The Sexiest Man Alive

Excerpt Letter to Reader Title Page PROLOGUE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE EPILOGUE Copyright

“Loathe me all you like. That doesn’t mean you don’t want me.”

“Want you? I’d sooner want a snake.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, considering what was going on here a little while ago, you’re going to make some snake a very happy reptile.”

Susannah swung toward him, her hands knotted into fists. Any second now, she was going to lose her chance at Chic magazine, probably her chance at anything, because once she slugged the horrible Matt Romano, what would be her chance of getting another job in publishing?

“You really do think you’re the sexiest man alive, don’t you? Well, let me tell you something, Romano. Just because I was stupid enough to let you kiss me—”

Dear Reader,

What makes you happiest on Valentine’s Day? A heart-shaped box of chocolates? A dozen long-stemmed roses? I always thought those things were perfect celebrations of love. Then, one Valentine’s Day a couple of years ago, a winter storm raced through our part of New England. It buried the countryside in snow, took out our electricity and ruined our plans for dinner at a wonderful old inn. Instead, my husband and I bundled up in long underwear, jeans and sweaters. He lit a fire on the hearth, I grilled hamburgers and we opened a bottle of wine. We turned on the portable radio and danced to some old love songs. An elegant Valentine’s Day? No. But it was the most romantic one I’ve ever spent, and I’ll never forget it.

Love,

Write to Sandra Marton at:

P.O. Box 295

Storrs, CT 06268

[e-mail]

The Sexiest Man Alive

Sandra Marton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

PROLOGUE

CHIC

Today’s Magazine for Today’s Woman

Edgar B. Elerbee, Publisher

from the desk of: Edgar B. Elerbee

to: Editorial Staff

Tuesday, June 3

It is with great sorrow that I announce the sudden passing of Charles Dunn, our esteemed editor-in-chief. Charles was the guiding force of this publication for 32 years, and I know our entire staff will miss him.

Effective immediately, I am naming our managing editor, James Colter, to succeed Charles in this most important role. I expect the entire staff to join me in offering James our complete support.

E. Elerbee, pub.

from: [e-mail]

to: [e-mail]

subj: Major Surgery needed

Suze: I guess old Charlie put in one garter-belt-and-blindfold weekend too many. But Colter? Yuck Charlie never understood the 20th century woman, but Colter probably thinks we should still be wearing bustles Lunch at Gino’s? We can have pasta and whine.

from: [e-mail]

to: ClaireHaines@chic com

subj: Getting Trampled in the Rush for the Door

Elerbee’s got to be kidding1 Our circulation numbers were bad enough under Charlie, but Colter’s going to set new lows Hasn’t it ever occurred to Elerbee that a mag for women ought to have a woman at its helm? Forget Gino’s. I went home this weekend My mother baked up a storm. I should have saved time & put the stuff right on my hips.

Suze:

Size eights don’t have hips to worry about!

Demos you requested attached Readers are women 40-65 Not target group Not good news. Heard the latest dirt? Colter is history. Wonder who Elerbee will put in his place?

Claire

from: SusannahMadison@chic com

to: [e-mail]

subj: Mister Ed, The Talking Horse

Or maybe Lassie. But not anyone who could breathe some life into CHIC You’re right. Demographic breakdown is N.G Women, single, 18-35. That’s where we should be aiming. We need more picture spreads, more fashion stuff, makeup ideas, advice on men I’ve had it with Mom, apple pie and babies What ever happened to the joys of being a single woman???

from: ClaireHaines@chic com

to: SusannahMadison@chic com

subj: Single Women, 18 - 35

The lucky ones got married

from: [e-mail]

to: [e-mail]

subj: Definitions

Depends on your definition of “lucky”

from: [e-mail]

to: [e-mail]

subj: Cold Feet

A career doesn’t keep you warm at night.

from: SusannahMadison@chic com

to: [e-mail]

subj: Cures for Cold Feet

Try an electric blanket. Or get a cat.

from: [e-mail]

to: [e-mail]

subj: Women can Purr, Too

You’re heartless, Madison.

from: [e-mail]

to: [e-mail]

subj: Better a Cat than a Kitten

I’m practical, Haines.

