dismal state of oil futures or other topics deemed of interest to Houston’s Old Guard upper class. “My dad will never go for it.”
“Which is why I don’t intend to tell him until it’s too late to do anything about it.” Stacy leaned toward Glynna. “There’s not going to be a Texas Style magazine if we don’t do something drastic, and soon. The competition is killing us. But an article like this, done right, will get people talking about us. That kind of buzz translates into readers and ad dollars. Your father may balk at first, but he’ll thank me later.”
Glynna sighed. “You’re right. Dad is set in his ways, but he’s a good businessman. He won’t argue with results.”
“Great.” Stacy sat back, smiling. “Be at Pier Six at nine o’clock Friday morning. The resort’s yacht will transport you to La Paloma.”
“Yacht?” Glynna stood. “What are you talking about?”
“The grand opening? I told you they’ve invited a reporter to attend, to write about the resort.”
Glynna jumped to her feet. “But it doesn’t have to be me! Didn’t you say this was couples only? And I’m an investigative reporter. Romance isn’t my thing.”
“Then maybe it’s time you ‘investigated’ the topic.” Stacy set aside the computer printouts and leaned toward Glynna. “I’m taking a real risk here. This story has to be stellar if I’m going to pull this off. I need my best writer—and that’s you.”
“I’m flattered, but really…”
“No buts. I’ve already given them your name. Besides, I think you could use a little time off.” Stacy sat back and gave her a long look. “When was the last time you had a vacation?”
Glynna couldn’t meet her gaze. Her father rarely took time off, and she’d felt obligated to follow his example. She told herself she’d have time for vacations later, when she was further along in her career. Right now, she had too much work to do.
“This wouldn’t exactly be a vacation,” she said. “Not if I’m supposed to be reporting.”
“There’s no reason you can’t have fun, too.” Stacy shoved the brochure back across the desk. “This place has a private beach, gourmet restaurants, nightly entertainment, even a spa.” She smiled. “You can take a few days R & R and write a killer story. Besides, I know you don’t have anything else planned for this weekend.”
Glynna sighed. Stacy knew her too well. “All right. I’ll go. But you owe me.”
Stacy grinned. “You never know. After this weekend, you may feel like you owe me. After all, anything could happen in a romantic paradise.”
“I’m going to work, Stace. I’ll come home with a story, nothing else.”
Stacy laughed. “Then maybe you should try harder.”
JAKE’S BOOTS pounded against the carpet as he made his way toward art director Nick Castillo’s office. He’d been annoyed by Nick’s abrupt summons, and more annoyed still by his encounter just now with Glynna McCormick. Something about the woman always set him on edge.
For one thing, she was as uptight as her old man. He hadn’t missed the way her lips tightened in disapproval when she’d seen the photo. She was what—twenty-five? Twenty-six? Hadn’t she seen another woman naked before?
Had she seen a man naked? He couldn’t recall any office gossip about her dating, but he’d only been with the magazine a short time. He didn’t need any longer than that to have Glynna figured out. Her “don’t touch me” attitude probably kept most men far away. He knew the type—blue-blood princesses who thought they were better than everyone else. She needed a real man to rock her world. To show her what that sexy bod of hers was made for.
He shook off the thought as he turned down the hallway leading to Nick’s office. Why was he thinking about Glynna? He could care less if her world was rocked or not. He had more important things to think about, like getting ready for his first major gallery show.
Nick was barking orders into the phone when Jake poked his head around the door. The art director motioned him closer. “I know how much it costs and I don’t care!” Nick growled. “I’ll worry about the budget, you worry about doing what I want.”
Jake dropped his saddlebag on the floor, settled into the plush leather chair across from Nick’s desk and stretched his long legs out in front of him. As soon as the art director hung up the phone, he said, “What’s the big rush to get me down here this morning? I’ve got half a dozen more important things to do.”
“Yeah. Yeah. You’re the big-shot artiste. Don’t give me that bullshit.” Nick tented his fingers and grinned at Jake. “You won’t be so annoyed when you hear what I’ve cooked up for you.”
“Let me guess. You want me to shoot the Grand Champion Steer at the Stock Show? Isn’t that always a big deal here at Texas Style?”
Nick laughed. “Maybe in the past, but no more.” He leaned forward. “What would you think of an eight-page photo essay? Something edgy and artsy—right up your alley.”
Jake tempered the jitter of excitement that shot through him. “That’s pretty radical for this place. Did Stacy agree?”
“She doesn’t know yet. But I’ll talk her into it.”
Jake shook his head. “I don’t know, Nick. Stacy isn’t one of your little girlfriends you can sweet-talk into anything.”
“No, but she’s smart.” Nick sat back, smiling slightly. “And beneath her hard-nosed facade, she’s still a woman.” His smile widened. “A damned attractive one, even if she isn’t my type. I’ll make her see that this is the kind of thing we need to move ahead of the competition.”
“What about McCormick?”
Nick frowned. “What about him? He said he wanted to revamp the publication. This is what it takes.”
Jake picked up his saddlebag and slung it over his shoulder. “I can’t believe you called me into your office for this crap. Next time, leave a message on my desk.”
“Wait. I do have something for you.” He tossed a brochure at him.
Jake caught the glossy flyer and stared at the young couple making out on the front. “La Paloma Resort? What do you want me to do with this?”
“It’s the cover story for the next issue. A luxury, couples-only resort on Paloma Island. I want you to go there this weekend and shoot the photos.”
Jake scanned the brochure copy, which promised sun, sand and sex. Except that if the place catered to couples, he wasn’t likely to find much of the third. Still, a few days lounging on the beach, aiming his camera at bikini-clad babes didn’t sound bad. “Who’s writing the story?”
“Who else? Ace reporter Glynna McCormick.”
He frowned. Just what he needed—a weekend surrounded by cooing honeymooners while he was saddled with the ice princess.
“What’s the matter? Don’t think you can handle a few days
