CHAPTER THREE
“FIRST, we need some ground rules,” Caleb said. He had paused outside the doors to his factory, one hand on the lever, the other lingering behind Sarah’s back. As if he was guiding her inside, but half of him had to admit it was so he had an excuse to touch her again.
When they had shaken hands a moment ago, he’d felt it—that little quiver of electricity running through his body, lighting up senses that Caleb had been sure had gone dark forever. He’d been with some of the most beautiful women in the world and never felt a tenth of the electricity he’d felt when he’d taken Sarah Griffin’s hand.
Why? Was it because she challenged him on every level? Because of their built-in animosity over her column? One of those push-pull attraction kind of things?
But more to the point, what the hell was he doing? She was the enemy. Not a woman he wanted to—or should—get close to. He had to guard the secrets in his life, and guard them well, especially around a gossip reporter. Except every time he looked into her deep green eyes, he seemed to forget that.
“Ground rules?” A half laugh escaped her. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Frankly, no.” He gestured toward the copy of Behind the Scenes that was sitting on top of a pile of magazines spilling out of the recycle bin. Right there on the cover, in bold red letters, were the words she had written. Fashion’s Hottest Bad Boy Exposed. He tapped the cover. “Did this help you sell more issues?”
“It didn’t hurt.” She turned toward him, which broke the contact of his hand on her back. “I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.”
He could just see the people standing in the checkout line, picking up the tabloid and plunking down their few dollars to devour the petty details of his life. Get the people to buy the publication, by any means, then hope they read the ads and buy the products splashed on the pages.
He understood the chess game of marketing and sales. Hell, he was one of those advertisers hoping to get noticed by the reader. Didn’t mean he liked being one of the pawns, though.
“Number one,” Caleb said. “There will be no more of these kinds of articles done on me while we are working together.”
“You can’t—”
“Find someone else to focus your attention on. Someone besides ‘Devil-May-Care Caleb.’” The last few words ended with a note of distaste.
She arched a brow and a tease lit her gaze. “Well, there’s a problem with that. I don’t know another Devil-May-Care CEO.” Her smile widened. Sarah Griffin clearly wasn’t daunted by him, at all. Despite everything, he liked that. A lot. “Do you know a lot of playboy bachelor CEOs in the fashion industry? Is there, like, a club for you guys?”
He laughed, the sound exploding from his chest. After the stress of the last few weeks—hell, months—laughter felt good. “Oh, yeah. There’s a support group and everything.”
“And what’s your motto?” Her green eyes danced with merriment. “If it ain’t on the front page, it ain’t worth doing?”
“I see you’ve been to one of our meetings.”
She laughed. He liked the sound. Light and fresh, like a spring breeze. “Where do you think I get all my ideas for the gossip column?”
A slight flush accentuated her delicate features, peaked in her cheeks and drew his attention down to her full lips. For a second, he forgot everything that had happened between them. Forgot that she was the enemy. Forgot that he was supposed to be focused on the company, not her. All he could think about was kissing those soft pink lips and hearing her soft laughter of joy against his mouth.
Whoa. Back the horse up, cowboy, and get back to business.
And don’t trust a reporter. Ever.
Still, a part of him—the part that was urging him to kiss her—was whispering that he could trust Sarah. Could get close to her.
“Let’s, uh, hope what you see today gives you an idea for something else to write about.” He pushed on the double doors to the factory, and gestured for her to enter. He took a step, then paused just inside the room. Didn’t matter how many times he came down to the sixty-thousand-square-foot factory, the sheer power of the massive space always brought him to a standstill. Dozens of people, working fabric, needles, thread, all in perfect synchronization, producing what some would view as works of art. Taking one designer’s vision and transforming it into a reality, one dress, one skirt, one pair of slacks at a time.
“Amazing,” she said quietly.
“This is going to sound crazy, but I think the same thing every time I come down here. I used to come here with my mother on Saturdays when I was a little boy. It was cool then, because everything was quiet and still. But my favorite days were the weekdays when this place was humming like a beehive.”
“It is like that, isn’t it? A beehive?”
“Yep. And the queen bee, she used to really keep things hopping here.” Caleb chuckled at the memory. “My mother would get it in her head that her collection really needed to feature teal and miniskirts, and wham, the lines would have to switch gears so she could add this new idea to the mix.”
“She’s a brilliant designer. One of the true pioneers in fashion.”
“Thank you.” A few quiet words, and a bridge formed between them. One he hadn’t expected or asked for. But there it was.
