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“I was patient.” The words came out clipped, because now terseness was her only defense against the tide of desire that was washing over her, wrecking her resolve like castles in sand. “I spent a year getting to know him, making sure I was at the same parties he was, admiring his work—”
“Sucking up.”
Chelsea drew back, startled by the scorn in his voice. And a few seconds ago she’d been semicontemplating having sex with this man. “He’s an incredible person,” she said shortly, “who has done a world of good for women’s rights—”
“I know what he’s done.” Alex smiled coldly, and the eyes she’d thought were so amazing with their golden glints now looked like chips of black ice. “But I wonder if you do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Are you going to put him on your sofa? Have him spill his secrets and make him cry?”
His voice was a low purr but Chelsea still heard the sneer. Felt it. “It’s not that kind of interview,” she answered coolly. “I’m not interested in shock value with Treffen. But frankly, I’m not really sure why you care.”
“Because I care about Treffen.”
“You sound like you hate the man.”
“Hate isn’t the right word. But I’d like to see what he does with an interview. What you do with it.” He raised his beer bottle to his lips again, his mouth still curved in a cool smile, his eyes still hard.
Chelsea decided she’d had enough of his innuendo and snark. So he didn’t like Jason Treffen. Considering the lawyer and human rights activist was lauded as a modern-day saint, that was a little strange, but it had nothing to do with her.
Except maybe it did. Because she was interviewing the man, and if she wanted to make it as a serious investigative journalist, she needed to know. Needed to dig.
But not right now. Not when Alex Diaz was making her feel so weak, both from his mockery and the attraction she still, damn it, felt. It coursed through her relentlessly, a river of want that carried her will right along with it.
Almost.
She straightened, flashed him one of her glittering smiles. “Well, stay tuned, then. It airs live on March twentieth.”
And without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away from him, her shoulders thrown back, her chin held high.
* * *
Alex raised his beer to his lips as he tracked Chelsea’s movements around the room. For a moment there he’d considered telling her the truth about Jason Treffen, but then he’d thankfully thought better of it. It was hardly cocktail party chitchat, and he didn’t know her well enough to trust her with that particular powder keg. Not yet, anyway.
She was ambitious, he got that, and tough. He was pretty sure she had the balls to bring down Treffen on live television, if she wanted to.
The question was, did she? Could he convince her? He possessed a savage need to see Treffen with his world crumbling around him, and everyone else seeing it, too. No longer would the man fool everyone into believing he was such a damned saint. They would know him not just as a sinner, but a devil.
Austin had already exposed Treffen to his family, with the help of Sarah’s sister, Katy. Hunter was working on ousting Treffen from his law firm. And Alex had been charged with confronting the man on national television, showing the world what he really was: a monster who used the women he said he was saving. Who damned them to lives of shame, scandal and sin. Everything in Alex ached to see Jason publicly exposed—and he would do whatever it took to make it happen.
Including use Chelsea in whatever way he could. The woman was cold; she’d slept her way to the top. He didn’t feel so much as a flicker of guilt for using her. Sleeping with her, if it came to that.
But he did feel a certain amount of frustration. Sexual frustration. Never mind Treffen, he wanted Chelsea Maxwell in bed, beneath him, those gray-green eyes turned to molten silver with desire. He wanted her haughty little smile to become a desperate, begging kiss, to turn her tinkling laugh into a breathy sigh of pleasure and need.
He wanted to be the one to do it. To shatter her icy control and make her melt. For him.
He glanced at her walking away from him, her dress flowing over her like mercury. The front might have been high-necked and as chaste as a nun’s habit, but the back plunged right down to the tempting curve of her butt. Alex had always considered himself more of a breast man, but the sight of Chelsea Maxwell’s back, golden and perfect, made him reconsider.
He watched her glide away from the crowd and then instinctively followed, curious as to why she was leaving the party so soon. He stopped when he saw she was just heading toward the narrow hall that led to the ladies’. What the hell was wrong with him?
He was letting this woman lead him around by the balls, and she didn’t even know it.
Or maybe she did.
* * *
Chelsea checked her makeup in the mirror of the ladies’ toilet and took a deep breath. And another, because parties like this—and exchanges like the one she’d had with Alex Diaz—brought her to the brink of an anxiety attack. Not that she’d ever show it. Ten years on and she’d learned not just to live with it, but to hide it.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror, willed the color to return to her cheeks, her heartbeat to slow and her palms to stop tingling. You’re better than this, Chelsea. Stronger. Will it away.
A breath. Another. She continued to stare at her reflection, her face composed, her eyes hard. And finally, finally, the color returned and the tingling went away and she breathed deeply, her heart rate normal.
There. See?
Taking one last breath to steady herself, she turned from the mirror and left the ladies’ room.
Twenty minutes more and she’d call it a night. The thought brought an almost painful wave of relief. Her exchange with Alex Diaz had made her feel particularly edgy, everything just a little too close to the surface even though she knew, intellectually at least, that it was all still well hidden away.
