CHAPTER TWO
AS MUCH as she wanted to, Sarah couldn’t hide out in her apartment and pray for a bunch of elves to knock on her door and hand over a replacement shoe. No, she had to be proactive.
Find that damned shoe, and at the same time, avoid Karl in the office. For a woman who had set out to change her life this week, she was certainly heading in the wrong direction.
Pedro Esposito leaned his dyed blond head over her cubicle wall. When she’d first arrived this morning, she’d dumped the entire sad story on the other writer’s shoulder. Pedro was a good friend—the kind who wouldn’t run to the boss and report Sarah’s shoe loss just so he could get promoted over her. His listening ear and shoulder to cry on should have been marketed to every woman needing a trustable friend. “Good news, peach.”
“There’s good news today?”
Pedro nodded. “Don’t you read your e-mails? Karl had to have an emergency root canal, so he’ll be out all day. Ding-dong, the boss is gone.”
Sarah laughed. Relief burst inside her chest. She’d just been handed a twenty-four-hour reprieve. “Thank God.”
“No, thank the walnut muffin that cracked his crown.” Pedro grinned, then fluttered a piece of paper onto her desk. “Here. This should help save your job.”
Sarah picked up the color flyer. “Oh, very funny, Pedro. A wanted poster for a missing shoe.”
His smile widened. “Better than a wanted poster for your head on a stick, which is what Karl’s going to hang up if he finds out what happened to that Frederick K.”
Sarah shuddered. Knowing Karl, that was a distinct possibility. He had a tendency to freak out over everything from a missed deadline to a drop in advertising revenues. “I’ll find it.”
“Whatever you want to believe, Cinderella. But if you ask me, what you need is a prince to come along and save you.” Pedro chuckled, then sank back behind his own desk.
No way. She was going to save herself, thank you very much. Hadn’t she done a thousand stories on cheating, no-good men? On the kind of men who might pretend to be Prince Charming, but were really Prince Self-Serving in nice clothes? Men who went after the nearest pretty young thing, ignoring the steadfast quiet, not-so-glamorous girl in the corner.
She didn’t need that. At all.
“This Cinderella is going to find her own shoe,” Sarah said. “I made this mess. I’ll figure out how to solve it. No fairy godmothers or princes necessary.”
Sarah put the flyer on her desk. Maybe she’d duck out early, and knock on a few doors in her neighborhood. Someone had to have seen something. They had to have.
She got up, about to head over to the break room for more coffee, hoping to quell the headache that had started yesterday and had yet to subside, when she saw the last man she expected to see striding down the aisle.
Caleb Lewis.
Lord, he was good-looking. Too bad she knew what a cad he could be in real life. Nevertheless, the dark-haired owner of LL Designs had a way of carrying himself that demanded attention and drew her gaze to him, even against her better judgment. Lean and muscular, he stood several inches taller than her, just tall enough for a woman to curl against him and press her head to his chest, feel his heart beat and the solid strength of him. His blue eyes always seemed to hold a hint of a tease, as if he was ready to laugh at the slightest provocation. The kind of man who embodied fun. A good time.
The problem? He was known for exactly that—having a good time, and doing so in public. She’d watched from the sidelines dozens of times while Caleb Lewis laughed it up with the model of the week. Or tangoed on the dance floor in the middle of a sea of women. Or closed down the club, leaving with a woman on each arm. His nickname in the magazine was Devil-May-Care Caleb—a moniker Karl had come up with to describe the designer-house president’s footloose attitude and lifestyle.
He was heart-stoppingly gorgeous—she’d give him that. Still, a handsome man who starred on the pages of the gossip column way too often. Apparently every woman in New York knew how gorgeous he was, and from what she’d observed, he’d spent every night appreciating that attention. Way too much.
Ever since she’d started writing about his active and highly social personal life, there’d been a war of sorts brewing between herself and LL Designs. One where he avoided her and she hounded him for the truth. Thus far, his favorite and only response was “No comment.”