CHIC

The Magazine for Women

Edgar B. Elerbee, Publisher

July 28

Please join me at a buffet breakfast in the boardroom Friday, from 8-30 to 10, in honor of our new editor-in-chief, Julius Partridge Wallinger. Mr. Wallinger brings with him almost 40 years of journalistic know-how. Payroll has asked me to assure you that the problem with last week’s checks was computer related and will not occur again. Thank you for your forbearance.

E. Elerbee, pub.

from: [e-mail]

to: [e-mail]

subj: Hello

Enjoying vacation. Weather is glorious Relaxing on all sides. Reading, renting videos, etc. Old friend’s been coming around—Sam. Did I ever mention him? My ever - hopeful Mom invites him for dinner each night, which makes me smile. Sam’s a sweetheart. He plays canasta with her after I go to bed.

Saw an item buried in back of Business Daily. Is it true? Has the new guy gotten the boot already? I’ve only been on vacation a week!!! What about rumor of a Romano Inc takeover? Not really possible, is it? I spotted him in Hyannisport. (Drove there to treat Mom to lunch) The only thing Matthew Romano could do for CHIC would be to let the mag lay him out as a centerfold.. Not that any intelligent woman would find the studly-but-brainlessly-arrogant Mr. Romano a turn - on He was with Ted Turner. Now, there’s a guy I’d love to see buy CHIC. Tell Peter I send love & kisses, & that I miss him

MEMO

FROM: Claire

TO: Claire

1. Remember to ask S about Sam, & why he’s playing cards with Mom instead of romancing S.

2. Remember not to bother asking.

3. Remember to ask how come she took portable computer on vacation.

4. Remember not to bother asking.

5. Remember to suggest S. should toss her hat in the ring for next ed-in-chief hiring go-round. She has an MBA, hasn’t she?

6. Remember above, for sure S. would make great ed-in-chief

7. Remember to tell S the Romano thing is nothing but an off-the-wall rumor.

8. Remember to ask S. how she knows Romano is brainless, arrogant & studly (Studly??? Susannah, how you do talk)

9. Tell S she’s got a way with a phrase. “Laying out” Romano, that hunk, is a wonderful idea.

from: [e-mail]

to: ClaireHaines@chic com

subj: Tossed Hats & Studs

OK, I did it. I gave Elerbee my resume. He didn’t laugh ... I guess that’s good news. Re Matthew Romano & layouts: Claire, where are your standards? Who wants a guy who thinks he’s the sexiest man alive? Only a DB, like the one who was draped across Romano’s arm at Hyannisport

from: [e-mail]

to: [e-mail]

subj: Sexiest Man Alive? DB?

When? How? What? Explain, please.

from: SusannahMadison@chic com

to: Claire [e-mail]

subj: When, How, What

DB=Dumb Blonde, as always seen in tabloid photos of Romano. Sexiest Man Alive, as seen in Romano’s smirk in every tabloid shot.

from: [e-mail]

to: [e-mail]

subj: Confusion

For shame, Suze. Didn’t know you read the tabloids (snicker). And how do you know the Bs are D?

from: SusannahMadison@chic com

to: ClaireHaines@chic com

subj: No Confusion

Romano was with them.

from: [e-mail]

to: [e-mail]

subj: Yes, Confusion

How come you’re so interested in Matthew Romano?

from: [e-mail]

to: [e-mail]

subj: Non- Interest

I’m not. I don’t know how we got off on this subject to start with.

from: ClaireHaines@chic com

to: SusannahMadison@chic com

subj: Confused, Again

You said he was studly.

from: SusannahMadison@chic com

to: [e-mail]

subj: Insanity

Good grief ’ I was being sarcastic ’ Why are we wasting time on this man?

from: [e-mail]

to: [e-mail]

subj: Hey!

It wasn’t me who brought Romano the Stud into the conversation.

You’re right. I did—and I’m taking him out of it, now.