He should say something back. Instead, he retreated into his comfort zone. Work.
Caleb stopped by the cutting table, watching as a worker unfurled a thick roll of satiny robin’s-egg-blue fabric. He rolled it back and forth several times, stacking layer upon layer before pushing a button and watching as the cutting tool came down and computer cut out the pieces for a dress.
“This is for our ready-to-wear collection,” Caleb explained above the whir and whoosh of the machine. “The mass-market pieces that end up in major department stores. Many of our couture pieces are still handmade, from start to finish.”
“This will be the Danube dress, won’t it?” Sarah asked, pointing at the stack of cut pieces already being loaded onto a transfer cart for the next step in the process.
He nodded, pleased that she knew the collection well enough to recognize a piece at the assembly stage. “And what do you think of it?”
“Well, I…” She waved a hand vaguely instead of answering the question.
“Let me guess. ‘Lacking in originality, this year’s collection from LL Designs is unfocused and flashy. Much like the company’s owner.’”
She pushed her glasses up on her nose. “I only write the truth.”
“You call that truth?” The bridge between them dissolved, putting them right back into choppy waters. Confronting her was probably not his wisest course of action. He needed her on his side—not working against him. But he couldn’t seem to find the governor for his mouth. “That’s just an excuse for those ridiculous headlines.”
Sarah propped a fist on her hip. “Listen, I could easily write pieces that stroke your ego and make your company seem like the next best thing since sliced bread. But I can’t. And I won’t.”
He snorted. “Why?” He had to raise his voice to be heard above the constant whir of the sewing machines. “Journalistic integrity getting in the way? Or the rush to get the story in print before some other tabloid does?”
She chewed on her upper lip, and he knew he’d ticked her off. Damn. This was going all wrong. He was supposed to impress her with the factory, with the amazing productivity of his workers, with the new designs launching this year.
“It’s not like that,” she said.
“Oh, yeah? Well, it sure feels like that on my end.”
She threw up her hands. “Listen, I didn’t come here for you to leap all over me about my columns. I’m sorry you aren’t happy with them, but I don’t answer to you. Why don’t you just give me back the shoe and we’ll both admit this isn’t going to work out?”
He could do that. He could take the easy road out. Find another reporter at the magazine to work with. There were at least a dozen on staff there, and he could surely find one person who would be easier to work with. Nicer.
Except, he was never going to get Sarah Griffin to stop writing those pieces if he didn’t show her he wasn’t the devil in a suit she thought he was. He had a prime opportunity to foster a new kind of relationship with the press.
Martha had been right. Caleb hadn’t been nice to the reporters, and he hadn’t exactly given them much to write about besides his love life. If he wanted to change the headlines, he needed to change his approach.
Starting with his own reactions to her words. He bit back his pride. “What is it about the company’s latest designs that you find so…” He paused before forcing the words out a second time. “‘Unfocused and lacking in originality’?”
She eyed him. “You want my honest opinion?”
As much as he wanted to say no, he didn’t. The company was in trouble, and had been ever since he took over. He’d welcome any light shed on why. Even from Sarah Griffin. “Yes, I do.”
She took a step closer to the cutting table, where a second bolt of fabric—this time in a pale spring green—was being unrolled. “The one thing LL Designs used to be known for when your mother was in charge was taking chances. For not answering to anyone. The company didn’t follow trends. It set them.”
He nodded. He had read those words more than once about his mother’s fashion sense and approach to doing business. “My mother was amazing at her job.”
“And over the last year,” Sarah went on, “it seems like the company has lost its focus. Like you’re throwing every design you can out there and trying to see what sticks.”
She’d nailed him, in just a few words. Taken what he and his staff had been dancing around for months and brought it all together with an outsider’s laser beam. She surprised him, because he’d expected her to say something about his lack of personal focus or his late nights cutting into his concentration. Sarah Griffin was a smarter cookie than he had expected.
The problem was figuring out how to do anything different. He knew the collections weren’t hitting the mark—he just hadn’t figured out how to make them what they once were. “We’re lacking vision. Focus,” he said.
She nodded. “Like with the Danube dress. It’s pretty. But so are thousands of other dresses this season. Scalloped neck, cap sleeves, tea length. Classic, something a woman might wear to an outdoor party.”
“And there’s something wrong with that?”
Her gaze went to some far-off place. “What a woman wants is to be remembered,” she said quietly. “To know that when she walks into a room, people are going to notice her.” Then she backed away a bit from the table and cleared her throat, as if putting distance between herself and the subject at hand. “Well, most women, anyway.”
