Moonstruck In Manhattan

“They’re run by people I’ve handpicked to do the job. That way I never have to lift a finger.” Rising, Miranda took a tentative step toward him and winced. “Now that I’ve handpicked you to save Metropolitan magazine from collapse, I can go back to my apartment and get out of these killer boots. What we women endure for our vanity.”

“I’ll never be able to thank you for trusting me, Aunt Miranda,” Zach said as he moved around his desk to put his arms around her.

“As far as thanking me goes, I’ll expect to see you at the Christmas ball I’m hosting next Saturday.” When he started to say something, she took his hands in hers. “I know that you don’t like to celebrate the season, but I have a feeling your Mom would want you to.”

“Aunt Miranda—”

“I’ve reserved two places at my table. Bring a guest.”

Zach’s brows shot up. “That sounds like an order?”

“It is. I know someone who’d be very happy to go with you,” Miranda said.

Zach raised his hands, palms out in surrender. “I’ll come to the ball. But no date. Aren’t you ever going to give up trying to match me up with my soul mate?”

“Never.”

“She doesn’t exist.”

Miranda tapped a finger against his chest. “You just haven’t found her yet. When you do, you’ll never let her go.”

“No date, Aunt Miranda.”

“Fine.” Miranda sighed, a small pout replacing the smile on her face. “You won’t find yourself a date. You’ll come by yourself and you’ll be too bored to stay once the dancing starts.”

Zach grinned at his aunt as he took her arm and led her to the door. “I’ll be bored from the moment they serve the appetizer and I’ll be catatonic by the time the last course is removed. However, I will be there.” When he opened the door, he found himself facing Esme Sinclair.

“I’d like a moment of your time, if I’m not interrupting,” Esme said.

“You’re only interrupting my failed attempt to persuade my nephew to let me find him a date for my Christmas ball. I’ll get right out of your way.”

It was with a certain amount of envy that Zach watched his aunt wave a hand and walk quickly toward the open door of an elevator. He found himself stifling an annoying impulse to bolt. He wasn’t a child anymore and Esme Sinclair wasn’t an old housemistress. Ushering her into the room, he closed the door, then moved to stand behind his desk.

Esme reached for the switch on the ceramic Christmas tree.

“I’d prefer that you didn’t turn it on,” Zach said.

Her hand stilled, then dropped to her side. “Sorry.”

“What can I do for you, Ms. Sinclair?” Zach asked.

“Not a thing. I’m going to do something for you. I know that you want to immediately eliminate what you termed the fluffy sections of the magazine, but I’m afraid that won’t be possible, at least for the next three issues.”

Zach’s eyebrows rose. “Why not?”

“I have a young lady in my office who’s written two very fine articles for us recently. I bought them in an attempt to expand our audience among younger readers and the sales figures have gone up accordingly. This morning, before I was informed of your appointment, I had her sign a contract to provide us with three more articles. Her proposal is right here and I’ve also included copies of her other articles. I think they all fit into the fluff category.” Handing him a folder, she continued, “The legal department says our best bet is to honor the contract.”

“Or offer to buy it back,” Zach said as he opened the folder. He recognized the name on the contract immediately. Chelsea Brockway was the writer he’d just been discussing with his aunt—the one whose articles on “hotties” were selling magazines. The last thing he wanted was to print any more of her work. He glanced up at Esme. “Why don’t you arrange for me to speak with her?”

“I called her right after our staff meeting. She’s waiting outside,” she said as she moved toward the door.

It was the legs that Zach recognized first when the woman stepped into his office. Backlit by the lights from the hall, he could have sworn that they went right up to her waist.

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