So what was he doing here?
He strode down the carpeted path between the cubicles, then came to a stop. Right in front of her.
It had finally come to a head. He was here to confront her about the articles that had covered his endless squiring of one model after another. His wild antics in bars up and down the east coast. The reputation he’d garnered for being not just a ladies’ man, but one who did what he wanted. When he wanted. Consequences be damned.
“Miss Griffin.” Caleb Lewis nodded, his expression as unreadable as white walls.
Oh, God, he was here to sue her. That was the last thing she needed today. Then she noticed the oversized white wicker basket in his hands, a cellophane-wrapped treasure trove of chocolate goodies from the candy shop down the street.
What on earth?
“Can I help you with anything?” Sarah asked. “Do you need directions to Karl’s office?” She gestured down the hall, to the staircase that led to the senior editor’s office.
“Actually,” he held up the basket, stuffed to the brim with brightly colored candies, thick, decadent chocolate bars and luscious cocoa mix packets. “I came to…bribe you.”
Bribe her? After all she’d written about him? It had to be a trick. She snorted. “Yeah, right. With what? Laxative-laced chocolates? Or did you put razor blades in the candied apples?”
A slight grin crossed his face. “I considered it.”
“Honesty.” Despite herself, she grinned back. “I can appreciate that.”
Her stomach rumbled, and saliva pooled in her mouth. That basket held a minimum of three pounds of chocolate, she estimated. After the last twenty-odd hours, she could use at least a pound of the sugar solace in Caleb Lewis’s hands.
He placed the basket on her desk, close enough that she could swipe one of those candy bars with little more than a scissor snip of the cellophane. She fought the urge. Valiantly.
Caleb gestured toward the visitor chair. She nodded, and he dropped into the seat with the kind of ease that marked a confident man, one who could take over a space simply by being in it. “I need some information.”
Sarah tried to concentrate on Caleb’s face instead of the candy. Her stomach rumbled in protest. She should have had breakfast this morning. Then again, concentrating on Caleb Lewis came with as many dangers as digesting the thousands of calories in the basket before her. The man was a distracting interruption she definitely didn’t need today.
His blue gaze zeroed in on her face. He had a way of looking at a person that seemed to see past any façade, to make any secret hard to hide. Like the fact that her entire body was responding to his smile, his eyes, betraying her common sense. She’d seen women get so wrapped up in his face, his smile, that they tripped over their own two feet trying to get closer to him. No wonder. Being this close to Caleb Lewis, she realized the direct power of his gaze. Almost hypnotic.
Sarah cleared her throat. “Information? On what?”
“I wanted to ask whether you—” He cut the sentence off, then leaned forward. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?” She pivoted to follow his line of sight. Right over the books on her desk, past the coffee cup serving as a pencil holder, beyond the unopened oat-and-honey granola bar she’d been saving for a snack, and straight to—
The wanted poster.
She reached to hide it, but Caleb’s reach was faster and he plucked it up. “Hmm. Interesting.”
“It’s nothing.” Sarah swiped at the paper, but Caleb just leaned away from her. “Give it back.”
“Missing: one shoe,” he read. “Red stiletto. Custom design. Reward for safe return.” He arched a brow. “You lost a shoe?”
Sarah snatched the paper out of his hand and buried it under a stack of old magazine issues on her desk. In the next cubicle, she heard Pedro snicker. “I thought you wanted to talk about your company.”
He leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “That looks like a Frederick K. I heard rumors he was launching a shoe line. Is this a prototype for the new season? Something he plans to unveil at Fashion Week?”
Suspicion arced inside her, then she realized the designer’s trademark signature was clearly visible in the photo Pedro had used, one he’d probably grabbed off the server from the art department’s test shoot last week. Someone like Caleb, who made his living in this industry, would recognize the logo right away, and would want information about the competition. “Maybe.”
