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The words had gone deep. He’d been putting on airs, Alex had realized, without even being aware that he was doing it. Collar up on his polo shirt. Rolling his eyes when Jaiven had started talking about their old friends. Dropping names of rich, entitled boys who went to his school, boys who’d relished humiliating the half-Dominican scholarship kid from the Bronx, who wore secondhand uniforms and came to school not in a chauffeured Rolls but on the public bus. And he’d been pretending to Jaiven that they were his friends.
Even now he felt the burn of shame at how quickly he’d lost the sense of himself, even if he’d only been fourteen. How he’d wanted to fit in rather than claim who he was.
Never again. He never would forget his roots, never wanted to pretend he hadn’t worked hard and earned everything he had. It hadn’t been given to him on a silver platter, the way it had for just about everyone else at Walkerton, and then later, Harvard.
That had been what had initially drawn him to Sarah; they’d shared a freshman business class and he’d seen the same hungry ambition and hard-won hope in her that he’d felt in himself. They’d been best friends, even after Sarah had started dating Hunter, a football quarterback and, along with Austin and Zair, his freshman roommate. He’d had no time for what he saw as three over-privileged trust fund babies until Sarah had softened him, shown him that rich kids were real people, too. After college Zair had gone back to his home country in the Middle East, and he, Austin and Hunter, and Sarah, too, had been damn near inseparable until her death.
After she’d died he’d focused solely on work, on building a news network that promised honesty. He was known throughout the industry for telling it straight.
So maybe he should tell it straight to Chelsea.
He hesitated, let that thought roll around in his mind for a little while. No, not yet. He might have founded his career on honesty, but revenge, revenge on Treffen, was something else entirely. If the end had ever justified the means, it was now.
Now he stepped into the bar in the Bronx that was one step down from a dive and looked for Jaiven. His friend was parked in a booth of ripped vinyl in the back, a beer bottle already in front of him. “Hey.” Alex slid in across from his friend and hailed the waitress for his own beer.
“You look like shit,” Jaiven remarked.
“Thanks very much.” With a murmured thanks Alex took the bottle from the waitress. “As it happens, I didn’t sleep much last night.”
Jaiven cocked an eyebrow. “Good reason for that?”
“Not the one you’re thinking.” Alex thought, briefly, of Chelsea. Chelsea naked, that silver dress slithering off her like a snakeskin. Her hair down, long, wavy, mussed. Her mouth parted, lips rosy and swollen—
Damn it. He was getting a hard-on just thinking about her. Alex shifted in his seat, forced his gaze back to Jaiven who chuckled knowingly, the sound rich and deep. “What, the great Alex Diaz didn’t get lucky? Unbelievable.”
Alex smiled coolly and shook his head. “I wasn’t trying.”
“Sure you weren’t.” Jaiven stretched out in the booth and drained half his beer. “So were you out at some swanky media thing?”
“A birthday party.”
Jaiven just shrugged and took another swig of his beer. Although Jaiven’s fortune rivaled Alex’s own, his friend steadfastly refused to rub elbows with the people he still considered snobs and he never attended any society parties or events.
He’d quit school at sixteen and started his own shipping business with nothing more than with a strong back and a beat-up van with expired plates, and in the fifteen years since then he’d built it up into a multimillion-dollar shipping enterprise. In all that time he’d never left the Bronx behind.
He still lived there, admittedly in a much nicer place, and he was proud of where he’d come from, who he was and always would be. He often told Alex he’d punch him in the face any time he started acting like an ass again, and Alex took him at his word.
“But there is a woman, right?” he asked now, and Alex lifted one shoulder in a shrugging answer.
“There might be.”
“What, she’s playing hard to get?”
“Not exactly.”
Jaiven shook his head, let out another laugh. “Whoever it is, she’s got you by the balls, my friend. You’re looking like you need to get laid.”
Alex smiled grimly. “Maybe I do.” He and Jaiven had always shared the same approach to sex and love: one-night stands, the occasional week-long fling, and absolutely no expectations of anything else. He was honest about that as he was about everything else; he made sure a woman knew the rules before he’d so much as got her bra off.
Except he doubted Chelsea Maxwell was looking for a relationship. No, he was pretty sure she’d view sex the same way he did. Mutually enjoyable for an evening, and no more.
He felt his insides clench with anticipation. That would be plenty.
* * *
Chelsea stared at the little pink slip with Alex Diaz’s name scrawled on it and wondered again just what the man wanted.
