L.A. Caveman (8 page)

"What you wrote before," he gave
another absent thumb-caress to her packet and missed her quicker
than normal intake of breath, "isn't giving them what they want. Or
what they say with their hard-earned dollars they
need
.

"The question is, are you going to
help me, Stanna?"

She sensed the power coiled within him
as he faced her fully.

She held firm. “I’m not interested in
working on a titty magazine.”

“
That’s good, because I’m
not interested in running one.”

"What do you want from me? Exactly
what position do I have here with you?" Her question was uttered
devoid of double meaning, but it hung there in the air between them
anyway. A quirk of his lips acknowledged it.

"I want you to cooperate with me." His
repeated request was soft and strong, persuasive and charismatic.
The kind of voice that made her feel like she'd be a heel if she
didn't cease her stubbornness and do what he wanted
immediately.

Oooh, you're good
, she
marveled.

The bemused half-smile on her face
must have encouraged him because he continued with a shift into a
disarmingly straightforward manner.

"We didn't get off on the right foot,
did we? No." He half-sat, half-leaned against the edge of his desk,
his black boots pointed insolently at the ceiling. "So. When my
parents passed away, I inherited a certain amount of money which,
combined with what I've saved for years and a small business loan,
enabled me to do something I've always wanted to do: own a magazine
like this one." His gaze, when he looked up at her, was full of
determination, implacable.

"Ian couldn't be salvaged. No," he
held up his hand and spoke over her attempted interruption. "You
may not agree with me yet, but Ian was slowly killing this
magazine. And you," he evaluated her, "were to be replaced with
some low-buck freelance talent. I didn’t know you, didn’t know
about your contract, and the freelancer might not be as good as
you. They are, however, cheaper and easier to replace if they don’t
work out. I'd have used the extra money to increase circulation and
ad marketing, something I'd like to begin concentrating more on.
Hired help does what they're told. You follow your own feminist
vision, and it’s incompatible here."

Before Stanna could take umbrage at
that bit of cheer, Jake surprised her by grudgingly shifting gears
again.

"You are actually more than I
expected. Ian obviously thought so, too, or he wouldn't have been
training you to take his place, or misled me about your employment
status."

That would be his idea of an apology,
Stanna knew. Though it was a bit late in coming and more than a
little reluctant, it pleased her inordinately. So did the
affirmation of Ian’s vote of confidence.

Even though Jake admitted that he
thought Ian was "killing the magazine." That made it a sort of
left-handed compliment, didn't it? If Ian was a magazine murderer,
then Ian’s choosing her made her a murderer-in-training.

Jake couldn't for the life of him
figure out why she was suddenly looking at him with those
blue-tinted silver eyes glinting shrewdly, amused. But that
wouldn't stop him from trying to bridge the chasm gaping between
them since the beginning of their professional relationship. Being
stuck with her didn't have to be a bad thing.

Her face glowed with health, he
noticed. She was so young, so full of vitality. Her delicate brows
were knitted slightly and those stunning eyes that he'd seen in
extreme close-up not three hours ago now steadily watched him, a
coolly assessing gaze. Very different from their melting heat when
he'd kissed her. The memory of their fiery embrace nudged him,
reminding him how much more his sexy columnist had to offer than
her writing skills.

He needed her cooperation with the
column, though. Her other qualities were nothing but mind-candy.
And that's where they would stay. In his mind.

It would be much too distracting any
other way.

"Stanna, the magazine is the main
issue here. Its success and its satisfied readership. Can we agree
on that, at least?"

"Yes. Yes, absolutely." He watched the
idea spread its animation across her porcelain face before her lips
parted to speak. "You know, Jake, the magazine could do well
exactly as it is, with your idea about building up marketing and
circulation. That's just what I've thought it needed all along,
only Ian never quite had the budget to begin."

The hopeful look in her eyes tugged at
him. It was her innocence and youth, he decided. That's what made
him react so guiltily when she made those "save my magazine"
hopeful comments. The vulnerable look in her eyes, which he knew
she wasn't aware of, made him feel like a bully stealing Halloween
candy.

But it wouldn't make him change his
mind.

"Ian's gone, and I'm here now," he
replied.

"And you're the boss," she appended,
her tone carefully neutral.

"I'm glad we see eye-to-eye." He liked
the way her lips twitched slightly before regaining their normal
aloof shape. He was a good half-foot taller than she, just the
right kind of eye-to-eye with a woman, as far as he was
concerned.

She remained stubbornly silent,
watching and waiting.

"Stanna..." His manners caught up to
him then, and he gestured at the spare chair even as he rose to
fetch it himself. "Please, sit down." She did, with another
distrustful glance and a ballet-graceful bend of her slender
body.

The afternoon was fading quickly, he
noticed. Already the light from his window was a thick
yellow-orange that only Los Angeles smog could produce. He knew if
he looked outside he'd see long metal arteries of early commuters
sluggishly moving along surface streets in the vain hope that
they'd be faster than the freeways.

His rented home in Manhattan Beach
would be a good forty-five minute drive, but the ocean-adjacent
abode was worth it. Old friends of the family charged him such a
low rental price that he wouldn't dream of telling anyone just how
little he paid for the prime-location home. It would only make them
feel bad that the same money they doubtless used to secure a single
apartment in a modest Los Angeles neighborhood could keep him in a
three-bedroom, two-bath house only two blocks from the
beach.

Maybe he could tie this up and take
off early so he'd have an hour or two to relax and prepare for his
business dinner with the ad agency later.

He leaned against his desk again,
feeling the wood edge against his thigh. He'd make his point with
the direct approach.

