be a hypocrite. They wanted you in those ads because everyone knows who you are.”
“Not everyone. My face is known in some circles, but my name wouldn’t be familiar if it wasn’t for the paparazzi following me around and trying to dig up saucy little fictions to titillate their readers. Which, by the way, the legitimate press has often repeated without an ounce of proof. I hope PostModern won’t follow suit.”
Jordan closed his eyes, partly to collect his thoughts, and partly to shut out the impact of Nicole’s well-formed figure. For years—in the rare times he thought about her—he’d seen her as a face in a photograph. A face that reminded him of old annoyances. In person, she exuded a vibrant energy that sent his senses reeling.
“I’m doing a genuine interview,” he said, looking at her again. “PostModern doesn’t want sensationalistic stories. The editor demands in-depth material about real people. Right now she’s interested in individuals who make radical changes in their lives, what their challenges are and how they find fulfillment.”
Nicole’s chin rose. “If that’s really the story you’re planning, then I’m in, but don’t expect me to put up with any garbage. I’ll give as good as I get.”
Somehow, Jordan didn’t doubt that for a second. She stood there, devoid of makeup or glamorous trappings, angry and full of life...and he was struck by her beauty in a way he’d never felt before today.
It annoyed him all over again.
Of course she was beautiful; she’d been the classic golden-haired tot and had grown into a sexy, gorgeous woman whose image was used to sell products around the world. He’d seen her on magazine covers and in television ads for most of his life. But he had never been personally attracted to her when looking at photos or watching ads, and hadn’t expected to be on this assignment.
But his hormones had jumped to attention, the lousy traitors. He left as quickly as possible to go home and take another shower.
A cold one this time.
* * *
NICOLE RESISTED SLAMMING the door as Jordan left. She’d been foolish to let him into her house to either eat or paint. It would have been best to keep things formal, meeting at the office and doing standard interviews.
But at least he’d revealed his biases ahead of the game. And as she’d admitted, she had her own biases when it came to reporters, particularly the ones she classed as paparazzi. She shuddered, remembering the woman who’d gotten a job as a hotel maid and then gone through her letters, even sneaking a photo of her coming out of the bathroom wearing only a towel. That member of the “press” had worked for one of the sleaziest rags going.
But Jordan wasn’t sleazy. However sardonic he sounded in his columns, they were also intelligent. Initially she’d expected to make fun of his writing and ideas; instead, he had mostly impressed her, tending to look at subjects from a different point of view and make his readers think about the ways things worked in the world. Maybe his articles weren’t always as deep as they could be—with a breezy, entertaining tone—but how much depth was possible in such a short format?
He was also quite clear about where he was coming from. If he wrote about kids, he reiterated that he wasn’t a parent himself and never expected to be. The same with marriage, saying he was happily single and intended remaining that way. Maybe he’d do something similar with the articles he planned to write for PostModern, being frank about their dislike for each other as kids and how that could affect what he was writing.
It might even be better this way. Another reporter would probably have preconceptions as well, but it would have been harder to get at them. With Jordan everything was out in the open from the get-go.
Still, Nicole wished he wasn’t involved. It was an added stress she didn’t need, especially while she was hunting for another office manager. Kevin McClaskey’s wife had previously handled the job and he hadn’t been able to face replacing Allison after her sudden death, just bringing in temps. It wasn’t the best way to run the agency, so one of Nicole’s first tasks after taking over had been to hire someone permanent.
It hadn’t gone well.
Moonlight Ventures had now run through three different office managers and was back to using temps. It turned out that each of her hires had wanted to use the job as a backdoor to becoming a modeling client. One had even shown up at a photo shoot for a commercial, claiming the agency had sent her.
Nicole gritted her teeth. It had taken hours to resolve the mess. But she hadn’t expected everything to be easy and would just have to fix each problem as it came, one way or another. With that thought, she went upstairs to shower and climb into bed. Fortunately the second floor of the house hadn’t required as much work as the first. Mostly she’d just needed to buy a new bedroom set. No paint was needed, although most of the rooms remained unfurnished.
She closed her eyes, ready to drift off, but Jordan’s annoyingly handsome face filled her mind. Nicole punched her pillow. She only had to put up with him for a while. Just because they lived in the same city again, that didn’t mean they’d cross paths constantly.
Well, apparently he used the same fitness trail, but she’d only seen him there once... Sure, he’d been in Fiji for part of the time, but she’d been using the trail for months before moving to the house and hadn’t seen him.
Hitting her pillow again, she tried to forget his lean, powerful body in running clothes. Disappointment in romance hadn’t turned off her response to the opposite sex, but that didn’t mean she had to pay attention to it.
* * *
THE FOLLOWING DAY Nicole was busy at her desk when she heard a tentative knock. A young woman stood in the doorway.
“Can I help you?” Nicole asked, thinking she’d seen her visitor before.
“I’m Chelsea Masters, one of Jordan’s sisters.”
The years peeled away and Nicole remembered the girl who’d always seemed unhappy and wistful. She didn’t look much happier now. She was also wearing a heavy foundation that didn’t entirely conceal dark bruises on her cheek and jaw.
“Chelsea, of course. How nice to see you again.”
Nicole wondered how many of the Masters family would be coming to Seattle. Chelsea had been nice enough, but her siblings and their parents? Nicole shuddered. No wonder Chelsea had seemed unhappy while growing up.
Chelsea smiled uncertainly. “I thought Jordan might be here since he’s doing those articles about you and the agency.”
Standing, Nicole walked around the desk and gestured to a chair; Chelsea sank into it, her face pale. Nicole sat next to her. “I’m afraid he isn’t here,” she explained, “and I don’t have his address.”
“I do. I checked there first, but he wasn’t around. He...he got me a ticket so I could, um, come and visit. I’m afraid I just jumped on a plane and came, so he didn’t know when to expect me.”
“Have you tried calling him?”
“I, uh, don’t have a cell phone right now. It’s lost, and I should have replaced it before leaving, but I didn’t.” Chelsea’s lip trembled and she wiped a hand across her face, only to stare at the heavy smear of makeup on her palm. The bruise was now quite visible. It looked
