Moonstruck In Manhattan Part 3

"Never."

"She doesn't exist."

Miranda tapped a finger against his chest. "You just haven't found her yet. When you do, you'll never let her go."

"No date, Aunt Miranda."

"Fine." Miranda sighed, a small pout replacing the smile on her face. "You won't find yourself a date. You'll come by yourself and you'll be too bored to stay once the dancing starts."

Zach grinned at his aunt as he took her arm and led her to the door. "I'll be bored from the moment they serve the appetizer and I'll be catatonic by the time the last course is removed. However, I will be there." When he opened the door, he found himself facing Esme Sinclair.

"I'd like a moment of your time, if I'm not interrupting," Esme said.

"You're only interrupting my failed attempt to persuade my nephew to let me find him a date for my Christmas ball. I'll get right out of your way."

It was with a certain amount of envy that Zach watched his aunt wave a hand and walk quickly toward the open door of an elevator. He found himself stifling an annoying impulse to bolt. He wasn't a child anymore and Esme Sinclair wasn't an old housemistress. Ushering her into the room, he closed the door, then moved to stand behind his desk.

Esme reached for the switch on the ceramic Christmas tree.

"I'd prefer that you didn't turn it on," Zach said.

Her hand stilled, then dropped to her side. "Sorry."

"What can I do for you, Ms. Sinclair?" Zach asked.

"Not a thing. I'm going to do something for you. I know that you want to immediately eliminate what you termed the fluffy sections of the magazine, but I'm afraid that won't be possible, at least for the next three issues."

Zach's eyebrows rose. "Why not?"

"I have a young lady in my office who's written two very fine articles for us recently. I bought them in an attempt to expand our audience among younger readers and the sales figures have gone up accordingly. This morning, before I was informed of your appointment, I had her sign a contract to provide us with three more articles. Her proposal is right here and I've also included copies of her other articles. I think they all fit into the fluff category." Handing him a folder, she continued, "The legal department says our best bet is to honor the contract."

"Or offer to buy it back," Zach said as he opened the folder. He recognized the name on the contract immediately. Chelsea Brockway was the writer he'd just been discussing with his aunt-the one whose articles on "hotties" were selling magazines. The last thing he wanted was to print any more of her work. He glanced up at Esme. "Why don't you arrange for me to speak with her?"

"I called her right after our staff meeting. She's waiting outside," she said as she moved toward the door.

It was the legs that Zach recognized first when the woman stepped into his office. Backlit by the lights from the hall, he could have sworn that they went right up to her waist.

3.

"CHELSEA BROCKWAY, I'd like you to meet Zach McDaniels, the new editor-in-chief at Metropolitan," Esme said as she drew Chelsea into the office.

Chelsea took two steps into the room, then froze the moment she recognized the man behind the desk. "You..." she glanced back at Esme, "this is Mr. McDaniels?"

"In the flesh." Brows lifted, Esme glanced from Chelsea to Zach. "You two have met, I take it?"

"Not formally," Chelsea said. "We sort of ran into each other in a bar this morning."

"Oh?" Esme said.

"I was on my way here to sign my contract when he... Mr. McDaniels interrupted a conversation I was having with my...roommates. It was about... Well, I suppose that's neither here nor there, but we didn't know we would be meeting again. We didn't exchange names...or anything else." Like phone numbers. Chelsea made herself stop and take a breath. She was babbling. Nerves made her do that, and they'd invaded her stomach the moment that she'd recognized Zach McDaniels. The dive-bombing b.u.t.terflies she could deal with. It was the simple rush of pleasure that disturbed her. She could still feel it tingling through her right down to her toes.

Hadn't she told herself that she never wanted to see him again? By the time she'd arrived at the McDaniels Building, she'd almost convinced herself. In the past two hours she hadn't thought about him more than four or five times, tops. Okay maybe six times at the very most. She certainly hadn't regretted not giving him her phone number, not even for a second.

"Won't you sit down?" Zach gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

Chelsea moved to it and carefully settled herself on the edge of the seat before she steeled herself to glance up at him. The eyes were just as intense as she'd recalled. Once again she felt just as aware of him as she had in the bar that morning. What she needed was one of those protective shields, she decided. The kind that always protected s.p.a.ceships from attack in the movies-invisible, soundless and impermeable.

Esme cleared her throat. "Do you want me to tell Ms. Brockway about the problem we were discussing?"

