She willed herself not to flinch as he took her jaw in his hand. “What if I’d been an overweight, unattractive has-been, Iz? Would you still have had the guts to seduce me?”
She raised her chin in defiance. “I went to bed with you for exactly the reasons I told you in London.”
Disbelief flared in his eyes. “What was that—oh yes, I remember now,” he jeered, his gaze raking over her. “You didn’t want to have any regrets. For once in your life you wanted to go after what you wanted. Well, you sure did, Iz. Too bad it was a wasted effort.”
Tears stung the back of her eyes. How dare he dismantle their wildly romantic night and make it into something dirty and disgraceful. “It wasn’t—”
“Tell me something, Iz.” He slid his thumb across her trembling lower lip. “Did you enjoy yourself while you did your duty? Or were those little moans all an act?”
She lifted her hand to slap him, but he caught it easily in his own before she got it halfway to his face. “Save it,” he bit out grimly. “I’ve had enough.”
He took a step back, his face hard as stone. “Tell your boss he has a snowball’s chance in hell of getting this story.” Then he turned and strode back inside, his long, furious steps eating up the length of the terrace. She stared blindly at the entrance, at the lights and laughter of a party still in full swing. Sank back against the wall, palms sweaty, heart racing. How had it all gone so horribly wrong? How could she have predicted Alex would drag her out here and kiss her after walking out on her in London? That he would want a repeat performance of that night as much as she did?
She pressed her fingers to her lips, still stinging from the intensity of his kiss. A kiss that had thrown her off her game completely...made her believe they might have something together. Stupid, she berated herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could she have made such a mess of this? How could Alex think she had set him up like that? Slept with him to get an interview? It was inconceivable.
A wave of perspiration broke out on her brow. How was she going to convince Alex it had all been a huge, crazy coincidence?
What was she going to tell her boss?
She found him inside, talking to a producer from a rival station. He blew off the conversation and cornered her in a quiet spot behind the exhibits. “What is going on, Izzie?”
She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I will fix this, James.”
“You sure as hell will. What in God’s name was Constantinou talking about? What setup?”
Her stomach lurched. “It’s complicated. He’s just...misinterpreted something.”
His gaze narrowed. “Misinterpreted what?”
She pressed her lips together. “This has nothing to do with work, James, we—I— It’s personal.”
“I can see that. When were you going to tell me you knew him?”
“He’s just an acquaintance. He’s misunderstood something. Give me a chance to make this right and I will.”
Her boss sighed. Seemed to run out of anger. “Look, Izzie, I know you wouldn’t do anything unethical. It’s just not you. So whatever’s going on...fix it and get that interview.”
She nodded. That’s exactly what she was going to do. She just had no idea how she was going to do it. What exactly did the odds of a “snowball’s chance in hell” equate to?
CHAPTER SEVEN
ALEX COULD COUNT on one hand the times in his life he’d made a decision that went against his instincts. It had made him difficult to coach on the football field. He’d been dubbed the Rebel Quarterback for his penchant for changing a play late in the game, giving his coaches a virtual heart attack. But nine times out of ten he’d won the game. Because his instincts, his feel for the field, had always been dead-on.
But standing here, looking out at the Manhattan skyline from Sophoros’s fiftieth-floor offices, he was about to act against them. After an epic battle between him and the PR team, he had conceded they had to be proactive about the way the Messer case was framed in the media. The interview with NYC-TV, his director of PR had insisted, was the perfect contained opportunity to do so. Isabel Peters was anything but a hard-edged reporter, they could play it as they liked, and the network would syndicate it across the country, allowing him then to go underground, his version of the story out there.
He blew out a long breath and pressed a hand against the glass. Laura Reed was one of the best PR people in the country. The lawyers were okay with the strategy, with certain ground rules. It was the right thing to do. Except every bone in his body was telling him not to do it. He’d spent eight years avoiding the media. Eight years avoiding any chance that some fame-seeking reporter would smell something wrong about the night his career had ended and expose his biggest mistake. And now he was going to jeopardize that?
His stomach twisted, contracted as though it was being put through a sieve. Laura Reed had called this a contained story. There was only one person on the planet who knew about his biggest lapse in judgment, and that person would never talk. He had to do this. Had to contain Frank Messer in the only way possible. But to give the interview to Izzie after she’d deceived him like that? It made his soul burn.
He slammed his palm against the glass. That he’d fallen into James Curry’s trap so easily was downright embarrassing. How had his radar not picked up on what Izzie was? Because of course she’d been staking him out. He’d deliberately waited until the crowds were gone to get on that elevator, and she’d stood there jabbering on her phone until exactly the right moment to jump on with him.
What he wanted to know was why she hadn’t asked him about the interview that night in London while she’d had the chance. Why had she waited until the charity event to ambush him? Had she been trying to soften him up first? Then make the ask?
He rubbed his hand over his face, fatigue attacking every cell of his body. If he were to be honest, the disappointment was the worst. Yes, he’d lusted after her that night as any red-blooded male would have. But it had been more than that. He’d liked Izzie. She’d seemed different from the jaded, ambitious women who filled his social circles. And when he’d seen her again that night, he couldn’t stay away. Hadn’t wanted to.
His mouth tightened as he looked down at the midday traffic jamming Lexington Avenue. He’d broken his iron-clad rule not to trust another female after one night of potently good sex. Crazy, when there couldn’t be a man alive who’d received such a clear demonstration of the untrustworthiness of women than him, not once but twice in his life. First with his mother, who’d walked out on his family for another man. Then with his own blind faith in the fiancée he’d been so madly in love with he hadn’t seen her betrayal coming until she’d set her engagement ring down on the kitchen table and told him she was leaving him for his biggest competition—the man who’d taken his job and his dream along with it.
He would never trust a woman again. Ever. So why had Izzie gotten to him so?
Why did he still want her?
He let out a curse and levered himself away from the window. Even after everything she’d done, he still burned for her. Maybe it was the desire for revenge...maybe he just couldn’t get enough. Whatever it was, it was still insistently there.
He walked to his desk and picked up his espresso. The plan he’d devised would rid him of both problems. He would handle Isabel Peters far more deftly than she’d tried to handle him. He would take what he wanted and walk away. And he was going to enjoy every minute of it.