He’d called two hours ago, and she wasn’t about to trip all over herself to call him back. No, let him wait. Let him wonder. She tucked the slip in her purse—no need for anyone to know Alex Diaz was calling her—and reached for her laptop.
“Chelsea? Do you have a minute?”
She looked up to see Michael Agnello entering her office. “Of course.” She shut her laptop, pushed her chair away from her desk and crossed her legs. “Just answering some emails.”
“I wanted to talk about the Treffen interview.”
“All right.” Seemed like everyone did, she thought. Coincidence? Probably not. Probably everyone, even Michael, was surprised she’d actually scored a prime-time interview with Treffen. Everyone but her. She’d worked hard for it, and she’d earned it, and she fully intended to have it make her career.
“What about it?” she asked as Michael sat down across from her.
“Treffen and his lawyer want to meet with you before the interview to go over exactly how it’s going to proceed.”
Chelsea frowned, even though she wasn’t really all that surprised. “That seems a bit counterproductive. I’d like to have our conversation progress naturally.”
“Treffen wants a little more control.”
“Why?”
Michael shrugged. “Why not? The man has a reputation, Chelsea, and it’s not to sob on a pink velour sofa.”
Annoyance prickled, even though she knew Michael had a point. “You know this interview isn’t going to be like that.”
“I know, which is why you should meet with him. It makes sense.”
“Maybe.”
In the past week she’d taped two shows, one with a disgraced Olympian who’d had to give back her bronze medal after a doping scandal, and another with a country Western star trying to resurrect her career after several album flops and public meltdowns. Chelsea had brought them to tears both times.
But her interview with Treffen was going to be different. No sordid secrets, no noisy tears. Just honest, respectable journalism. Treffen, after all, wasn’t a washed-up has-been trying to resurrect his career.
I know what he’s done.
She thought suddenly of the hard look on Alex Diaz’s face when he’d spoken about Treffen. No matter what he had or hadn’t said, he clearly didn’t like the man.
And now, Chelsea realized, she wanted to know why. She needed to know, especially if Treffen intended on imposing his control over the interview.
“I’m happy to meet with him,” she told Michael. “But he’d better not expect to dictate all the terms of the interview.”
“He just might,” Michael warned her with a shake of his head. “And if you want Treffen to do this interview, you just might have to agree.”
Chelsea pressed her lips together in silent, if unwilling, acceptance. Nothing could jeopardize this opportunity to interview Treffen, to finally make her career. Rise above the rumors she had always refused to deny. Nothing—not even the man himself.
Chapter Three (#ulink_dac80147-b048-5a8d-8c23-b390f78c28ed)
Several hours later she was still mulling over the upcoming meeting with Treffen, set for next week, when her administrative assistant buzzed through. “I’ve got Alex Diaz on the line.”
Chelsea felt a surge of satisfaction. So he’d called. Twice. A smile of anticipation on her lips, she reached for the phone. “Alex.”
“Hello, Chelsea.”
Her insides contracted at the sound of his husky murmur. His voice seemed to steal right inside her and wrap around her soul. It wasn’t fair, to be affected by a voice so much.
More importantly, it was stupid. And Chelsea was never stupid about men. Not anymore. She’d ignore that kick of attraction for now. Play it businesslike. Smart. Safe.
“What can I do for you?” she asked briskly.
“Interesting that you ask,” he answered, and that soul-stealing voice took just a little bit more away from her.
“And why is it so interesting?”
“Because what you can do is go out to dinner with me.”
Heat flared. He made it sound like a date. And maybe it was. “Why would I do that?” she asked, and this time she kept her tone on the wobbly line between challenge and flirt.
“Because I’d like to get to know you a bit better,” he answered, and it was impossible to tell what he meant. Personally? Professionally? Chelsea had no idea, and she was pretty sure that was how Alex wanted it.
“Interesting,” she drawled, “but I’m not sure it’s mutual.”
Alex laughed softly, the sound strangely, stupidly intimate over the phone. “Are you sure about that, Chelsea?”
The sound of her name on his lips made her feel weirdly exposed, especially considering it wasn’t even her real name. “I never said I wanted to get to know you,” she answered flippantly. “Now, if you’re offering something else...” She dropped her voice suggestively, wondered what he’d do with her innuendo. What she would.
“And what would you like me to offer?” Alex asked after only a second’s pause, his voice still a sexy rumble.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve made up my mind.”
“Then let’s discuss it over dinner.”
She hesitated, her hand suddenly slippery on the phone. It was just dinner, she told herself. With a very sexy man. And something about Alex Diaz, about his cold sense of purpose...well, scared wasn’t quite the word. But close to it.
