Expose Me

In any case, most people at the network were jealous of her meteoric rise to talk show host by age twenty-eight, and the rumors that she’d slept her way to that position still swirled around her four years later, although she ignored them with the airiness of someone who didn’t give a damn. And she didn’t. Wouldn’t.

That route to success might have worked for her once—or not—but she was a different woman now. Harder. Smarter. And nobody’s fool—or plaything.

“Chelsea.” Michael came toward her, hands outstretched. Chelsea took them and leaned in as Michael brushed his lips against her cheek. She could feel people watching them, eyes narrowed, ears pricked for some overheard salacious snippet. Not that they needed any; they could just make them up. She never denied anything. Denying rumors put you on the defensive, and ended up just stoking the fires of gossip higher. Let people wonder. Let them smirk. She’d still come out on top.

“Your hands are cold,” he said, and she laughed lightly.

“It’s freezing outside, Michael.” She slipped her hands from his, suddenly conscious of someone watching them. She didn’t need to look to see who it was. She’d felt his gaze on her ever since the elevator doors had pinged open after her, had felt his presence, dark and forceful, even though she’d refused to look at him even out of the corner of her eye.

Alex Diaz was there. And she felt him.

Michael leaned back, studying her for a moment, concern making his eyes narrow and the dignified crow’s-feet at their corners look more pronounced. He was always worried about her, even though Chelsea told him not to be. Pretended as if she didn’t need someone’s concern or care, because admitting to that was both weakness and need and she never showed either.

But she did need Michael. He’d discovered her when she was twenty-two: desperate, damaged and determined, and she’d told him more about herself than she had anyone else, even her sister. Yet she still hadn’t told him everything, and never would.

“You look tired,” he said, and she laughed again.

“Thank you very much.”

“And gorgeous, of course,” he added with a smile. “It goes without saying. But I hope you’re not working too hard.”

“Don’t fuss.” Despite only eight years between their ages, Michael tended to act like a father toward her, or perhaps a big brother. Protective and just a little bit bossy. They’d never been romantic, not even close, but as always Chelsea had done nothing to dispel the rumors. Neither had Michael, at her request. It was always better to hold your head high than to trip over yourself explaining what people were determined to believe anyway.

And in any case, they had good reason to believe it. Or they would, if Chelsea wasn’t so good at hiding her past. Hiding herself.

“All right.” He smiled, his teeth blindingly white in his tanned face—he’d been skiing in Aspen last week—and Chelsea was reminded just how charismatic he was, how good-looking and good-natured. If she’d ever wanted a sure bet for a relationship, she would have chosen Michael. He almost made her feel safe.

But she’d never wanted a relationship; men were for the occasional satiation of physical needs only. And for some reason that thought made her think of Alex Diaz. Damn.

She couldn’t keep her gaze from seeking him out; she knew right where to look, even though she’d been determinedly not looking at him for the past fifteen minutes. He stood in the center of the room, breathtaking in a tuxedo, his gaze narrowed even as he smiled at a passing acquaintance, everything about him dark and powerful and just a little bit intimidating.

He was, Chelsea acknowledged, an incredibly attractive man. Michael Agnello had charisma, but Alex Diaz had something more powerful, primal and raw. Sex appeal, pure and simple. Muscles rippled under his tuxedo jacket, his body seeming to take up so much space the huge room suddenly felt small. He had to be at least six-three, Chelsea decided. She was an inch under six feet and in her three-inch heels—she never conceded to flats because of her height—she was still an inch or two shorter than him. She liked a man who didn’t make her feel like a giraffe, she acknowledged, and then banished the thought.

She didn’t like men. She used them.

And she wondered then what it would feel like to use Alex Diaz.

Dangerous.

And almost as dangerous was the realization that he was coming straight toward her. She felt a frisson of anticipation, mixed with just a little alarm. Something about Diaz felt...off. There was too much grim focus in his gaze, too much predatory intent in his measured walk. If he wanted her for his network, he’d be easygoing, friendly. He’d have gone through her agent and set up a dinner at Le Cirque with them both. It would have been all insider jokes over five bottles of wine, not this hooded, hawklike look as if she were a baby squirrel who had just tumbled all soft and downy from her nest.