“Did you lose it?”
His stare seemed to cut right through her. But she refused to be daunted by him. Or by the condemnation in his tone. “What do you care?”
“Oh, I don’t.” A smile curved across his face. “Though you might, if you want to find that shoe.”
The suspicion that had risen in her earlier burst into full-bore distrust. For the first time, she realized he was wearing a navy-blue pin-striped suit. Just like the man she’d seen stop on the sidewalk this morning. Had he been that man? Had he found and taken the stiletto?
What were the chances? And surely, he would have told her right away, wouldn’t he? Then again, given their history, the chances were slim he’d tell her anything. There were a lot of navy-blue-suit-wearing men out there.
But not very many interested in a Frederick K stiletto.
“What do you mean, if I want to find that shoe?” she asked.
He danced his fingers on the arm of his chair, that damnable grin lighting up his features. It was the kind of smile that said I know something you don’t. “I might know where it is.”
Relief exploded inside her, quickly chased by the sobering reality that this was Caleb Lewis she was talking to. The man hated her guts. His vague comments about the shoe’s whereabouts could all be a trick. A way to get back at her for all those columns. “You have to return the shoe. It’s private property.”
That smile flitted across his face again, too fast to read its meaning. The tempting aroma of chocolate wafted up from the basket to greet Sarah, as if saying, trust him. He’s okay. He came with chocolate.
“Is there a reward involved?” Caleb asked.
“Mr. Lewis, if you have that shoe—”
“Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. Either way, I’m not admitting anything, because Lord knows you’re very good at declaring me guilty before you’ve looked at all the facts.” He draped an arm over the back of the chair, as easy with being there as if he were in his own office. “Why don’t you meet me over at my office at say, two o’clock, and we can discuss an…arrangement of sorts.”
One more smile—the same smile that had undoubtedly charmed half the female population of New York City—and then he left. Leaving Sarah in a position she hadn’t been in before with Caleb Lewis.
Out of control.
Caleb should have been glad that of all people, the reporter who had been his nemesis had been the one to lose the Frederick K. He could call it karmic payback for writing all those stories about his personal life.
Sarah Griffin had created an image of him—one nearly everyone believed—as a womanizing, shallow man. One more concerned about the blonde on his arm than the bottom line.
She didn’t know the truth—no one did—about why he filled his nights with the mindless world of nightclubs. Why he chose to forget his mistakes by spinning through relationships like an errant top.
When he’d walked into the magazine’s offices earlier today, he’d had no intention of talking to any of the reporters who worked for the tabloid side of the magazine. Especially not Sarah Griffin. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her—he barely knew her—or find her attractive—because she was beautiful, quite so—it was more that he wanted to avoid the person who had painted him with a one-dimensional brush.
He had seen Sarah Griffin dozens of times, in the background of the clubs he frequented, the restaurants where he dined. She avoided the spotlight that shone on him, never taking off the reporter hat to have a drink or take a spin on the dance floor. That didn’t stop him from noticing the quiet, observant woman in his periphery. Her wide green eyes took in everything he did and said, then her poisoned pen pasted all that information on the next issue’s pages. He often wondered how she was judging him—though all he had to do was open the latest issue to find out.
If it were any other day—and any other circumstances—he would have been intrigued by a woman like Sarah. Her slender frame held the kind of curves that said she enjoyed food and didn’t spend her days subsisting on diet soda and cigarettes. Her brown hair hung in a long, sleek curtain down her back, with a couple of loose tendrils curling around the edges of the bronze-rimmed frames of her glasses. She had an understated beauty about her, one not augmented by the artifice of overdone makeup and overbright hair dye. She was very much a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of woman.
For Caleb, who had met far too many of the illusion-is-my-middle-name kind of women, Sarah’s fresh-faced looks were refreshing. Intriguing.
