so perfectly. She doubted if Rowena had ever muddled through or made do with second-best in her life—a life which appeared to be planned down to the last second. At least she wasn’t daft or unrealistic enough to imagine a woman could carry on being so totally in control like that when she had a young family.
‘Well, I have several high-flyers who don’t share your opinion and a feature that’s just begging to be written. It can’t fail,’ Sophie predicted in full sales-pitch mode. ‘A behind-the-scenes peek into the homes and offices of the rich and famous with pictures of their dogs, kids and whatever…you know, the usual humanising influences…’
The notion of voluntarily exposing your own children to the media made Rowena grimace. Her gut response was extra strong no doubt because the whole motherhood issue had suddenly taken on a very personal aspect.
‘It could work,’ Sylvia insisted, sensing with dismay her boss’s negative response.
‘You’re probably right, Sylvia.’ With an effort Rowena focused her thoughts on the matter in hand. ‘Who have you got lined up?’ She was too professionally astute to allow her personal prejudices to get in the way of good copy.
‘Maggie Allen.’
Rowena’s delicately arched eyebrows rose. ‘A topical choice.’ Maggie Allen, the controversial new appointment to head an international pharmaceutical firm, was the sort of woman who genuinely did seem to have it all: a loving, supportive husband, two well-adjusted children and her career.
How often, Rowena wondered cynically, did Maggie get to spend time with those children? And how long before the understanding husband started looking for a woman who could spend more than the odd hour or two with him?
‘It gets better,’ Sylvia enthused confidently over her shoulder. ‘Hold on a tick, I just need to give Anna this layout.’
Rowena followed the resourceful writer through the door.
‘Anna, could you—? Oh, my god!’ Rowena heard Sylvia exclaim as she came to an abrupt halt.
Anna Semple saw her colleague’s reaction and looked complacent. ‘I rather think you can send the others home, Sophie. We’ve got our man.’ She gave the tall figure who held centre stage a look of proprietorial approval.
It didn’t take long to see what—or rather who—had robbed Sylvia of speech. Rowena got an impressive glimpse of broad, firmly muscled shoulders and a strong, supple back before she averted her eyes—beef cake wasn’t really her cup of tea.
Besides, a quick glance had already revealed a spooky and unsettling similarity of build and colouring between Anna’s hunky model and Quinn, and Rowena had problems enough without any more reminders.
They’d got the poor guy to show off his pecs. Rowena experienced a pang of sympathy, which was probably misplaced. For all she knew, the man was perfectly at ease with using his great body to promote his career, or maybe he was an exhibitionist who revelled in being drooled over?
She nodded briskly to the other women. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Three-thirty in my office…Sylvia…?’ At that precise moment the tall figure turned his head.
It didn’t occur to her for even one second to believe the proof of her eyes. She was just so obsessed she was hallucinating—it was the only possible explanation. Pale-faced, she stared transfixed at the hormonal hallucination before her.
The half-naked man, his green eyes narrowed slightly, smiled languidly, displaying a set of even, pearly white teeth.
The gasp that emerged from her lips was faint, but audible enough to attract curious glances from the other women present.
This was worse than hallucination—this was real! Only one man in the world could combine that much sneery contempt and sexual challenge in a smile!
If her legs had actually responded to her urgent mental commands she’d have obeyed her first cowardly instinct and fled the room. As it was she had to think of something to say that wouldn’t excite unwanted speculation from the women she had to work with. Women whose respect she needed.
Why here, why now, why me…? Especially why me! She took a deep breath. It was no good moaning about it, it was happening and she’d have to deal with it.
Of course she’d known she’d have to see Quinn some time—she still hadn’t worked out when precisely that some time might be, but she’d known she’d be psyched up for the experience. She’d have worked out in advance what all his arguments might be when she broke it to him, and she’d have a suitable reply for each one. But most importantly she’d have her own messy feelings sorted out by that point!
Her voice, hoarse and accusing, broke the strained silence that had fallen. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Way to go, Rowena! She could almost smell the rampant curiosity in the quiet room.
‘This is Quinn Tyler, Rowena, our model for the—’ Anna began.
Model! Rowena threw the older woman a look of withering disbelief. ‘He is not a model!’ she exclaimed, scurrying forward to gather up Quinn’s discarded shirt and jacket from the floor where he had obviously dropped them. How could he stand there with all those women ogling him? He was nothing but a damned exhibitionist!
‘What is he, then?’
‘Yes, Rowena, what am I?’ Quinn drawled. Colour flooded Rowena’s face as she met the malicious wide-eyed innocence in his mocking emerald stare. ‘Don’t tempt me!’ she choked, wishing she could wipe that smug grin off his face.
‘Actually, Anna,’ she explained, trying a bit belatedly to re-establish some dignity, ‘Quinn is a doctor.’
‘He doesn’t look like any doctor I’ve ever seen,’ the older woman responded sceptically. Hands on her bony hips, she allowed her eyes to wander up and down Quinn’s lean frame.
Rowena couldn’t argue that point. ‘He scrubs up almost respectable,’ she snarled, experiencing an abrupt dignity meltdown the instant she looked at him again.
‘Why, thank you, Rowena,’ Quinn murmured provokingly.
‘It wasn’t meant to be a compliment. Let’s face it, put Jack the Ripper in Armani and he’d most likely look respectable,’ she announced dismissively—actually Quinn in Armani or anything else was almost impossible to dismiss or ignore! With a forced smile she turned to the other women. ‘We went to university together.’
‘Oh, an old boyfriend.’
‘I object to the old,’ Quinn complained with a hurt-little-boy look that had the other women grinning.
Nostrils flared, lips pinched tight, Rowena rounded angrily on a startled Sophie. ‘Not an old boyfriend!’ she announced emphatically. She looked to Quinn for support—not surprisingly, none was forthcoming. ‘We were part of a group,’ she began to explain laboriously. ‘A group of like-minded—’
Quinn’s deep velvet drawl cut her off. ‘A group of earnest, élitist snobs who liked to congratulate each other at frequent intervals on how brilliant, how cultured, how much better than everyone else we were. Many’s the time we’d sit there contemplating our glittering futures.’
‘Quinn!’ Rowena exclaimed, shocked.
Quinn met her outraged glare, an amused glint of humour in his eyes—eyes which she knew could unexpectedly change from deep emerald to subtle aquamarine. ‘You trying to tell me I’m wrong?’
Rowena’s face softened. Her lips were halfway to forming a rueful smile before she realised she couldn’t afford to relax around Quinn. ‘No, you’re not wrong,’ she admitted with a sigh. ‘We were unbearably pleased with ourselves.’
Quinn switched his attention to the three other women. ‘In our defence I have to add that we were all very young, and most of us aren’t quite so arrogant nowadays!’
‘If that’s a dig at me…’ Rowena