Do me a favor Take a look at attached: tell me what you think of these ideas. Would any of them make you, for instance, buy a copy of CHIC?

Uh-oh. Phone call from Elerbee. Wants to see me pronto. Here comes the turn-down...

CHIC

The Magazine for Tomorrow’s Woman

Edgar B. Elerbee, Publisher

I am delighted to announce that Susannah Madison is our new editor-in-chief. Susannah has been with us as senior editor for the past two years. She’ll be assuming her new post at the start of next week. I know you’ve weathered some difficult moments the last few months but I can assure you, that’s all behind us.

The payroll dept. has asked me to inform those who may have, again, experienced some difficulty cashing last week’s checks to please be patient. The problem is computer related. Thank you again for your forbearance and, may I add, it’s been a pleasure working with all of you these past years.

E. Elerbee

from: Susannah Madison, editor-in-chief

to: Staff

I have just been informed that CHIC has been purchased by Update Publications of NYC. Don’t panic, people. I’m trying to get info re Update. As soon as I do, I’ll cc: whatever I have to all of you. Since we’ve never heard of it, it’s probably a small outfit, one that will give us time to regroup, retrench & make CHIC the winner we all know it can be

Susannah

While You Were Out

Mr. E:

S.M phoned. Asked for info re rumors sale of magazine. What shall I tell her?

Pam

from: [e-mail]

to: SusannahMadison@chic com

subj: Congrats & Query

Wow! Congratulatians, Suze. You’ll be great! What’s Elerbee mean, “It’s been a pleasure,” etc Is he retiring? Selling? The mag can’t be going under, not if he’s just appointed you ed-in-chief, right? RIGHT’?

MEMO

from: Matthew Romano

to: Joseph Romano

re: CHIC takeover

Sept 10

Joe:

Update Division just acquired CHIC as part of the Elerbee package. From what I’ve seen, the kindest thing would be to put it out of its misery. What in hell’s going on there? I want to see some data. Copies of correspondence re revolving-door ed-in-chief position, also any pertinent correspondence, files, email, etc on my desk, ASAP. Matt

from: [e-mail]

to: [e-mail]

subj: Some guys are, some guys aren’t Thanks a lot, big brother. You just about kept me chained to my desk this weekend Info on its way. Files sent via Internet, pertinent correspondence faxed. Emails mostly office chitchat-but you should take a look at some of them Forwarding same to your acct. Got to say, buddy, I never did notice you were (ahem) studly.

Joe (trying very hard not to guffaw)

P.S. I guess I’d better tell you now, I’m not the only one who eyeballed this stuff. Material went thru a few hands before hitting my desk. Sorry, but you have to admit, it’s funny.

MEMO

from: Matthew Romano

to: Jane

re: Elerbee package

Jane

Will be leaving for NY on Sun. Contact Hank. Tell him I’ll need the plane. Arrange for hotel accommodations Also phone CHIC offices, inform ed-in-chief I’ll expect to see her in her office 9 AM Monday.

MR

Jane—Flowers to Miss Darvis, please A dozen roses Make it two dozen. Apologies, etc. for breaking next Sun night engagement Tell her I’ll phone from NY. As for ed-in-chief.. please be sure to impress upon the lady that she’d damn well better be prompt.

from: MattRomano@romano com

to: [e-mail]

subj: CHIC

I’ve changed my mind Do not contact ed - in-chief at CHIC. I prefer to make my visit unannounced.

CHAPTER ONE

SUSANNAH stepped from the shower, wrapped herself in a towel and raced down the chilly hallway to the kitchen.

This day—this very important day—was not off to a good start.

The shower had been so cold it had made her teeth chatter. The radiators were rattling enough to wake the dead, but the heat trickling out of them wouldn’t have heated a dollhouse. And, as she set the kettle on to boil, a cockroach the size of Godzilla scurried across the linoleum.

But it was what she read on the clock over the stove that set her heart pounding

Seven-fifteen?