"Stanna, your column is offensive to
men."

Opening the packet, he read:
"'...testosterone-soaked brains.... a certain Me-Tarzan
corner-office tyrant whose sack gets in the way of sound business
decisions... men using their penis as a divining rod in the
time-honored tradition of the old-boys-club'...I don't think I need
to go on.

"Men's Weekly was a hodgepodge of
articles on boats, features on celebrities, how-tos for home stereo
systems. And of course your 'get civilized' woman's perspective
column. That was the extent of Ian's game plan, I assume, if he
even had one.

"Mine is different. Worse, some might
say. But mine has a structure, a narrow target audience, and a
theme, and I plan to go forward with it.

"Therefore, your column, as it is, is
unacceptable. I have every faith that you can do better than
this."

"Nope. That's the best I can do." Her
flippant rebuttal and challenging stare were expected, but Jake
experienced a twinge of irritation.

"Then I'll have to do it for you. To
show you how it's done." He watched as Stanna's confident facade
showed a few cracks.

"Ian never rewrote me. He never
bothered, and there’s no time. You have more important
responsibilities. You don’t have to do this too."

"I can. I have to, evidently." He
pushed up from the desk, looking at his watch. "If you'll excuse
me, I have to get going."

"Wait! Wait. Hold on, cowboy." She
rose from the chair with energetic gusto and a look that dared him
to move one more step. Her eyes revealed the turmoil of her
thoughts. "What if... Jake," she sighed exasperatedly, "you won't
be getting woman-bashing columns from me."

"Did I say they had to bash
women?"

"Yes! Not in so many words, but that's
your so-called theme." She said the word with bafflement, as if he
were nuts to do such a thing.

"Stanna, that's
not
what I'm
saying. Not exactly." He searched for the right words. "It isn't
bashing to look at women from a man's perspective. You know, their
bodies, their desires, their frustrating little
games..."

"Frustrating games?" Her eyes sparked
dangerously.

"Games, like Hard-To-Get, or Playing
Dumb, or Let's Pretend I'm Something I'm Not," Jake replied,
Jolene's image in his head.

"Ahhh," she drawled, an enlightened
smile spreading across her face. "You've had a bad experience with
a woman. I should have guessed." She added sweetly, "But you have
to realize, Jake, we aren't all evil."

Thoroughly perturbed, Jake grumbled,
"Of course not. But that's not the point--"

"No, your point is you think most men
would be more sympathetic to a gang-up-on-women column rather than
trying to understand us."

"Why should they even try?" Jake
replied, chilliness creeping back into his voice. "What's to
understand? Who'd want to get tangled up in all your illogic and
hormones?"

"I flatter myself I'm being logical
now," Stanna replied logically. "Not all women play games, by the
way. And men are so much worse."

"Worse?" Jake found himself beginning
to smile. This was such a ridiculous conversation.

"You've heard of men's games, if you
haven't played them yourself: Thrill-Of-The-Chase,
Tell-Them-What-They-Want-To-Hear, Morning-After-Disappearing-Act.
Sound familiar?"

"'We aren't all evil,'" Jake threw her
words back at her. He found himself enjoying their verbal sparring.
He liked the way her eyes sparkled as she argued, and the small nod
of concession she gave him when he scored a point.

Her lips curved upward, a somewhat
contemptuous battle-mask that he knew was due to her basically
contentious nature. Her body was tense and angled in a way that
suggested a cat's just before it leaped at its prey. He had her
full attention.

He wanted to pull her into his arms
again and help her get rid of that intensity of hers in the best
possible way. Imagining her wiggling against him, her wild lips
responding to him, he knew his own expression was that of a
predator, too. He turned it on her, waiting for its message to
impact.

It didn't take long. She cocked her
head slightly, emphasizing her catlike appeal. Her eyes blazed back
at him, all challenge.

"Some of us are more evil than
others," he conceded, grinning wickedly.

"Evil enough to keep men in the dark?
If you stick with your 'theme,' you're showing your readers only
the worst part of women." She remained firmly by her guns, he
noticed in admiration.

"So you admit that women can be
morally vacant? Good. Your feminist inclinations don't blind to you
to the facts."

"Some! Only some women are morally
vacant. Some men are, too. My perspective as a woman is valid.
Don't you think your readers could learn something coming from me,
from the woman's perspective?"

He thought about it. He needed an
exciting, man-friendly column. Stanna wanted to burn bras. Maybe a
compromise could be a 'balanced picture' column. He tapped his
fingers on the flimsy white column, thinking about it while
regarding her steadily.

She returned the gaze, waiting for his
answer. She felt invigorated as she watched him, sensing that his
resolution to mangle her column was becoming less than rock-solid.
The rest of him still fit that description, though, she thought as
she surreptitiously scraped her eyes down his superb male
form.

There was something about men in jeans
and cowboy boots, especially when they could hold their own in an
intelligent debate, she decided.

She filed away the information for
future reference. She certainly wouldn't be applying the newfound
knowledge to the hunk in front of her, even if he was managing to
play her libido-strings with a maestro's touch -- without a single
touch.

He was still silent, his golden-brown
hair falling unruly to his shoulders as he angled his head down.
She remembered the thick, silky feel of it under her hands when
she'd touched him.

Stop that
, she told herself
sternly.

"Stanna." His voice, decisive. His
next words, curious, shocked her. "What made you distrust men the
way you do?" Seeming to realize what a nosy question it was, he
reluctantly added, "Never mind, you don't have to answer. Right
now, anyway." But he waited another moment before gruffly
addressing her original question.