Thank God.
Even Michael didn’t know how hard these occasions could be for her. When you had a high-profile career in television, you could hardly admit that socializing sometimes made you almost cripplingly anxious. That people scared you.
People like Alex Diaz.
She’d continued to feel his eyes on her as she’d moved around the room, and while his attention hadn’t scared her precisely, it had made her wary. Wary and aware, because even from fifty feet away he had the power to affect her. Make her ache. And that was too much power for one man to have.
She turned away from the mirror and headed back out to the party, stopping suddenly when a familiar bulk blocked the narrow hallway.
Paul Bates, AMI’s leading news anchorman and a complete ass. A drunken ass, judging from the fumes Chelsea could smell from ten feet away, and the way he lurched toward her. She took another deep breath and started to move past him.
He grabbed her arm, fingers digging in, nails snagging onto the slippery fabric of her dress. “Where you going, beautiful?” he slurred, and the whisky fumes now hit her full on the face. Chelsea didn’t move, didn’t pull her arm away. She knew better than that; men like Paul Bates liked a little resistance. Or even a lot.
“Back to the party, Paul,” she answered calmly. “But I’d suggest you remove your hand from my arm unless you want to be slapped with a sexual harassment suit.”
“Oh, come on, Chelsea.” She could get drunk off his breath alone, Chelsea thought dispassionately. “You could be a little friendlier to me, you know,” he continued, his voice turning both insistent and wheedling. “I could help you the way Agnello does.”
As if. She’d seen Paul eyeing her at the studio before, had ignored a few thinly veiled insults, some offensive innuendo, but he’d never actually come on to her before. He’d never touched her.
“Oh, I’m sure you could, Paul,” Chelsea murmured, tossing in a throaty chuckle for good measure. He made a clumsy grab for her hand and started drawing it to his crotch. Chelsea let him, felt his rather unimpressive hard-on. And smiling sweetly, she squeezed his balls hard enough for him to choke.
With a gasped curse he released her hand.
Chelsea moved past him, stopping abruptly when she saw another figure blocking her exit.
Alex Diaz.
He was gazing at her with narrowed eyes, his mouth twisted into something like a smile.
“And here I was about to charge to your rescue,” he murmured.
“Watch out you’re not next,” Chelsea fired back, keeping her voice flirtatious, and she heard him laugh softly.
“I’d better move out of the way, then.”
He moved to the side and Chelsea slipped past him, her breasts brushing his chest. Her breath hitched and she tilted her head up, gave him a slow smile. “Although maybe you’d enjoy it,” she murmured, and he gazed back, his face expressionless now.
“Maybe I would.”
She felt her heart lurch inside her. Why was she doing this? Alex Diaz was dangerous, and exactly the wrong kind of man for her.
And that was exactly why she was doing it. Because playing with fire proved you were strong and smart enough not to get burned—or at least not to mind a few singed fingers.
Still smiling, she dropped her hand and let her fingers brush against the front of his trousers. He didn’t so much as twitch, but she could still feel his arousal and answering desire arrowed through her. She leaned forward so her earrings grazed his jaw, and he still didn’t move. “I don’t need rescuing, Diaz,” she murmured into his ear.
Alex turned slightly so his lips brushed her cheek, less than an inch from her mouth. Everything in Chelsea clenched hard. “You sure as hell don’t, Miss Maxwell,” he murmured back and before she lost it completely she stepped away and walked back into the ballroom.
She felt his gaze on her back all the way to the elevators.
Chapter Two (#ulink_f4170d80-4222-5b1a-b6d8-7943fa3aa1a2)
Alex watched Chelsea Maxwell walk away and shook his head slowly. The woman was incredible, and he wasn’t sure he meant that in a good way.
Although maybe he did. A certain part of his anatomy certainly did, because when she’d brushed against him with her fingers he’d had to resist the urge to grab her by the arms and push her against the wall, kiss her until they both were senseless. And more.
Which didn’t make him all that different from Bates, who was still bent over and wheezing from Chelsea’s smiling squeeze of his balls.
The woman was no victim. No Sarah, used and abused by men with power, and the thought gave him a strange, savage satisfaction because that was the kind of woman he needed.
But first he had to get her to agree.
His gaze narrowed as he saw her heading for the elevator. Was she leaving the party already? For a moment he considered following her, but then decided against it. He’d laid the groundwork tonight; he needed to think about the best way to handle Chelsea Maxwell before he spoke with her again. And he also needed to get a handle on the obvious attraction he felt for her. He didn’t like feeling out of control, especially not when it came to sex. Men started making stupid decisions when they let themselves be led by their dicks.
And Alex had no intention of letting that happen. If he slept with Chelsea, it would be on his terms, because it served a purpose.
Even if he suspected it would be incredibly enjoyable.