Caleb glanced over at Sarah’s chocolate-brown sweater and dark jeans. A plain outfit, nothing that screamed “notice me.” “Not all women, huh?”
“Some of us like our life in the shadows.”
“I don’t see you as a shadows kind of woman.”
She drew herself up. “I’m not here to analyze my life, Mr. Lewis.”
“We’re back to that again? What happened to Caleb?” A part of him liked teasing her, if only to see the consternation that whisked across her features. It wasn’t about getting her back for all the times she’d written about him—it was about figuring out what made this woman tick. She was strong, opinionated and not afraid of a little confrontation. Yet she seemed to want to avoid anything personal. She had up a hell of a wall and the intrigued part of Caleb wanted to know why.
“Caleb,” she corrected, and he loved the way the two syllables of his name slid off her tongue, “I’m here to learn about your business. Not talk about me.”
“But I think talking about you helps my business.”
She laughed. “Right.”
“You are part of my core consumer group.” Okay, so that was partly a lie. Right now, he didn’t care at all about Sarah being part of a focus group. He was more interested in what she thought and why—about more than just the dress on the cutting table. About him.
Oh, he was treading in some dangerous waters. The very ones he had tried so hard to avoid.
“Like I have a couture budget?” Sarah said. “I don’t think so.”
“The ready-to-wear collection is carried in department stores nationwide. Stores you undoubtedly shop in regularly.”
“Still, I don’t think—”
“Oh, but I do,” he interrupted. The tables had turned, and Caleb had to admit he was enjoying this game. Very much. “In fact, I think we should talk about this over lunch.”
“I really don’t think—”
“I do. It’ll give us a quieter place to talk than the factory floor.”
Wary unease filled her face and he wondered if he’d pushed her too far. “If this is some kind of date…”
“It’s not.” Though a part of him wondered what it would be like to date Sarah Griffin. To kiss that sassy mouth until she was moaning against him, and saying nothing more than his name. To take her in his arms, and run his touch down her hourglass figure. To find out if she was just as direct and strong in the bedroom as she was right now.
“Business only?” She held up her reporter’s pad.
“Of course. Why would I think anything else?” And he smiled right through that lie.
Sarah hadn’t been this aware of a man in…forever. She sat beside Caleb Lewis in the cramped, cigar-stinking interior of the cab and tried to keep her thoughts on the story. On the information she would need to gather to do an incisive piece on LL Designs.
The right story could get Karl to see she was more than a gossip reporter. That she belonged at the magazine, not at the tabloid. Maybe even get her Betsy’s position on a permanent basis. Or better yet, the spot of top writer.
What she needed was a hook. Something that would capture the reader’s attention and make her story a must-read.
—Like the hook of the sexy CEO running the company. That would get every woman’s attention. It did mine.
An angle that was different from all the here’s-what-company-ABC-is-doing-this-spring pieces she’d read before.
—What was that cologne he was wearing? God, it smelled so good. Like the woods after a rain storm.
Something that would make her article stand out. Make her boss realize she could be a fabulous reporter, one who deserved more than a few rumor-riddled pages in the tabloid.
—Does he work out? Because he sure looks like he does. The way that shirt fits him, skimming over the muscles in his arm…
Stop it, Sarah. The job, the story. Focus on those. Not him.
She turned in her seat to face him, which put a couple inches of distance between them. Not enough. Not nearly enough. Because she was still acutely aware of his every move.
“Why did you take the shoe?” she asked. “I mean, you must have known it was a Frederick K as soon as you saw it on the ground.”
“I did. And to say I was surprised to find a designer stiletto on the ground beside a trash can would be an understatement.”
“My sister had a…temper tantrum,” Sarah said. “Except she’s twenty-two, and technically, I think she’s too old for temper tantrums.”
“Tell that to the models,” Caleb said.
Sarah laughed. “True.”
The cab stopped for a red light. A family of five—mom, dad, three little girls—crossed in front of the cab, the children following behind like ducklings in matching red plaid coats. “I picked up the shoe because I wanted to know what Frederick K knew that I didn’t,” Caleb said. “Ever since he came on the scene, his business has been booming on a thousand levels, and mine…hasn’t. I thought maybe analyzing his newest venture might give me a peek inside what has made him so successful.”
The honesty surprised her. He could have said anything—he was going to look for its rightful owner, he’d thought it would make a great gag, he wasn’t going to keep it at all—but instead he’d been truthful with her.
