window with easy
grace, watching her with a rueful little smile.
She wished the sight of that
slow-moving thumb didn't zap right through her spine and directly
into her nervous system. His smile was cute. Too sexy for her own
good. He was taking her bashing of him in her column extremely
well.
He could afford to, she reminded
herself. With one flick of his tanned, strong wrist, her column
would sail into the trash. Then where would she be? Careful .
"Jake. I, uh..." Hmm, this diplomacy
thing was hard. Reaching to see it from his point of view felt like
spanning an abyss. Slowly, she spoke.
"I think I understand you want to make
a bigger success of what has been a middle-of-the-road, modern
men’s magazine. And you believe that since the audience is men they
want stereotypically male subject matter."
She had his complete interest. His
eyes were alert on her. Those eyes wouldn't miss the tiniest thing.
And she couldn't miss the excitement igniting in them. If she
hadn't already known, she was enlightened anew about just how much
the magazine meant to Jake Tremere.
He nodded, slapping the windowsill
emphatically. "Yes, that's what guys want. I've read the back
issues and they don't speak to the demographics. What we have here
are smart young-adult and adult guys who pick up Men's
Weekly to stay smart and informed. And the studies say their
main priorities are women, women, women. If we don't give them what
they want now, someone else will." His deep voice held absolute
conviction.
"What you wrote before," he gave
another absent thumb-caress to her packet and missed her quicker
than normal intake of breath, "isn't giving them what they want. Or
what they say with their hard-earned dollars they
need .
"The question is, are you going to
help me, Stanna?"
She sensed the power coiled within him
as he faced her fully.
She held firm. “I’m not interested in
working on a titty magazine.”
“ That’s good, because I’m
not interested in running one.”
"What do you want from me? Exactly
what position do I have here with you?" Her question was uttered
devoid of double meaning, but it hung there in the air between them
anyway. A quirk of his lips acknowledged it.
"I want you to cooperate with me." His
repeated request was soft and strong, persuasive and charismatic.
The kind of voice that made her feel like she'd be a heel if she
didn't cease her stubbornness and do what he wanted
immediately.
Oooh, you're good , she
marveled.
The bemused half-smile on her face
must have encouraged him because he continued with a shift into a
disarmingly straightforward manner.
"We didn't get off on the right foot,
did we? No." He half-sat, half-leaned against the edge of his desk,
his black boots pointed insolently at the ceiling. "So. When my
parents passed away, I inherited a certain amount of money which,
combined with what I've saved for years and a small business loan,
enabled me to do something I've always wanted to do: own a magazine
like this one." His gaze, when he looked up at her, was full of
determination, implacable.
"Ian couldn't be salvaged. No," he
held up his hand and spoke over her attempted interruption. "You
may not agree with me yet, but Ian was slowly killing this
magazine. And you," he evaluated her, "were to be replaced with
some low-buck freelance talent. I didn’t know you, didn’t know
about your contract, and the freelancer might not be as good as
you. They are, however, cheaper and easier to replace if they don’t
work out. I'd have used the extra money to increase circulation and
ad marketing, something I'd like to begin concentrating more on.
Hired help does what they're told. You follow your own feminist
vision, and it’s incompatible here."
Before Stanna could take umbrage at
that bit of cheer, Jake surprised her by grudgingly shifting gears
again.
"You are actually more than I
expected. Ian obviously thought so, too, or he wouldn't have been
training you to take his place, or misled me about
grace, watching her with a rueful little smile.
She wished the sight of that
slow-moving thumb didn't zap right through her spine and directly
into her nervous system. His smile was cute. Too sexy for her own
good. He was taking her bashing of him in her column extremely
well.
He could afford to, she reminded
herself. With one flick of his tanned, strong wrist, her column
would sail into the trash. Then where would she be? Careful .
"Jake. I, uh..." Hmm, this diplomacy
thing was hard. Reaching to see it from his point of view felt like
spanning an abyss. Slowly, she spoke.
"I think I understand you want to make
a bigger success of what has been a middle-of-the-road, modern
men’s magazine. And you believe that since the audience is men they
want stereotypically male subject matter."
She had his complete interest. His
eyes were alert on her. Those eyes wouldn't miss the tiniest thing.
And she couldn't miss the excitement igniting in them. If she
hadn't already known, she was enlightened anew about just how much
the magazine meant to Jake Tremere.
He nodded, slapping the windowsill
emphatically. "Yes, that's what guys want. I've read the back
issues and they don't speak to the demographics. What we have here
are smart young-adult and adult guys who pick up Men's
Weekly to stay smart and informed. And the studies say their
main priorities are women, women, women. If we don't give them what
they want now, someone else will." His deep voice held absolute
conviction.
"What you wrote before," he gave
another absent thumb-caress to her packet and missed her quicker
than normal intake of breath, "isn't giving them what they want. Or
what they say with their hard-earned dollars they
need .
"The question is, are you going to
help me, Stanna?"
She sensed the power coiled within him
as he faced her fully.
She held firm. “I’m not interested in
working on a titty magazine.”
“ That’s good, because I’m
not interested in running one.”
"What do you want from me? Exactly
what position do I have here with you?" Her question was uttered
devoid of double meaning, but it hung there in the air between them
anyway. A quirk of his lips acknowledged it.
"I want you to cooperate with me." His
repeated request was soft and strong, persuasive and charismatic.
The kind of voice that made her feel like she'd be a heel if she
didn't cease her stubbornness and do what he wanted
immediately.
Oooh, you're good , she
marveled.
The bemused half-smile on her face
must have encouraged him because he continued with a shift into a
disarmingly straightforward manner.
"We didn't get off on the right foot,
did we? No." He half-sat, half-leaned against the edge of his desk,
his black boots pointed insolently at the ceiling. "So. When my
parents passed away, I inherited a certain amount of money which,
combined with what I've saved for years and a small business loan,
enabled me to do something I've always wanted to do: own a magazine
like this one." His gaze, when he looked up at her, was full of
determination, implacable.
"Ian couldn't be salvaged. No," he
held up his hand and spoke over her attempted interruption. "You
may not agree with me yet, but Ian was slowly killing this
magazine. And you," he evaluated her, "were to be replaced with
some low-buck freelance talent. I didn’t know you, didn’t know
about your contract, and the freelancer might not be as good as
you. They are, however, cheaper and easier to replace if they don’t
work out. I'd have used the extra money to increase circulation and
ad marketing, something I'd like to begin concentrating more on.
Hired help does what they're told. You follow your own feminist
vision, and it’s incompatible here."
Before Stanna could take umbrage at
that bit of cheer, Jake surprised her by grudgingly shifting gears
again.
"You are actually more than I
expected. Ian obviously thought so, too, or he wouldn't have been
training you to take his place, or misled me about
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