Chelsea dragged her gaze away from Zach's. "Problem?"

"I'll tell her," Zach said. "If you would just give us a moment, Ms. Sinclair?"

"I'll wait outside."

For a moment after Esme left the room, neither of them spoke. But the word problem began to repeat itself like a little drumbeat in Chelsea's mind. It was keeping perfect pace with Zach's fingers, which were tapping on his desk. The fingers were long and lean and Chelsea found herself recalling just how they'd felt pressed against the inside of her upper arm when he'd grasped it to lead her out of the bar. She should have had her invisible protective shield up then, too.

Deliberately sliding her gaze away from his hands, she raised it to his face. He was frowning at her.

"What?" she asked.

"I understand that you signed a contract with Ms. Sinclair for three articles."

She frowned right back at him. "Is there a problem with the contract?"

"When Ms. Sinclair negotiated it, she wasn't aware that I was taking over as editor-in-chief of the magazine and she had no way of knowing that I intend to make rather sweeping changes. What I want to propose to you is that I-"

The intercom on his desk buzzed and he leaned toward it to press a b.u.t.ton. "Ms. Parker, I'd like you to see that I'm not-"

The last word of his sentence was drowned out by an angry voice that poured into the room. "...that idiot that I want to see him right now and I don't care who's in his office! Never mind, I'll tell him myself."

The door sprung open and a tall man with gray hair and a thickening waist strode into the room and tossed a letter in Zach's direction. It bounced off his shoulder and fell to the surface of the desk.

"That's my resignation," the man said, his face growing more flushed by the moment. "I'm sure it's what you wanted."

"I'm sorry you feel the need to resign," Zach said.

"Sorry? Oh, you're going to be even sorrier when you get the rest of the resignation letters in the interoffice mail. But I wanted to do more than drop you a letter. I wanted to tell you a few things to your face."

"Go right ahead," Zach said, keeping his tone very even. "Perhaps you'd let me know why you feel you have to leave the magazine."

"Why? You know d.a.m.n well why. Don't try to deny it. I've covered New York sports teams for the past twenty years and you made it quite clear at that meeting that you won't be needing my expertise anymore." He snorted. "Or anyone else's either."

"I never said that."

"Not in so many words. But what exactly am I supposed to do when you start 'spotlighting' other cities? Sit around and twiddle my thumbs?" Pausing, he waved a hand. "But that's not the real reason I'm walking out. You want to know what it is?"

"Yes," Zach said.

"Because running this magazine is just a game to you. When your big plans fail, you'll just shut the whole thing down and go on to another career. I said as much to your aunt, but she wouldn't listen."

"From now on, I'd appreciate it if you'd bring your complaints directly to me. Leave my aunt out of it."

The man's chin jutted out. "Fine. I'll tell you just what I told her. If your father had wanted you to run this magazine, he would have left it to you outright. I told her she was a fool to turn it over to you."

Zach circled around the edge of his desk. "I don't take kindly to anyone who calls my aunt a fool."

"I call 'em like I see 'em."

Springing up from her chair, Chelsea stepped into the older man's path just as he was about to stride forward. "You don't want to do this."

"The h.e.l.l I..." Stopping short, he glanced down at her. "Who are you?"

"Chelsea Brockway." She extended her hand.

Frowning, he studied her for a moment, his eyes moving from her head to her feet, then slowly back up again. Finally, he took the hand she offered.

"And you're...?" she asked.

"Bill Anderson. Former sports editor." His eyes narrowed. "Brockway. You wrote that article on 'What Makes a Man a...' what was it again?"

"A hottie," Chelsea said as she tried to extricate her hand, but Bill held onto it.

"That's right. A hottie. My wife and daughter read it." For the first time since he stormed into the room, his expression lightened. "They had to explain to me what a hottie was."

"Did they like the article?" Chelsea asked.

Bill nodded. "Told me I should read it and pick up some tips." Then he glanced over her shoulder at Zach. "You're wasting your time here. He's going to run this magazine right into the ground. If you want, I could put in a good word for you at several other places."

She smiled. "Thanks, but I've just signed a contract for three more articles and you know what they say about 'a bird in the hand...'" She let the sentence trail off and tugged on hers. When Bill didn't take the hint, she said, "Speaking of hands..."

"Look, I'm headed down to Flannery's to join the rest of the staff for a drink. Would you like to join us?"