“And did you figure out those answers?” she asked.
“I’m working on it.” They’d entered a maze of stop-and-go traffic, a cacophony of engine sounds and beeping horns. The taxi driver had turned on a radio station and the high-pitched strains of foreign music carried inside the car. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“What would you think about LL Designs going into the shoe business? It’s the most logical step, pardon the pun, in expanding our business. And it’s been a successful venture for other designers.”
“You mean like Frederick K.”
“More or less, yes.”
She thought a moment, picturing the last few years of offerings from LL Designs. The company had always concentrated a good portion of its business on skirts and dresses, making a shoe line a logical choice. “I think it would be a good fit.”
“Only if the shoes are boring and plain, right?” He gave her a teasing grin.
“No, not at all.”
“Why do you say that? I mean, your analysis of LL Designs hasn’t exactly been flattering recently. What makes you think we can hit this one out of the park?”
“The company may have fumbled for the last few seasons, but I think it has potential,” Sarah said. “LL Designs was an industry leader before, and I’m sure you will be there again.”
“If the CEO smartens up?”
“Your words,” she said, and smiled again.
But they were true words. He needed to get a clue about where he was going wrong. Sarah, he realized, had a good handle on the industry, despite being constrained to the gossip pages. As they rode, he asked her about the current trends that she was seeing in the magazine, and as Sarah told him about the rise in Old World-style decorations and a deeper palette of colors, she found herself enjoying the attention. Not just of Caleb Lewis’s deep blue eyes on her face, but of someone who cared what she thought about something other than the latest model throwing a tantrum story. He was interested in her opinions, her thoughts, her theories.
The attention was intoxicating, exciting. It reminded her of why she’d gone into the field of writing in the beginning. Because she wanted to share what she thought. Have a voice in the world around her.
Had she been behind the scenes, reporting on other people’s lives like some kind of voyeur with a pen, for too long? Allowed herself to get caught in a rut? Maybe. After all, she’d started at Behind the Scenes when she was in college, working part-time in the mail room, then moving up to the writers’ pit once she had her journalism degree. She’d always imagined leaving someday, and working for the kind of hard-hitting journalism publications that had inspired her to go into reporting in the first place.
And thus far, she’d done nothing more than write about people’s love lives and ugly divorces. Yeah, way to go on those career goals.
No more, Sarah had decided that day she had taken the shoes home. She was tired of living in the shadows of her life, her career. When she’d shoved the stilettos into her bag, she’d embarked on the beginnings of a change—one that she hadn’t had a chance to execute before the lone Frederick K disappeared. Shoes or no shoes, she refused to spend one more day living the same life as she had before. That meant talking business with Caleb Lewis, sharing a meal with him in public, allowing the man to know a part of her. Becoming a part of the world she used to just write about.
“Although the new big thing is muted colors like grays and browns, I think the trend is going to be bright colors. Shoes that scream ‘look at me.’ Women pay a lot of money for shoes because they want people to look at them, and I just don’t see this muted color thing hanging around long.”
Caleb leaned in closer to her, and at the same time the cab turned right, closing the distance between them even further. She inhaled his cologne, caught sight of the faint shadow of stubble along his jawline, and wondered for one long second what it would be like to kiss him in that very spot.
“Then what do your footwear choices say about you?” He gestured at her feet, at the flat black leather boots she had paired with her jeans. They were plain, ordinary and exactly the opposite of what she’d been talking about. She’d had the pair for years, and their position as her favorite work shoes showed in the wear and tear on the soles.
“These?” She laughed. “These are practical.”
“Is that the real reason you wear them? Or, as you just pointed out, do you want the opposite? For people not to notice you?”
“I’d rather be noticed for my mind than my shoes.” Except a part of her wanted people to see her walk into a room and think, wow. The way they had always reacted to Diana, the one who had worn the fancy pink dresses and sparkly ballet slippers. Kinda hard to be the center of attention, though, with just her brain and a pair of scuffed boots.
“Shoes or not,” Caleb said, his voice low and dark and his gaze locked on hers, “I noticed. You.”
The sentence, broken apart like that into two separate ones, rocketed through her. He’d noticed her. Paid attention to the details. It made her wonder what he would have done if she looked like one of those models he dated. With the windswept hair and pouty red lips, the triple coats of mascara and breast-enhancing bras.
“And tell me, Mr. Lewis,” she said, reverting to the distance of using his last name, “is being noticed by you a good thing or a bad thing?”