She straightened her shoulders, turned to him with a glittering smile. No baby squirrels here, sucker, she thought, still smiling right into his narrowed eyes.

He had beautiful eyes, deep brown with golden glints, and lashes that were incredibly thick and full. His hair was ink-black and cut very short, but it still made Chelsea wonder how it felt, if it would be soft as she threaded it through her fingers.

And as for his body...a confident, rangy power in every limb and muscle. She yanked her gaze away from his thighs, curved her mouth into a flirty little smile. “Hello again.”

“Hello, Chelsea.” How did he manage to inject a simple salutation with so much intent? So much...sex?

Or was her libido going into hyperdrive because she hadn’t felt this magnetic tug of attraction in a long, long time?

Maybe ever.

“May I get you a drink?” he asked, coming to stand close enough so she could breathe in the woodsy scent of his aftershave, feel that almost irresistible pull toward him. She stepped back. Resisted. She wasn’t about to jump into bed with a man like Alex Diaz. That wouldn’t just be foolish, it would be insane. Not with her track record. Not when he wanted to talk business.

She’d learned that much, at least.

“Seltzer water, please.”

“Of course.”

She watched him head toward the bar, admiring the muscular back, the trim hips and taut butt. Yes, he was an attractive man. That had clearly been established. Moving on.

She took another deep breath and willed the knots of tension in her shoulders to untangle, or at least loosen a little. She hated parties, had for ten years, and now she felt that first prickle of anxiety at being in a crowd and resolutely forced it back. Alex returned with her glass of seltzer in one hand, a beer bottle in the other. “Here you go,” he said, and gently but with clear purpose, his hand coming around her back, he steered her toward a private space near the window. She didn’t resist, but as soon as possible she stepped away from him, gave herself a little needed distance.

“Amazing view,” Alex commented, the beer bottle raised to his lips. “I never get tired of it.”

Chelsea didn’t even glance out the floor-to-ceiling windows. She had virtually the same view from her penthouse apartment, and her eyes were on this man. “So why are you interested in my show, Alex?” Might as well spell it out. Spit it out, no needless sugarcoating.

His lips twitched in something close to a smile. “You’re good at what you do.”

“Which is?”

“Seeming sympathetic while slipping a dagger between the ribs.”

She blinked, surprised, and then smiled because yes, that was definitely one description of what she did. Cozying up to celebrities so she could make them confess and cry. But they liked it; they needed the absolution her show seemed to provide.

“And you like that?” She hadn’t meant to load that question with sexual innuendo, of course she hadn’t, yet somehow it came out anyway, and she saw Alex’s pupils flare, felt that same hard kick of attraction she’d felt in the limo. Painful. Unwanted.

“I like people who are good at what they do.”

“Still, it doesn’t seem like the type of thing you’d feature on your network, if you are in fact implying you’d want to go somewhere with this.”

“No, it doesn’t.” He took a sip of his beer, and Chelsea kept her face neutral. Waited—but for what?

She could still feel the aftershock of attraction, like pins and needles on her skin. She knew Alex felt it, too, and wondered just how complicated this would be.

She didn’t do complicated. Didn’t mix business with pleasure, or sex with emotion, or sex with anything. Not anymore. She kept sex in the same mental box as annual physicals or biannual dental cleanings. Sometimes it was fun, and sometimes it was very fun, and sometimes it was just boring. But necessary, no matter what, to good health.

Alex lowered his beer bottle, gave her a considering glance. “How did you end up getting Treffen to agree to a prime-time interview with you?”

She bristled, because he sounded so incredulous. As if he couldn’t imagine how a ditzy used-to-be-blonde like her had been capable of it. “I worked hard.”

“Treffen’s never done a television interview before.”

“I realize. I did do my homework, you know.” Inwardly Chelsea winced. She sounded defensive. Pathetic. And she didn’t do either.

Alex’s mouth curved, and Chelsea felt her pulse skyrocket. The man had the sexiest smile she’d ever seen. Just the twitch of his lips made her shift where she stood, feel a rush of warmth she tried to ignore. “So tell me,” he said in a low voice that rolled over her like a wave of honey. “How did you do it?”