The elevator doors opened and she stepped inside, head held high, her chin tilted at an almost defiant angle. She looked haughty and magnificent, the ultimate ice queen—and then Alex noticed one hand clenched in the folds of her gown. That little, telling action surprised him, and he wondered just what it revealed. Was she angry with the drunken idiot who had come onto her? She’d seemed no more than coldly amused when Bates had stumbled up to her.
From behind him Alex heard Paul Bates mutter a wheezy curse.
“What a bitch,” he mumbled and Alex glanced at him in derision.
“You’re just saying that because she got you in the balls.”
“Like I said—”
“And you deserved it.” Alex shook his head, taking in the man’s golden good looks that were now on the wrong side of forty, with broken veins and bloodshot eyes—not to mention a sizeable paunch—revealing a lifetime of reckless living.
“You know she’s Agnello’s tart, don’t you?” Bates demanded, and Alex just shrugged.
“She’s not yours, at any rate,” he said with deliberate mildness, and walked away with Bates still gasping behind him.
* * *
The next morning he headed to his office on Hudson Street, scanning the headlines on his smartphone as he took the elevator up to his penthouse office.
He stepped into the soaring room of glass and steel, glanced again at his phone as he powered up his computer, and wondered whether to call Chelsea now. He needed to think carefully about his next move, and yet he couldn’t deny he was looking forward to sparring with her again, craving the little buzz conversation with her had given him. There weren’t many women like Chelsea, he mused: ruthless, ambitious, and sexually confident.
Yes, she would definitely be a match for him in bed. And no matter what happened with Treffen, he decided, he was going to find a way to get her there.
But first he needed to think about Treffen. That little curl of anticipation he’d felt low in his belly now soured into a churning mix of regret and resolve.
Jason Treffen was lauded far and wide as an advocate for the downtrodden and oppressed, especially those who were women. He’d gained a reputation for mentoring smart, driven young women who’d gone to the Ivy League schools on scholarship—with no one knowing that he was actually coercing them into committing the most sordid of acts.
His gut roiled as he remembered what Austin, Jason’s son and one of Alex’s best friends, had discovered from Sarah’s sister Katy just before Christmas. All those years ago after Sarah’s death they’d assumed it had been a sadly simple case of sexual harassment. Then they’d learned the truth in all of its incredible horror when Katy had approached Austin with the information that Treffen hadn’t just been coming onto his young female employees, he’d been roping them into a high-end prostitution ring.
Sarah hadn’t just been harassed by Jason, she’d been forced into servicing his clients. The thought still had the power to bring bile to Alex’s throat. Since that night, the tenth anniversary of Sarah’s death, when Austin had lobbed that grenade into their usual desultory chat about work and women, they’d discovered more of the grim truth. Not only had Jason run a prostitution ring, he’d blackmailed the clients, men of power and position who got off on having a desperate and upwardly mobile young woman on her knees.
Austin had revealed the truth to his family, alienating his father from his wife and children. Together he and Hunter, along with Katy’s help, had begun the process of ousting Jason as partner in his law firm.
So far Treffen had managed to retain his public image. His separation from his wife had simply and sorrowfully been explained as being caused by stress from his high-powered job. Austin’s mother had been too ashamed to admit the truth.
Hunter was working on getting Treffen to step down from his law practice, but so far the man was clinging to his credentials. To his saintly reputation. Alex wouldn’t be satisfied, and neither would Austin or Hunter or now Katy Michaels, until Jason Treffen was completely and publicly ruined. Until the truth was known, and Sarah’s memory avenged.
And the perfect way to do that was on Chelsea’s live television show, watched by thirty million people.
Yet after talking to her last night, Alex wasn’t ready to trust Chelsea with the truth. I’m not interested in shock value.
What Treffen had done was the ultimate in shocking.
He just had to convince Chelsea of it—and of the need to take the man down.
Alex reached for his phone.
He dialed American Media Industries, Chelsea’s network, and within a few seconds was connected to her assistant, who told him that Chelsea was in a meeting and would call him back.
Alex wondered if she really was. Chelsea definitely seemed the type who would keep him waiting just because she could. His mouth thinned into a hard line. She might think she had all the control, but he looked forward to proving her wrong. To taking it away from her...both in bed and out of it.
Impatiently he drummed his fingers against the polished teak of his desk. He might look forward to stripping away Chelsea Maxwell’s arrogant certainties—as well as a few other things—but right now she was the one who was calling the shots. All he could do was get on with his work and wait for her to call.
Eight hours later he’d left his office and headed uptown to meet his friend Jaiven Rodriguez for a beer. He and Jaiven had known each since childhood in a Dominican-dominated neighborhood in the Bronx; while Alex had escaped on a scholarship to Walkerton Prep, an exclusive boarding school in Connecticut, Jaiven had stayed in the Bronx and had earned his way out by his sweat and his fists.
The first time Alex had come back from Connecticut, Jaiven had punched him in the face.
Alex still smiled to remember the belligerent look on his friend’s face, and his own slack-jawed shock at his split lip and swelling eye.
“If you’re going to turn into some preppy asshole,” Jaiven had said, “don’t bother coming back here.”
