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Authors: Christina Crooks
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your employment
status."
That would be his idea of an apology,
Stanna knew. Though it was a bit late in coming and more than a
little reluctant, it pleased her inordinately. So did the
affirmation of Ian’s vote of confidence.
Even though Jake admitted that he
thought Ian was "killing the magazine." That made it a sort of
left-handed compliment, didn't it? If Ian was a magazine murderer,
then Ian’s choosing her made her a murderer-in-training.
Jake couldn't for the life of him
figure out why she was suddenly looking at him with those
blue-tinted silver eyes glinting shrewdly, amused. But that
wouldn't stop him from trying to bridge the chasm gaping between
them since the beginning of their professional relationship. Being
stuck with her didn't have to be a bad thing.
Her face glowed with health, he
noticed. She was so young, so full of vitality. Her delicate brows
were knitted slightly and those stunning eyes that he'd seen in
extreme close-up not three hours ago now steadily watched him, a
coolly assessing gaze. Very different from their melting heat when
he'd kissed her. The memory of their fiery embrace nudged him,
reminding him how much more his sexy columnist had to offer than
her writing skills.
He needed her cooperation with the
column, though. Her other qualities were nothing but mind-candy.
And that's where they would stay. In his mind.
It would be much too distracting any
other way.
"Stanna, the magazine is the main
issue here. Its success and its satisfied readership. Can we agree
on that, at least?"
"Yes. Yes, absolutely." He watched the
idea spread its animation across her porcelain face before her lips
parted to speak. "You know, Jake, the magazine could do well
exactly as it is, with your idea about building up marketing and
circulation. That's just what I've thought it needed all along,
only Ian never quite had the budget to begin."
The hopeful look in her eyes tugged at
him. It was her innocence and youth, he decided. That's what made
him react so guiltily when she made those "save my magazine"
hopeful comments. The vulnerable look in her eyes, which he knew
she wasn't aware of, made him feel like a bully stealing Halloween
candy.
But it wouldn't make him change his
mind.
"Ian's gone, and I'm here now," he
replied.
"And you're the boss," she appended,
her tone carefully neutral.
"I'm glad we see eye-to-eye." He liked
the way her lips twitched slightly before regaining their normal
aloof shape. He was a good half-foot taller than she, just the
right kind of eye-to-eye with a woman, as far as he was
concerned.
She remained stubbornly silent,
watching and waiting.
"Stanna..." His manners caught up to
him then, and he gestured at the spare chair even as he rose to
fetch it himself. "Please, sit down." She did, with another
distrustful glance and a ballet-graceful bend of her slender
body.
The afternoon was fading quickly, he
noticed. Already the light from his window was a thick
yellow-orange that only Los Angeles smog could produce. He knew if
he looked outside he'd see long metal arteries of early commuters
sluggishly moving along surface streets in the vain hope that
they'd be faster than the freeways.
His rented home in Manhattan Beach
would be a good forty-five minute drive, but the ocean-adjacent
abode was worth it. Old friends of the family charged him such a
low rental price that he wouldn't dream of telling anyone just how
little he paid for the prime-location home. It would only make them
feel bad that the same money they doubtless used to secure a single
apartment in a modest Los Angeles neighborhood could keep him in a
three-bedroom, two-bath house only two blocks from the
beach.
Maybe he could tie this up and take
off early so he'd have an hour or two to relax and prepare for his
business dinner with the ad agency later.
He leaned against his desk again,
feeling the wood edge against his thigh. He'd make his point with
the direct approach.
"Stanna, your column is offensive
status."
That would be his idea of an apology,
Stanna knew. Though it was a bit late in coming and more than a
little reluctant, it pleased her inordinately. So did the
affirmation of Ian’s vote of confidence.
Even though Jake admitted that he
thought Ian was "killing the magazine." That made it a sort of
left-handed compliment, didn't it? If Ian was a magazine murderer,
then Ian’s choosing her made her a murderer-in-training.
Jake couldn't for the life of him
figure out why she was suddenly looking at him with those
blue-tinted silver eyes glinting shrewdly, amused. But that
wouldn't stop him from trying to bridge the chasm gaping between
them since the beginning of their professional relationship. Being
stuck with her didn't have to be a bad thing.
Her face glowed with health, he
noticed. She was so young, so full of vitality. Her delicate brows
were knitted slightly and those stunning eyes that he'd seen in
extreme close-up not three hours ago now steadily watched him, a
coolly assessing gaze. Very different from their melting heat when
he'd kissed her. The memory of their fiery embrace nudged him,
reminding him how much more his sexy columnist had to offer than
her writing skills.
He needed her cooperation with the
column, though. Her other qualities were nothing but mind-candy.
And that's where they would stay. In his mind.
It would be much too distracting any
other way.
"Stanna, the magazine is the main
issue here. Its success and its satisfied readership. Can we agree
on that, at least?"
"Yes. Yes, absolutely." He watched the
idea spread its animation across her porcelain face before her lips
parted to speak. "You know, Jake, the magazine could do well
exactly as it is, with your idea about building up marketing and
circulation. That's just what I've thought it needed all along,
only Ian never quite had the budget to begin."
The hopeful look in her eyes tugged at
him. It was her innocence and youth, he decided. That's what made
him react so guiltily when she made those "save my magazine"
hopeful comments. The vulnerable look in her eyes, which he knew
she wasn't aware of, made him feel like a bully stealing Halloween
candy.
But it wouldn't make him change his
mind.
"Ian's gone, and I'm here now," he
replied.
"And you're the boss," she appended,
her tone carefully neutral.
"I'm glad we see eye-to-eye." He liked
the way her lips twitched slightly before regaining their normal
aloof shape. He was a good half-foot taller than she, just the
right kind of eye-to-eye with a woman, as far as he was
concerned.
She remained stubbornly silent,
watching and waiting.
"Stanna..." His manners caught up to
him then, and he gestured at the spare chair even as he rose to
fetch it himself. "Please, sit down." She did, with another
distrustful glance and a ballet-graceful bend of her slender
body.
The afternoon was fading quickly, he
noticed. Already the light from his window was a thick
yellow-orange that only Los Angeles smog could produce. He knew if
he looked outside he'd see long metal arteries of early commuters
sluggishly moving along surface streets in the vain hope that
they'd be faster than the freeways.
His rented home in Manhattan Beach
would be a good forty-five minute drive, but the ocean-adjacent
abode was worth it. Old friends of the family charged him such a
low rental price that he wouldn't dream of telling anyone just how
little he paid for the prime-location home. It would only make them
feel bad that the same money they doubtless used to secure a single
apartment in a modest Los Angeles neighborhood could keep him in a
three-bedroom, two-bath house only two blocks from the
beach.
Maybe he could tie this up and take
off early so he'd have an hour or two to relax and prepare for his
business dinner with the ad agency later.
He leaned against his desk again,
feeling the wood edge against his thigh. He'd make his point with
the direct approach.
"Stanna, your column is offensive
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