Except for the fact that she’d written half the stories that lambasted him and painted him as a carousing devil—she could be the kind of woman he’d date. Still, hadn’t he learned from watching his mother’s own heartbreak that a reporter could turn on a subject in an instant, all in the quest for that immortal headline?
But, as he had crossed the room full of the writers’ cubicles, he’d realized bringing Sarah Griffin around to his side could serve him in more than one way. If he could convince her to do a story on LL Designs, maybe she’d see another side of him and of the company. And in the process, he hoped he could convince her to stop trotting his personal life through the “Seen and Heard” pages of the magazine.
What was that old saying? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer? Over the years, Sarah Griffin had definitely become an enemy of sorts. Keeping her close seemed like a good idea. Despite the trash she was in charge of penning, he had to admit—grudgingly—that she was the best writer at the publication. Whether he agreed with them or not, her stories were witty, punchy and memorable. Exactly the kind of piece he needed for LL Designs.
Then he’d seen the poster for the missing shoe.
Jackpot.
With the shoe as leverage, he could surely get Sarah’s attention, be able to work out some kind of deal, encouraging her to be more amenable to writing a favorable-to-the-company article. Maybe convince her he wasn’t the bad boy she thought he was and see how writing an in-depth story on LL Designs’ new season could benefit them both.
Who better to understand and appreciate his launching of a shoe line than the woman who was in possession of the debut pair of Frederick Ks? At the same time, it hadn’t taken him long to realize working with her meant bringing her into the office—and risking that she would see the missing Frederick K on his desk. He could just see the headline now: Desperate Business Owner Swipes competitor’s Newest Design.
Yeah, not the kind of press Caleb was looking for.
Still, it was a chance he was willing to take. He had a feeling this could be a very beneficial arrangement for his business.
He reached up, grabbed the shoe and shoved it into one of the drawers of his desk. He would tell her he had the stiletto—but after he had a chance to explain what had happened, and make Sarah Griffin see he wasn’t as bad as her headlines painted him.
The numbers on his office clock had just flipped to 2:00 p.m. when Martha buzzed Caleb. “You have a visitor,” she said.
Caleb chuckled. Right on time. He wasn’t surprised. Sarah Griffin was probably completely freaked out about the missing stiletto. Losing something like that—particularly when the issue’s deadline was right around the corner—had to have her stomach in knots. And to lose one of the ultra-secret Frederick Ks? If her job wasn’t already on the line, it would be soon.
And that gave Caleb leverage. “Send her right in,” he said.
“Uh, it’s not a her.”
Not a her? Had Sarah Griffin sent someone else in her stead? Or had she decided he was bluffing about the shoe and just blown him off?
His door opened and a heavyset man in a bright blue suit stepped inside. He stood about six feet tall and half that in width, with a shock of short white hair that stood out in a cloud-shaped halo around his head. Beneath the suit he wore a red-and-white striped button-down shirt, complete with a matching pocket square. There was nothing about the man that said simple, understated or pay-me-no-mind. Not his clothing, not his mannerisms and definitely not his infamous booming voice. “Hello, Caleb.”
“Frederick. How nice to see you.”
The flamboyant owner of Frederick K designs chuckled. “Don’t lie, my boy. We all know you hate my guts.” He crossed the room and stopped by one of the visitor’s chairs but didn’t sit down. Probably avoiding wrinkles in his perfectly pressed bright-blue suit.
Caleb rose, and came around to lean on the edge of his desk. “Let me guess. You’re here because you’ve realized this fashion business is just too competitive for you and you want me to buy you out.”
Frederick K snorted. “That’ll be the day. Oh, no, I’m here to offer you the opposite.” He leaned in, his dark-brown gaze meeting Caleb’s. “I want to buy you out. Lock, stock and barrel.”
The offer came as a surprise to Caleb but he didn’t betray that emotion. Why would successful Frederick K want to take over struggling LL Designs? Was it merely to eliminate a little more of the competition? “I’m not for sale. And neither is this company.”