It couldn’t be. No way. It was six-fifteen, it had to be. She’d set her alarm an hour earlier than usual, given herself more than enough time to get dressed, put on her makeup and blow-dry her hair, have a slice of toast with her coffee, make Peter his breakfast and still arrive at the office before anyone else.

It was important to seem cool, calm and collected when she started today’s meeting, and never mind that her heart would be in her throat. Even the fortune cookie that had come with last night’s order of take-out General Tso’s chicken had said that much.

Tomorrow, the little slip of paper in the cookie had promised, is the first day of the rest of your life.

Well, of course it is, the practical little voice in Susannah’s head had whispered, but the other voice, the one that lived in her heart or her soul or wherever it was hopes and prayers lived, that voice had said, You see, Susannah? The whole world knows that you’re standing on the edge of your dream.

Editor-in-chief. Not in five years, or ten, but right now. A giant step up the ladder. A Career, capital C, and all that went with it—independence, respect and security. That was the dream. Now, long before she’d ever imagined it would happen, she had her shot at achieving it. And she wasn’t going to be shoved off course by a malfunctioning kitchen clock.

The clock was definitely’broken, that was all there was to it. She’d set her alarm, it had gone off...and if she needed any further proof that it was after six, not after seven, all she had to do was take a look at Peter, who was still lying asleep in her bed.

Susannah gave a sigh of relief. That was something, anyway The last thing she needed right now was to have to deal with Peter’s early-morning grumpiness. He was gorgeous, and she adored him, but there were times you had to tiptoe around his ego. He was, typically, disgustingly, arrogantly male.

Well, no Mr. Matthew Romano, he of the smug smiles and the decorative blondes, he was typically male. Peter, on the other hand, could be a sweetheart when he wanted to. And he understood that her life could not revolve around him. He didn’t complain if she worked late or expect her to put her career on hold so she could be there to take care of his needs.

“It’s because he doesn’t really love you, Suze,” Claire had said more than once.

But he did, in his own way. He put what he could into the relationship, which was undoubtedly more than could be said of someone like Matthew Romano....

What on earth was wrong with her this morning? Why was she wasting precious time thinking about a man she’d never even met?

“Ridiculous,” she said.

Ridiculous, indeed. There was absolutely no reason for the insufferable Mr. Romano to wander through her thoughts, but this was the second or third time it had happened since she’d seen him on the Cape. Actually, it had been equally ridiculous for her to have taken such an instant dislike to him It was just the way he’d strutted along with the blonde on his arm and that smug, I-am-the-world’s-gift-to-womankind smile on his face.

Positively insufferable.

She’d never even have noticed him if she hadn’t been thinking about CHIC and about publishing. There was Ted Turner, who everybody knew was brilliant and who looked like a nice guy, and then, by contrast, there was Matthew Romano, who’d probably never done anything more difficult in his life than play with his money and his groupies, looking as if he figured every woman on the planet wanted his body

Not that it was a bad-looking body.

Susannah frowned and plucked her watch from the dresser. By now, it should be just about a quarter after six....

Oh God.

Her stomach tumbled to her toes.

Mickey Mouse grinned at her, one white-gloved, fourfingered hand pointing at the number four, and the other...

The other pointed straight at seven.

She tossed the bath towel across the room. It soared through the air and onto the bed, landing, with a dreadful accuracy, on Peter’s head.

“No,” she whispered, but it was too late. Peter came awake in a flash, bristling with anger. He shot to his feet and glared at her through cold green eyes. “Peter Oh, Petey, sweetheart, I didn’t mean. ”

Whether she’d meant it or not didn’t matter Peter didn’t believe in apologies. He never had, not since the day he’d come into her life. She watched as he turned his back on her and stalked from the room.

“Do your thing, Peter,” she muttered. “I couldn’t care less. I’ve got more important things to worry about this morning than you and your attitude.”

Peter muttered something out in the hall, but Susannah paid no attention. She was going to be late. Later than late, and on this, the first day of the rest of her life.

Well, it was.

