study.”
He shot her a look of disbelief.
“I didn’t even know about the article until last night. I had to go out and buy a copy. My findings were published in a reputable psychology magazine. Maybe that’s how the Rag stumbled on them.”
“Could we talk?” he asked, calmer now.
Ari knew that there was nothing she could do for him…nothing for them to talk about. And yet, he had the look of someone who could make a pest of himself. Maybe it was better to just get it over with.
“I don’t know what we have to talk about.”
“Please?” he asked.
It was the please that did it.
Since Ari had spent the night worrying rather than sleeping, she was still wearing yesterday’s jeans and blouse. She knew she looked decidedly wrinkled, but at least she was presentable enough to let him in.
Remembering caution, she asked, “Do you have a card with you?”
She didn’t doubt his story, but felt it was wise to be sure. Plus, as he dug through his pocket, she had a few moments to collect herself.
Rather than thinking of something to say, she noticed his hair. Dark-brown hair…so dark it bordered on black. It had a slight curl to it so that, even though she suspected he’d recently dressed and brushed it, it had a disheveled sort of look to it. It lent a boyish sort of charm to his looks.
This Simon Masterson was the sort of man that women fantasized about.
Not that she fantasized about other men. She had Collin for her fantasies.
The thought didn’t exactly cheer her.
“Here,” he said, handing a card through the gap in the door.
“And here’s my license.” He opened up his wallet and flashed her a license.
It was indeed him, with the name Simon Masterson on it. And it was a good picture.
Who on earth did he bribe to get the DMV to take a good picture for his license?
She always ended up looking like she was recovering from a weekend binge, or surgery—which was to say, she looked horrible on every license she’d ever been photographed for.
Shaking her head at the injustice of it all, she looked at the card.
SimonSays.
Unfortunately, he seemed to be legit, which meant she probably should let him in to talk about the stupid article. Not that there was really much she could say.
She closed the door in his face, unlatched the chain and opened it again. “Come in, Mr. Masterson.”
“Simon,” he corrected as he strode into the apartment, which suddenly seemed smaller with him in it. It was as if he filled up all the empty space, displacing it and the oxygen that normally filled it.
That had to be why she suddenly found herself short of breath. He was hogging all the air.
“Miss Kelly?” he said.
She realized she’d been standing there, just looking at him. She gave herself a mental shake and said, “You can call me Ari. I just made a pot of coffee. Would you like some?”
“Fine.”
She led him to the tiny kitchen and nodded at one of the stools next to the island. “Now, what did you think we had to talk about?”
She turned her back to him and busied herself at the counter, needing a moment to collect her rather frayed wits. She was obviously sleep deprived, or else this man wouldn’t be affecting her like this.
She wasn’t the type to be turned on by a man’s looks, or even his voice. This strange reaction to Simon Masterson had to be the product of her current state of stress.
Yes. Stress-induced lust.
That’s what it was.
“I came here to insist you print a retraction. But if you really didn’t know about the article, and if they really got your findings wrong, then I want you to insist they print a retraction,” he said.
She turned around.
Big mistake. He looked even more gorgeous up close.
Her breath deserted her with a whoosh, and she barely managed to squeak out, “Mr. Masterson—” when he interrupted her.
“Simon.”
“Simon,” she repeated.
She took a deep breath and started again. “Simon, like I said, I had nothing to do with the distortion and out-and-out fabrication in the article. I learned about it last night when I came home to a full answering machine. It’s not even close to accurate. They distorted my study until the only thing that’s really mine is my name, and I can’t tell you how much I wish they’d made that up as well.”
“That’s why you can demand a retraction.”
She took two mugs out of the cupboard, then turned around and shook her head. “I don’t think that will help. It will just give them more fuel for their flames. It’s what papers like that love.”
“I think you’re wrong. I think they’d be forced to print a retraction.”
“Simon, Rag Magazine doesn’t worry about who it offends, or how it bends the truth.” She poured coffee into the two mugs, handed one to him and took the stool opposite him as she continued, “It just worries about numbers, about how big a market share it can grab. Our best bet is to ignore it. After all, it’s not that big of a story. No space aliens, or two-headed women. It will go away.”
She shot Simon what she hoped was a reassuring smile.
“The Financial Journal is picking the story up, too, as part of some article on stress,” he said.
Her smile faded. So much for reassuring either Simon or herself. “I heard. The Journal said they wanted to run an article in their August issue. They left me messages and I plan on calling them back. I’d be happy to answer their questions. I’m pretty sure they’ll be much more factual with the article they run, which will be good for both of us.”
“But the Rag?” he pressed.
“Simon, tabloids aren’t interested in the truth. All they want is shock value. Anything I say will probably just be twisted to suit their purposes, just like my study was.”
She took a sip of the strong black brew, and realized Simon hadn’t. “Did you need cream or sugar?”
“No,” he said, and took a sip as if to prove it was fine. “So you won’t come with me to their office and demand a retraction?”
“I’m telling you, it won’t do any good.”
“Will you