Frederick K laughed, the sound hearty, coming from somewhere deep in that expansive gut of his. “You’d rather file bankruptcy?”
“We’re fine.”
Another laugh. “My, my. You are delusional.” Frederick reached into the inside breast pocket of his suit, withdrew a sheet of paper and fluttered it onto Caleb’s desk. “My offer. Sign it, and you’re released from this—” Frederick waved a hand. “—prison of your mother’s making.”
A tide of anger rose in Caleb’s chest. Give up his mother’s company? Sell her decades of hard work to this buffoon? “I will never sell to you. I won’t sell you so much as a thread of my mother’s company.”
“I always thought you were a bad businessman, but never a fool.” Frederick K shook his head, making the white cloud dance. “And I’m so rarely wrong.”
Caleb pushed off from his desk and towered over the other man. “Get out of my office.”
“I’ll see you at the shows in a couple of weeks,” Frederick K said. “Unless of course you’re smart enough to quit while you’re behind.” He gestured again toward the slip of paper.
“I’ll be there,” Caleb said. “And LL Designs will be the one getting the buzz this year. Not Frederick K.”
“Delusional,” Frederick K muttered again, under his breath, then he walked out of Caleb’s office. Caleb was tempted to slam and lock the door behind him, but he didn’t.
The man had been right. He’d taken the pulse of LL Designs, and found it weakening by the day. A smart businessman would have taken the offer of a buyout, pocketed the cash and walked away. Then this entire burden would be on someone else’s shoulders and he’d be free to pursue his own career again, rather than the one he’d inherited.
He could be free. Of the worries. The stresses. The too-heavy burden of being CEO.
Caleb picked up the single sheet from Frederick K, dropped into his office chair again—
And sent the paper through the shredder.
The elevator seemed to take its sweet time bringing Sarah to the top floor of the steel-and-glass building that housed LL Designs. She’d hemmed and hawed for a good ten minutes about whether or not Caleb Lewis had been serious or just looking for a way to get back at her for all the gossip columns. Either way, she couldn’t be sure without taking him up on his offer.
Offer, ha. It had been a dare, couched in friendly terms.
He wanted to see if she was willing to step into the lion’s den to find out if he had her missing stiletto. It was possible, she had reasoned, that the entire thing was a set-up. That Caleb Lewis had used the wanted poster to formulate a ruse that would make a fool out of her. And in the process, exact a little revenge for all those columns.
But then she came back to the look on his face when he had seen the poster. He knew something—and she was not leaving here until she found out what it was.
The elevator doors opened. Sarah’s steps stuttered when she saw who was waiting for the car.
Frederick K.
The designer was talking on his phone—barking into it, really—and didn’t even notice her as she passed by him and into the corridor. Not that he ever had. Frederick K was the kind of guy who talked to his people, and told them to talk to all the “other” people. Those who existed beneath his stratosphere.
Had he been here about the shoe? Had Caleb Lewis double-crossed her? After the elevator doors closed behind Frederick K, Sarah breezed straight into Caleb’s office, bypassing his assistant’s desk over the woman’s objections. “Did you sell me out?”
Caleb stared at her. “Sell you out? To whom? For what?”
“I just saw Frederick K leaving here. Did you tell him?”
“About the shoe you lost?” A grin darted across Caleb’s face. “Now, why would I do that?”
“Because that’s the kind of man you are.”
The grin disappeared, replaced by a scowl. “You have me all wrong.”
“I wrote the stories, Mr. Lewis. I did the research. I know you.”
He came around his desk, until mere inches separated them. His woodsy cologne teased at her senses, tempting her to draw closer. She didn’t.
“You’re wrong, Miss Griffin,” he said, his voice low and quiet. “I’m not the man you have portrayed on your pages.”
His gaze met hers, and her thoughts stammered to a stop. Every time she came into contact with the owner of LL Designs, Sarah forgot her own name, never mind what she was going to say.