She was holding the very first meeting she’d ever called at CHIC, the first she’d oversee as its editor-in-chief. That was the good news. The bad was that the meeting might be her last, unless this morning’s brainstorming session ended in some wild and wonderful idea that would make the brass from Update Publications decide their latest acquisition was worth keeping alive Otherwise, CHIC and the biggest chance she’d ever had in her career, along with all the magazine’s staffers, were going to be flushed out to sea.

Susannah threw another harried glance at her watch as she pulled on her jeans.

Seven twenty-four. If she got out of here in the next ten minutes—make that eight minutes—she had a chance. All she had to do was put on a shirt, her sneakers, find the notes she’d worked on all weekend, dump them into her handbag...

Peter yelled.

All she had to do was finish dressing, get her stuff together, give Peter his breakfast, and she’d be on her way.

She yanked a Beethoven’s Got the Beat T-shirt over her head. Droplets of water flew from her short black curls. She shrugged impatiently and tunneled her fingers through her hair. Forget about the luxury of blow-drying. Forget about toast, or even coffee. Forget about everything but the meeting. Assuming the subway trains weren’t running late, assuming the construction mess around Third Avenue had been cleaned up, assuming all was right with the world, maybe, maybe, she could make it into the office on time.

She had to.

On Friday, she’d laid down the rules for today’s conference. She’d done it not by E-mail or interoffice memo—it was too important for that. Instead, she’d told her secretary to phone each person in the CHIC organization, from Eddie the mail-room boy...

“Eddie, the mail-room intern,” Pam had said, raising her eyebrows.

“I don’t care if he’s Eddie, the mail-room CEO,” Susannah had answered. “Just make sure he and everybody else knows I want them assembled in the boardroom today at ten minutes to five.”

They’d straggled in, which she’d expected. CHIC was casual when it came to dress, something that was pretty common in the publishing world, but now, thanks to the revolving-door editor-in-chief policy, some of the staff had an attitude of indifference that verged on apathy. Her staffers had crowded into the room with their containers of coffee, their cans of diet cola, and once they were all there, Susannah held up her hands for quiet.

“Here’s the deal,” she’d said briskly. “It’s just a matter of time before this Update outfit decides to take a closer look at us. When they do, we’d better be ready to dazzle ’em with facts and figures and plans for the future so they leave thinking that CHIC is an eagle, ready to fly—instead of a dying swan that needs to be shot to put it out of its misery.”

“I don’t think they do that to swans,” the features editorial assistant had said, but she was shushed to silence

“I want you all to go home and think about what we need to do to kick start this magazine into the twenty-first century,” Susannah had continued. “And then I want you to show up here Monday morning, ready with innovative projects that will work, not just ideas that are impractical and expensive. And I want you all here promptly at eight.”

There were grumbles and protests, but Susannah had stood firm.

“Look at it this way, people,” she’d said. “If we’re not ready with an A-number-one plan when Update comes in, we might as well figure on convening our next meeting at the unemployment office.”

That had stopped the protests. CHIC’s staffers had filed out of the boardroom looking unhappy but determined.

“Eight sharp,” Claire had said, and Susannah had nodded.

“Exactly,” she’d replied.

The big hand on the twelve. The little hand on the eight. Eight exactly. Not eight oh-five, or eight-ten. Eight.

Susannah puffed out her breath. There was nothing like setting a good example for the troops.

Okay. Zip up the jeans. Fluff up the hair one more time so maybe it wouldn’t dry plastered to her head. Pull on socks, tuck feet into sneakers, tie laces...

Tear lace on right sneaker in half.

Easy. She had to stay calm. There had to be another pair of laces somewhere in the room In the dresser drawers. In the closet...

There wasn’t. Susannah said a word that would have made her grandmother blush. She grabbed two safety pins from the top drawer, hooked them through the eyelets on the sneaker, linked them together and closed them.

Then she stood and looked in the mirror.

Oh, boy.

No makeup. A hairdo that would have brought tears to the eyes of her hairdresser. A T-shirt that had a bleach spot on the sleeve and jeans that had really seen better days.

There was no sense even thinking about the safety pins and the sneaker.