“Ramón, you have a soufflé waiting for you. Daryl, your bar’s unattended. Pierre, there’s a line of people waiting to be seated.” She held her breath then and waited.
Daryl was the first to slip out of attack mode. “You going to be all right, sweetie?”
“A lot better than if you had started a barroom brawl!”
He flicked a glance over her head at the man behind her, then turned and hurried back to his workstation. Ramón and Pierre quickly followed suit.
Chelsea waited, hoping that her would-be rescuer would leave also. But as she counted off five seconds, he remained right where he was, close, his body nearly brushing against hers. Her skin prickled from the proximity and she couldn’t recall ever being so aware of anyone before. Drawing in a deep breath, she took a careful step away and turned to face him.
His eyes were even bluer than she had realized, his gaze more intense. For a moment, she felt her mind go completely blank. All she knew was the heat of his gaze as it moved from her eyes to her mouth and back. The only thought she could latch onto was that she was trapped in another bubble, only it wasn’t testosterone this time. It was something hotter and much more dangerous.
Licking her lips, she discovered that they were warm, almost as if she were running a fever. She would have taken another step back, but she wasn’t sure her legs would work.
“Daryl—is he your lover?”
Chelsea blinked. “Daryl? No… I mean…that’s none of your business.”
His brows lifted. “I nearly started a barroom brawl because he was poking his head and his hands up your skirt. I think I have a right to be curious.”
She frowned. “He was just shortening it. My skirt, I mean. He’s my…” she searched for a word, “dresser.”
“I see.”
“I believe your friend is waiting for you…at your table.”
His lips twitched, and she watched his eyes lighten. She didn’t think of sapphires this time, but of the clear blue of the sea on a hot summer day.
“I was wondering when you’d get around to dismissing me the way you did the others. You’ve had some experience defusing fights, I take it?”
“Three brothers,” she said. Staring into those eyes for any length of time made it difficult to concentrate. Drawing in a deep breath, she narrowed her eyes and focused. “But I haven’t been very successful in dismissing you.”
This time his lips curved in a smile. “Perhaps because I don’t have a sister to boss me around. Why don’t we try this?” He took her arm and retrieved her coat from the floor where she’d dropped it trying to stop the fight.
“What are you doing?” she asked as he drew her up the stairs.
“I’m letting you get me out of the bar.”
She shot him a glance. “You don’t have to hold on to me. I can walk by myself.”
He dropped his hand immediately and studied her for a minute. His eyes had gone very intense again and the smile faded from his face. “I want to ask you to have lunch with me.”
“I can’t. I’m on my way to an appointment. If you’ll just give me my coat.” Without another word of protest, he helped her into it. Chelsea told herself it was relief she was feeling, certainly not disappointment. Then his hand was beneath her arm, guiding her through the group of men in suits who were waiting for Pierre to seat them and out onto the sidewalk.
“Thanks,” she said. Scanning the street for a taxi and not immediately spotting one, she risked looking at him again. “Thanks for…” In daylight, his eyes reminded her of the blue of the ocean at its deepest—fascinating, tempting.
“At least give me your phone number.”
She blinked. “My phone number?”
“I’d like to see you again.”
She blinked again as it suddenly struck her. The man had nearly gotten into a fight over her and then he’d invited her to lunch. Now he was asking for her phone number. Could the skirt actually be working? She beamed a smile at him. “That’s great!”
Slipping a hand into his pocket, he drew out a small notebook and a pen. “What’s your number?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean… I mean I can’t give you my phone number. I just meant that it’s great that you asked.”
His gaze narrowed. “Then why can’t you give it to me?”
“Lots of reasons,” she said, stifling a sigh of relief—certainly not regret—as a taxi pulled up to the curb. “My roommates and I made this pact not to date, for one thing. And then there’s this skirt.”
“A skirt?”
“It’s a long story, much too long to go into right now. You wouldn’t believe it anyway. I didn’t myself until just a few minutes ago.” Pausing to get a breath, she frowned. “And it might be a fluke, but you have to admit that something happened in there. Which means it’s much better for both of us if we never see each other again. Believe me.” With the skill of a New Yorker, she scooted behind the man alighting from the taxi and slid into the seat.
“Wait,” he said as she pulled the door shut.
As soon as the taxi lurched away from the curb, she looked back to see that he was scribbling something down in his notebook. The license plate of the taxi? Was he going to try to trace her that way? As she felt a wave of excitement wash over her, she told herself that it was because the skirt was evidently working! But she kept looking back until the taxi finally swerved around a corner to speed uptown.
AT TWO-THIRTY, Zach stood behind the desk in his father’s office staring out the window. The tinted glass offered a gloomy view of Rockefeller Center complete with its landmark Christmas tree. Thunder grumbled overhead and gray-as-soot rain pounded against the pane.
It was a good thing that he didn’t believe in omens, Zach thought, because in a matter of a few hours the day had turned as dark as the faces of the editorial staff who’d streamed out of the conference room a few minutes earlier. The meeting had taken less time than he’d anticipated and not even his Aunt Miranda had seemed enthused about the specifics of the plans he’d unveiled for Metropolitan magazine.
The real meeting was taking place now. As he’d followed the staff members out of the conference room, they’d managed to corner his aunt and drag her into one of the nearby offices—for a private venting party, he supposed.
Frowning, Zach shoved his hands into his pockets. What exactly had he expected? None of the editorial staff had seen him in years. It was ridiculous to suppose that they might trust him on sight. The last time he’d visited his father’s office, he’d been twelve.
No. Turning, from the window, Zach’s frown deepened as he glanced around the room. This wasn’t his father’s office anymore. It was his. How could he expect his employees to accept that until he did?
Moving toward the desk, he gripped the back of the leather chair. His glance fell immediately
