.
Houston Beaumont was a useless human being, but our son was the light of my life and I couldn’t regret deciding to cancel the adoption paperwork.
Grady wasn’t planned—hell, my relationship, if you can call it that, with Houston hadn’t been planned either—but I’d do anything for that cute little dirty-blond imp who called me Mama.
And I thanked my lucky stars every day that Houston hadn’t tried to sue for custody. He’d been more than happy to forget all about me and his son.
I didn’t mind being a single mom if it meant knowing that Grady didn’t have to be shuttled between two different worlds—mine and his father’s.
Drawing a deep breath, I nodded to myself, girding my loins, so to speak, so I could swallow my dignity without choking.
I could do this. No sweat.
At least one thing was for certain—there was no way Donato was going to charm the pants off me—a fact he would discover right away if he was dumb enough to try.
CHAPTER TWO (#u7f74b6e3-e4cc-5bfa-b503-cbe49d2b8287)
Nico
“NICE TO MEET YOU, Mr. Donato. Lauren Hughes, Luxe magazine.”
The tall brunette thrust her hand toward me as if she were a man—strong, no-nonsense, obligatory—her deep brown eyes the only feature worth noting if I were to go off first impressions.
The handshake lasted all of two seconds, no lingering, and then she was sitting primly at the farthest point on the sofa in my living room, recorder in hand, expression blandly expectant, as if preparing to mentally vacate as soon as I started talking.
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Hughes,” I said, my gaze quickly taking in the shape-swallowing shift dress that completely obscured her figure and the functional flats that finished off the wretched ensemble. I think my maid dressed better than this woman. “I hope the traffic wasn’t too heavy.”
“Dealing with traffic is just one of those things you get used to when you live in New York,” she said with a brief smile. The look in her eyes told me she wasn’t one for small talk, which suited me fine because I hated it, too—but I was definitely not quite sure what to make of this stiff-as-a-board reporter.
Definitely not what I was expecting, and I was fucking disappointed. Where was the hot chick in the curve-hugging pencil skirt, glasses sitting demurely on the bridge of her nose, hair upswept in a delicate yet artfully messy bun? Not sitting on my sofa, that’s for sure.
“Have you always been a New Yorker?” she asked with a direct stare. No makeup that I could tell. Not even a hint of mascara to brighten up her eyes. A pity. Those dark eyes with a little assistance might even be pretty. “My editor tells me that your family is from Italy, originally.”
“Yes, so the legend says,” I answered, trying for a little wry humor. When she didn’t so much as offer a polite chuckle, I cleared my throat and followed with, “Tuscany, actually, but we’ve been in New York for two generations now. Our Italian roots are fairly weak at this point. All I inherited from my Italian ancestors is a love of fine women, wine and pasta.”
“Ah.”
“Your skin tone is beautiful. Are you Latina?” Was she Latina? Or perhaps Native American? Maybe even Creole?
“A hodgepodge of nationalities,” she answered, adjusting herself on the sofa. “Just lucked out in the skin department, I guess. So, tell me, how does it feel to be named one of New York’s most eligible bachelors?”
“Well, you know the saying, the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about,” I said with a wink. “But it should be interesting to see what crawls out of the woodwork once the magazine hits the stands. I’m always down for an adventure.”
“If you’re not interested in finding love, you could’ve turned down the interview,” she said, again with that brief smile that I was beginning to suspect was patronizing. “I’m sure we could’ve found someone who was more aligned with the purpose of the spread.”
“Who said I’m not looking for love?”
“Well, I mean, it was kind of implied by your earlier statement. To call the women who might be interested as things that ‘crawl out of the woodwork’ sounds insulting, don’t you think?”
Annoyance threatened to color my tone as I admitted, “That was a poor choice of words. Maybe I’m more embarrassed by the attention than I like to let on. The truth is, I’ve never considered myself interesting enough for an entire magazine spread, and I’m not quite sure how I was selected.”
False humility was always good for a few grace points, but I think Lauren saw right through my attempt, which, in itself, threw off my game.
Hell, everything about this woman threw me.