"Sure. I'd love to."

Chelsea felt Zach stiffen behind her. "The lady would like her hand back."

She didn't have to turn to get a sense of the intensity in Zach McDaniels's eyes. She could feel the heat of his gaze boring into her back. Since her hand was still in Bill's, she could feel the temper begin to build again in the older man.

"Mr. Anderson, I'll be happy to join you and the rest of the staff just as soon as I can." Using her free hand, she grabbed the envelope that had fallen on the desk. "In the meantime, I think you ought to take a little time to reconsider your resignation. Talk it over with your wife and your daughter. You know, you should never make an important career decision while you're angry."

When Bill finally released her hand to take the letter, Chelsea stifled a small sigh of relief.

He glanced at the envelope and then back at her. "You think I should consider staying on?"

"Definitely."

"You believe his plan for the magazine will work?"

"I have the utmost confidence in him," she said without hesitation.

"All right." He nodded. "I'll think about it."

"And talk to your wife about it," she said.

He nodded again as he turned to walk to the door. Before he left, he glanced back at her. "You'll come down to Flannery's?"

"Sure," she said.

ZACH TIGHTENED his rein on his temper as he watched the annoying Bill Anderson disappear through his office door. If the man had kept Chelsea Brockway's hand in his one more second, it would have bubbled up in spite of his efforts. Just as it had that morning in the restaurant when that bartender had put his head up her skirt.

It couldn't be jealousy he was feeling, could it? He'd already reminded himself that she wasn't his type. And he hadn't been wrong about that, he thought as he studied her. She was standing at the front corner of his desk her face turned toward the door. She had none of the sophistication and polish that he usually found attractive in a woman. Her short blond hair looked as if she'd styled it by running her fingers through it. Her skin was paler than he recalled and the sprinkle of freckles that ran along the curve of her cheekbone told him that she wasn't even wearing makeup.

As far as the clothes went...he skimmed them swiftly with his gaze. They couldn't be called even remotely stylish. The most that could be said about the green sweater was that it matched the color of her eyes. Then there was the skirt. He frowned as his gaze skimmed it from her waist down the length of those legs. From the side, he could see that it fit rather too well, and the way it hung smoothly over her hip and clung to her leg made him wonder if she wore anything beneath it.

What exactly had that chump she called her dresser seen when he'd poked his head under it?

The thought had something hot boiling up in him all over again. This time he recognized it as jealousy. He didn't like it when another man touched her for the simple reason that he wanted to be the one doing the touching. Right now his fingers were itching to trace her cheekbone, and then the more stubborn line of her jaw and then...

Chelsea cleared her throat. "You mentioned a problem. What is it?"

"You." The word was out before Zach could stop it.

"Me? What did I do?"

He could hardly tell her that she made him feel jealous. Or that he wanted to touch her. Really touch her. If he wasn't careful that might just pop out of his mouth, too. Worse still, he might actually do it. Before the urge could become too powerful, Zach shoved his hands in his pockets and made himself sit on the edge of his desk. It was time that he solved the problem of Ms. Chelsea Brockway once and for all. "Why don't you take a seat?"

She did, folding her hands on her lap just where the edge of her skirt gave way to the smooth, white skin of her thigh. "Do you have some concerns about the skirt?"

Zach watched the article in question inch its way further up her leg as she moved forward in the chair. His throat went dry. "You could say that."

"Believe me, I had those same concerns. A skirt that attracts men? None of us really believed what my friend said about it in college. That it was some sort of a man magnet. But I thought it was a great idea for an article. 'Can a Lucky Skirt Help a Single Girl Attract a Man in Manhattan?' Then Ms. Sinclair offered me a contract for three articles. That's a lot of pressure. Just before you interrupted us in the bar, I was thinking, what if it doesn't work? Then Pierre offered me a table and you asked for my phone number. What more proof could you ask for?"

Frowning, Zach shifted his gaze to her face. Staring at her legs was not helping him follow her at all. "I'm sorry. Proof of what?"

"Proof that the skirt works," Chelsea said, beaming a smile at him. "Do you usually ask women you've only met once in a bar for their phone number?"

Zach's eyes narrowed. "I've been known to do that before."

Chelsea held up a hand. "Okay. Maybe that's not a good example. Let me rephrase the question. Have you ever almost gotten into a fight in a bar over a woman who was not your date, a woman you'd never met?"