But life had taught her to be a skeptic, a cynic. To watch her back. And she wasn’t about to jump into bed with a man like Alex Diaz, not even for a job.
Especially not for a job.
Even so just the thought—the remote possibility—of being on Diaz News made her heart beat harder and her fingers curl into determined fists. Diaz’s news network was the most respected on TV, and was the only one that managed to rise above the petty, political squabbling and scaremongering of other networks. “Facts, not opinions” was Diaz News’s motto, and made it the most-watched news channel on television.
And she could be on it, as a serious, respected journalist...
Her mouth twisted cynically. Or maybe Alex Diaz just wanted her in bed.
Which wouldn’t be such a bad a place to be...
Maybe not, but Diaz was so not her type; he was too arrogant and controlling. She liked her men a little meeker. They were meant to do her bidding.
But if she could get Alex Diaz to do her bidding...
Now her smile curved in anticipation. Wouldn’t that be satisfying. Alex Diaz in front of her, on his knees. Begging.
As she once had.
But never again. She didn’t beg, plead or even say please. When it came to sex, she took.
But she needed to stop thinking about sex.
Chelsea took another deep breath and then raised her chin a notch as the elevator stopped at the thirty-fifth floor.
If Diaz did have something legitimate in mind, he’d seek her out again. Legitimately. She wasn’t about to go running to him, asking for favors.
The party was in full swing as the elevator doors opened onto the private room with wraparound views of Manhattan, Central Park an oasis of darkness amidst the endless lights of the city. Chelsea stepped into the room, head held high as she nodded at a few acquaintances. People who would say they were her friends, but Chelsea knew better. She knew a million people like that, but nobody knew her. She didn’t give them the chance.
Still, she worked the room, laughing and chatting, air-kissing and waggling her fingers. The effort was exhausting, but that was something else nobody knew.
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,