I’d thought Luxe might’ve sent one of their show ponies to interview me. Maybe an intern with a tight body, perky tits and an ass that would put a gymnast to shame; or, a more sophisticated staffer with legs for days and long blond hair, perfect for a man’s fist to wrap around to guide a hot mouth onto a ready cock.
I bit back my growing disappointment. No nubile intern; no savvy staffer. Luxe had sent her.
The dour killjoy.
Was that a coffee stain on her dress?
And that austere bun squatting on top of her head was tight enough to give her a poor man’s face-lift.
“So...you work at Luxe?” I asked, sinking into the sofa, regarding her curiously. Perhaps she was a freelance writer...
“Three years now,” Lauren answered with a short smile before moving on. “I can appreciate how busy you are, so thank you for agreeing to this interview. My editor, Patrice, was excited to have one of the hottest bachelors in the city as the center feature.”
Funny how her words said one thing but her tone said something completely different. This was starting off as the weirdest interview I’d ever granted. Didn’t she realize I was a catch? That there were scores of women who wanted to be on this sofa with me? Beneath me, specifically. Frankly, on a hotness scale of one to ten, she was reaching for a four; she ought to be the one excited to be interviewing me.
But she didn’t look tickled or impressed. Or even happy to be there. Was that a tick of boredom in those chocolate eyes?
My male pride demanded a better response. I couldn’t have a four turning her nose up at me. Maybe I just needed to warm her up.
“Tell me about yourself,” I suggested with a charming smile, the one that never failed to soften even the most rigid of women. “Do you enjoy working for Luxe?”
“Not here to interview me,” she said with a wag of her finger like a schoolmarm. “We’re here to talk about you.”
“I like to get to know the people who are interviewing me,” I returned, lobbing the ball back into her court, which she let drop with an unsatisfying splat when she remained silent, her fake, professional smile firmly in place. “Nothing? Hmm...have we met before?” I asked, half wondering if I’d slept with her at some point and forgotten to call her afterward. I mean, I couldn’t see myself purposefully sleeping with a four, but if vodka was involved...anything was possible.
“Not likely,” Lauren answered, puzzled by my question, and frankly, I was a little relieved until she said, “I doubt we run in the same circles,” and it was that tiny undercurrent of condescension that narrowed my gaze.
“It just seems that maybe we’ve met before and perhaps I made a bad impression...”
“Not at all,” she assured me, but her gaze remained unimpressed and flatly disinterested with anything that came out of my mouth, as if she were doing penance for a crime in a past life. Did I smell or something? I shifted against the unfamiliar sense of disdain emanating from the woman. “So, just tell me what you’d like the people to know about Nico Donato,” she suggested as if being helpful. “Charities you support, hobbies, what you do to make the world a better place?”
Suddenly, everything clicked. I saw her game now. It all made sense. The frumpy clothes, the sour attitude, the barely concealed contempt...and now the leading question that she was fairly certain she knew the answer to...all meant to paint me into a corner of her choosing.
Lauren Hughes wasn’t here to give me a fair shake; she was here to judge me. Time to make things interesting. If she thought she had me figured out, I’d give her something meaty to chew on. I grinned, sharing, “Actually, I don’t mean to brag but last week, I paid all the alcohol tabs at Buxom. Probably spent close to ten grand on that bill, but I was happy to do it. That’s just me...always giving.”
“Buxom...the strip club?” she repeated, her expression screwing into a frown.
“It’s more of a gentleman’s club, but yeah, I suppose you could call it a strip club, but you know, those girls work so hard. It’s really a misunderstood profession. I’m sure at least one of those ladies is working to put herself through law school, and how can you not support higher education, right?”
“Very generous of you,” Lauren returned drily, her lips pursing a little before saying, “It must be very nice to be able to fund other people’s vices.”
“Vice is fun, you should try it sometime.”
“Thanks but I think I’m good.”
“Oh, come now, surely there’s something taboo that flips your switch.”
“Sorry, pretty boring.”
That I can believe. But for the sake of argument, I said, “Indulge me,” my interest in the interview taking a hard left in a different direction. I wanted to see how ruffled I could make Little Miss Sourpuss’s feathers. “Perhaps...you enjoy a little spanking now and then? A little ‘tie me up, tie me down’ action behind closed doors?”