He had a way of riveting his attention on her, making her feel like no one else existed in his world at that moment except her. But she knew better—she herself had put together the gossip pages that linked Caleb Lewis to every runway model in a five-mile radius. A smart woman would avoid entangling herself with a man like him. He had heartbreaker written all over his face.
“Why am I here?” she asked. “If this is some kind of ruse—”
“Don’t you want to know where that shoe is?”
Did he have it? Or know something she didn’t? Her heart skipped a beat. She put a smile on her face, hoping diplomacy would bring him over to her side—and get her the information on the stiletto that much faster. “I know my articles on you haven’t been that flattering, and I appreciate you being so understanding about this shoe…fiasco.”
He perched on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms over his chest. “I never said I had it or that I would give it back, just like that.” He snapped his fingers.
Damn. He must have the stiletto. Then why wouldn’t he admit it?
What did he want?
“One shoe doesn’t do you any good, Mr. Lewis. Certainly—”
“Quid pro quo, Miss Griffin. You want something and so do I.”
She glared at him. “If this is some twisted way of propositioning me, I assure you—”
Laughter burst from him. “I assure you, this is not about sex.”
Her ego smarted at the words, and heat climbed her neck. Well, geez. He didn’t have to be so blunt about it.
Why did she care what he thought about her? She had no desire to be part of Caleb Lewis’s model harem. But still…
It’d be nice to have him notice her. Just for ego’s sake. That was all.
“I want ink,” he said.
“Ink?” She pushed her glasses up on her nose, acutely aware that in her jeans and dark-brown cowl-neck sweater she didn’t exactly scream sex goddess. Surrounded by images of the stunning women who wore LL Designs’ latest creations, she felt out of her element. Particularly with Caleb Lewis zeroing so much of his attention on her. Attention that clearly had nothing to do with sexual desires.
Was that because her brown sweater made her look about as sexy as a loaf of bread? Or simply that Caleb was sticking to business only? Still, his questions, his directness, unnerved her. Sarah was usually the one behind the scenes—not the one in the scene. “Isn’t that what Office Depot is for?”
“I don’t mean printer ink,” Caleb said. “I mean a story. On my company.”
Suspicion rose inside her again. He knew what she’d written—surely he read Behind the Scenes—why would he want her, of all people, to write the story on his company? One that he undoubtedly expected would put a positive spin on the struggling design firm? “Why me?”
He leaned forward. “Because contrary to some of the…fluff—” In his tone she heard the struggle to use a euphemism for his true feelings about those columns. “—you have published in the past, you are the best writer on staff over there. And though I may have disagreed a time or ten with what you’ve written about me,” at this, a grin whispered across his face, then disappeared so quickly she wasn’t even sure it had been a genuine smile, “I have found your writing to be smart and witty.”
The compliments washed over her, settling into the insecure cracks in her writer persona. She didn’t care if someone was the most successful writer or painter in the world, there was just something about the creative spirit that was more vulnerable than that of, say, an accountant. She’d obsessed about every story she’d ever written, always sure her editor was going to kick it back with a big red REJECTED stamp across the top. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet, Miss Griffin. There’s an addendum to this offer.”
“Mr. Lewis—”
“Call me Caleb, please.” That grin danced across his features again, and Sarah’s stomach did a little flip-flop. “I feel like my grandfather when you say that.”
“Caleb.” His name slid off her tongue. Too easily. “The editorial calendar is set months in advance and I can’t—”
He pushed off from the desk and closed the gap between them. He was so close, she could see that his eyes—which she’d always thought were just blue—were a tempting combination of blue-gray, like the sky just after a storm cleared. She didn’t recognize his cologne, but resisted the urge to inhale the deep, musky notes. “If you wanted to badly enough, you could.”