He was a man, she realized, who would take absolute control. And she was the one who needed to be in control, who insisted on it in all of her relationships, no matter if it was the man who fixed her dishwasher or the one she took to her bed. She called the shots. Always.
Somehow she didn’t think Alex Diaz would play by her rules, with her in charge.
And yet she wasn’t ever one to back down from a challenge. “All right,” she finally said. “I have a standing reservation at Le Bernardin—”
“Very nice, but we’ll do this my way. See you tomorrow.”
And then, to her immense irritation, he hung up on her. Chelsea stared at the telephone receiver for a full ten seconds before slamming it back in its cradle. She cursed aloud. He’d only hung up on her because he knew exactly what she was trying to do—and he wouldn’t let her do it.
Her irritation turned to amusement, even a grudging admiration. Maybe she’d finally met her match.
Twenty minutes later she received a text on her phone: Your place. 7 pm.
She wondered how he’d got her private mobile number, but then realized that Alex Diaz could probably get any information he wanted. He owned the most respected news network in the country. She suppressed the twinge of alarm that thought caused. She had far too many secrets to have a man like Alex Diaz curious about her.
It would, she acknowledged reluctantly, be safer to nip this one in the bud. Say no to dinner, no to any possible opportunity on his network, and definitely no to sex.
How would Alex Diaz be in bed? As arrogant and assured as he was in person? She pictured those strong, capable hands on her body, that mobile mouth on her skin. He would dominate in the bedroom, she thought, but he would do it so wonderfully that the woman in question wouldn’t care.
Desire coursed through her in a hot rush, doused quickly by the ensuing icy shock. Just what the hell was she thinking, getting excited by a man like Alex Diaz? He was arrogant, controlling, and he could potentially be her boss. Three strikes against him already. And yet she couldn’t deny that she wanted him, and she wanted him the way he was: in charge. Commanding. Dominating.
Good Lord.
Slowly Chelsea shook her head, disgusted with herself. Had she learned nothing in ten years? Hadn’t three years of humiliation and heartache, not to mention a significant stint in intensive care, been enough?
She might consider working for Alex Diaz, she decided, but she definitely wouldn’t think about sleeping with him.
Or perhaps vice versa.
Shaking her head, annoyed with her own flip-flopping thoughts, she opened her laptop and turned back to her work.
The next evening she stood in front of the floor-length mirror in her bedroom and inspected her reflection. She’d put her hair back in a tight, sleek bun, and wore discreet pearl studs in her ears. Her makeup was smoky but understated: nothing come hither about just a touch of mascara and lip gloss. And the dress was definitely on the modest side, while highlighting her assets. Made of cream cashmere, cinched at the waist with a gold link belt, it covered her up from neck to knee. It looked subtly sexy, but still professional. And that’s what she needed to be tonight...because she still wasn’t sure what Alex Diaz wanted with her, or what she wanted with him.
In the twenty-four hours since their phone call, she’d thought about canceling their dinner, just not going in that direction at all. As tempting as the possibility of working for Diaz News was, and possibly having a respected news show on his network, she also knew Alex wasn’t promising anything and it would be far safer, far saner to stay away from a man who already affected her too much. But walking away was weakness, and Chelsea never let herself be weak.
No, she’d go to dinner with Alex Diaz, find out if he really was considering her for something on his network, or if, like so many other men, he was just trying to talk her into bed.
And if he was?
Well, maybe she’d take him up on it. The thought made alarm and excitement churn inside her, an unsettling mix. Alex Diaz was so, so different from the men she normally took to bed.
But that made him exciting. A challenge. If she could control him, make him weak with wanting her...
Hell, if that wasn’t the most potent aphrodisiac in the world.
The phone connecting her apartment to the lobby rang, and answering it Chelsea told the doorman she’d meet Alex in the lobby. He wouldn’t come upstairs unless she invited him.
This evening, like everything else in her life, would be on her terms...no matter what Alex intended or thought.
Alex was inspecting a modern sculpture on display in the lobby when she came out of the elevator. Dressed in a charcoal business suit, cheeks flushed with cold and a faint five o’clock shadow drawing attention to the hard line of his jaw, he was too gorgeous for words, damn the man.
“What do you think this is supposed to be?” he asked and Chelsea tore her gaze away from him to glance at the twisted iron-and-copper monstrosity she’d never bothered to notice before.
“I don’t know. A tree?”
“Some tree.”
Her lips twitched in a sudden smile. “Not a fan of modern art?”
