Part 4 (2/2)
Zach sat down on the edge of the desk and began to enjoy himself. He hadn't gone through three years of studying law without a love for argument. Chelsea Brockway was a surprisingly able opponent. ”Look, the bottom line is I'm not going to publish your articles. Just how hard do you want to make this?”
Moving forward, she pressed her hands flat on the desk and leaned toward him. ”I want to make it impossible. I signed that contract in good faith.”
”I can find a loophole in it.”
For a moment she merely looked at him. Anger lightened the shade of her eyes to the color of emeralds, the kind with hints of fire in their depths. But even as he saw the flame, she managed to bank it. Straightening, she said, ”Neither one of us wants me to sue.”
He nodded, almost disappointed that she was about to concede. ”Correct. Litigation would only end in some kind of settlement. Name a fair figure and I'll write a check.”
”Wait.” She raised a hand. ”Your position is that the articles are 'fluff,' that the skirt really doesn't have any effect on men. To borrow your word, the idea is ridiculous. Therefore, it doesn't make the intellectual or cultural cut to be included in your magazine, right?”
Zach studied her for a moment, then nodded. ”That's one way of putting it.”
She put her hands on his desk and leaned toward him again. For one second he caught that exotic scent again.
”Have you ever gambled, Mr. McDaniels?”
”Sure.”
”How about a bet? If I can convince you that the skirt works, you'll print the first article. If I can't convince you, you can tear up the whole contract. I won't ask for a cent.”
When Esme cleared her throat, they jumped apart and turned. Zach had completely forgotten that anyone else was in the room.
”I just wanted to mention that your first article is due on my desk tomorrow. You'll have to convince him pretty quick.”
Turning back to Zach, Chelsea held out her hand. ”No problem. You can follow me to Flannery's and we'll see what happens. Do we have a deal?”
Never bet when it looks like you can't lose. It was one of the many lessons Zach had learned the hard way at boarding school. But his hand seemed to grasp Chelsea's of its own accord. ”We have a deal.”
4.
”I'D LIKE TO KNOW how you talked Bill Anderson out of handing in his resignation.”
Chelsea s.h.i.+fted her glance to the slender, light-haired man who sat directly opposite her in the booth. Hal Davidson wrote a regular column on the political scene for Metropolitan. He had smooth features and a practiced smile that probably served him quite well in his work.
She smiled right back at him. ”I didn't do anything except suggest that he might want to sleep on an important decision like that.”
Hal shook his head. ”Well, you must be very persuasive. Before he walked into McDaniels's office, he had everyone fired up to resign. When he came out, he'd completely changed his tune.”
”You sound disappointed.”
Hal shook his head. ”No. Merely surprised.”
”I also suggested he might want to discuss it with his wife and daughter.” Chelsea glanced down to the end of the booth where Bill Anderson sat in a chair. In the short time since she'd arrived at Flannery's, she'd observed that the sports editor clearly had a lot of influence over the other staff. She'd barely had time to take in the wood-paneled room and the mahogany bar trimmed in bra.s.s before Bill had spotted her and waved her over to the booth to introduce her to everyone as Esme's protegee, the one who'd written the articles on hotties. Since then she'd been wedged between a staff photographer named Chuck and the entertainment editor, a rather formidable-looking man in his early sixties named Carleton Bushnell.
The discussion at the table was centered mostly on the new boss and two things were very clear. They'd been very loyal to his father even when the magazine had begun to lose readers, and they didn't trust Zach. Bill Anderson and Hal Davidson were his most vocal critics. Their reasons ranged from his being too young to the fact that at the age of thirty, he'd hopscotched through several careers. First he'd gone to law school, then instead of going into practice he'd moved all over the country writing freelance for several newspapers and magazines.
Letting the conversation hum around her, Chelsea looked around the bar. Flannery's was a six-block walk from the Metropolitan offices at Rockefeller Center, and it was nearly filled with what looked like an after-work crowd, mostly men and a few women in suits. Even the four men who spoke with definite Texas drawls at a nearby table struck her as business travelers rather than tourists. The scent of whiskey, beer and popcorn filled the air, and in a corner a jukebox played the blues.
Each time the heavy, beveled gla.s.s door was pushed open, she glanced toward it, but so far Zach McDaniels hadn't arrived. The good news was he hadn't missed anything. The bad news was he hadn't missed anything. So far the skirt hadn't gotten much attention. Of course, it was a little difficult for it to have much of an effect on anyone when it was completely hidden by a table and the staff of Metropolitan.
”Bill said you have absolute faith in McDaniels.”
The moment Chelsea realized Hal Davidson was talking to her, she dragged her gaze from the door back to him.
”You've known him for a while, I take it?”
”Well,” Chelsea paused when she realized that everyone in the booth was looking at her. She couldn't very well tell them that she'd told Bill that on the spur of the moment to defuse a fight. ”Not that long. But he seems to be a man who knows how to get what he wants.”
”Yeah, but what he wants could easily sink this magazine,” Hal pointed out.
”If you think he's wrong, why don't you tell him so?” Chelsea asked.
Hal reached for his gla.s.s, the ring on his pinky catching the light. ”Are you going to be doing any more articles?”
”Three more, I hope.”
Hal stared at her in surprise. ”Not in the same vein as your last one, I'll bet.”
”Actually, I'm writing about my adventures when I wear this skirt one of my college roommates gave me.” Pausing, she leaned forward and pitched her voice lower. ”It's supposed to attract men.”
”You're kidding,” Carleton Bush.e.l.l said, turning to her. ”You can't think a piece of clothing possesses special powers.”
”Who knows?” Chelsea said. ”Don't all of you have something that you think brings you luck-like a special tie that you always wear to an interview?”
Carleton narrowed his eyes and she noticed that once more all of the men at the table were looking at her. Some of their expressions were skeptical; others were thoughtful. Bill Anderson was the one who finally spoke. ”I have a special hat I always wear when I go fis.h.i.+ng.”
”There you go.” Glancing around the table, she decided to push her advantage. ”Think about your wives and girlfriends. Don't they have something that they wear that you like a whole lot, something that sort of gives off a signal?”
Carleton Bushnell chuckled. ”Well, if young McDaniels is going to print an article like that, maybe the s.h.i.+ft he's making in the magazine won't be as drastic as he outlined this afternoon.”
”Well, I'm-” Chelsea began, intending to tell them that she was still trying to convince Zach to publish the articles, but Carleton Bushnell had turned to Bill Anderson.
”I think you were right to hold off on that letter of resignation. Perhaps we ought to tell the guy what we think and then cut him a little slack. We all know that some changes have to be made. The magazine's been losing subscribers ever since the old man got ill. Could be that a new direction is what we need.”
”Yeah, but what direction? That's the question,” Bill Anderson said.
”He's hardly going to increase sales numbers by turning Metropolitan into a literary magazine,” Hal pointed out.
”Well, this young lady isn't exactly writing literature, and young McDaniels is buying her articles.” Carleton winked at Chelsea. ”You got any tips for someone my age.”
Bill let out a whoop of laughter. ”There isn't a fire hot enough to heat you up, Bushnell.”
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