Could what? Kiss him? Because some insane part of her wanted to do that. Pretty darn badly. Especially the way he looked today—in a white button-down shirt open at the collar, the crimson tie tugged down just enough to expose a tempting V of his neck. He’d taken off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of his chair. The simple deletion had transformed him, and the relaxed, almost cavalier tone to his attire made her want to see what would happen if she unknotted that tie, then slipped each one of those tiny white buttons out of their holes and—
She cleared her throat and moved back. “No can do. I’m sorry.”
Really sorry. She’d have done about anything to see him grin again. No wonder the models gushed about him as though he was a movie star. He had the kind of charm that tempted a woman to drop her guard, expose a chink in the walls around her heart, and go after him with wild abandon. She’d watched him from afar a thousand times, but up close—
Up close, he exerted a raw sexuality that said he would be very, very good in bed. Oh, boy.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, “but I’m not willing to compromise my ethics and just write some pretty little ego-stroking piece about you to counteract any bad press you may have received.”
He scowled. “This isn’t about me.”
“Then what is it about?”
“The company. I want a story written on LL Designs. Showcasing the company in a way your publication hasn’t done for years. I promise, it’ll be a great exclusive.”
For a second, she thought of another kind of exclusive—the kind where Caleb Lewis paid attention to her and no one else. The kind where she spent her evenings with him parked in front of a roaring fire, exploring every delicious inch of his tall, broad frame. And him doing the same to her, over and over again.
Get a grip, Sarah. The last thing you need is a relationship with a man like him.
And the last person a man like him would go for was someone like her. She wasn’t leggy or glamorous. She was…just Sarah. Nothing wrong with that, but nothing spectacular about it, either.
“I don’t know,” she said. “How do I know you’ll make this story worth my while?”
“I have something you need.” He paused. “The missing Frederick K stiletto.”
The shoe. He did have it.
All the years she’d worked at Behind the Scenes, Sarah had done her job—and done it well—and figured a promotion to the inside pages, to the real meat and potatoes of Smart Fashion, was only a matter of time. Then she could write real articles about real topics, instead of covering how many drinks some model had before she made a fool out of herself on a tabletop.
Except that hadn’t happened. Karl had kept her glued to the gossip pages, tossing her the occasional accessory story, a paragraph or two on new handbags and nail polishes for the “What’s New” column at Smart Fashion, all the while promising “someday” she’d move to the regular magazine, dangling it like a carrot on a string. She’d despaired of ever writing anything remotely meaningful.
Until one of the main writers for the fashion pages, Betsy Wilkins, had pitched a hissy fit in the middle of a photo shoot over the way her piece was edited, and Karl had ordered her out of the building. The writers’ pit had still been buzzing about the dramatic exit when Karl strode down the hall, dumped the shoes on Sarah’s desk and said, “don’t screw it up.”
Not exactly the rousing endorsement of her future she’d hoped for. For five seconds, Sarah had panicked, sure she wasn’t up to covering the famous designer’s spring designs.
Then she’d taken a closer look at the shoes, and in them, seen an opportunity for much more than career advancement. Rather, a chance for a real change. The kind she had dreamed of ever since she’d first picked up a pen and imagined herself as a journalist. She’d gotten derailed from that dream for a little, but now she was back on track, thanks to the perfect-size designer shoes.
Half of which were in Caleb Lewis’s possession.
He put out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”
“What deal are you proposing?”
“It’s simple. You give me what I want, and I give you what you want.” His gaze met hers. “Everybody wins.”
She had dealt with the worst of the modeling world’s personalities. Covered stories no one wanted her to cover. Surely she could work with Caleb Lewis and not get swept up in his blue eyes and easy charm.
After all, she knew him. And knew he had about as much sticking power for relationships as a wet piece of tape. She’d be smart, not starry-eyed.
“You have a deal, Mr. Lewis,” she said and took his hand. When they touched, a zing ran through her.
Which told Sarah Griffin this “deal” wasn’t going to be the uncomplicated arrangement she’d hoped.
Not at all.