Money Shot by N.J. Harlow (smart books to read TXT) 📕

forward andlowered her voice, even though the office door was closed. "So tellme, how'd you get Scott to go along with it?"

Now I'm reallyconfused.

"Go… along…"

"Syd, the phones have been ringing off thehook. Half the women calling are congratulating you and the otherhalf want to know how to get into news management." Then she heldup a printout that I recognized as the daily ratings chart. "Andthe overnights for this past Friday are through the roof."

"So, you mean, you're not--"

"What? Mad? Are youkidding? We're the talkof the industry. You proved that women don't have to be put out topasture at forty." She flipped the ratings printout to me. "Theyoung women love him, the old women love him, and they all love youfor giving him a mature co-anchor and letting them know the rulescan be the same for women as men. You've empowered us, Syd. Youturned back the clock to the 1950's so we can make up for lost timeand chase the cute men around the desk. Frankly, I'm wondering whythe hell I have a female assistant."

I exhaled for perhaps the first time inthree days.

"Just one more thing, Syd."

"Yes?"

"I know you were the one who found Scott andall, but I was wondering if--"

"Yeah?"

Madison's smile grew, bringing out herperfect cheekbones. "Maybe one Friday when you're out of town.Would you be willing to… share?"

***

The leading candidate to anchor our new fiveo'clock newscast weaved his way past the tables, leaving a trail ofhanging female tongues in his wake. The dark gray pinstripe vestdraped from Jason Deller's broad shoulders, while his slim hipscarried him through the room.

Here we go again.

I sat up straight on my barstool, crossingmy left leg over my right to take advantage of the slit on thatside of my royal blue dress.

Just in time for the six-foot-three slice ofprime beef to notice.

He extended his hand as he reached the bar."Sydney?"

"Yes," I said as I shook his hand.

"What's a nice News Director like you doingin a place like this?" he asked.

Good. Sense of humor.

"It's a good place to relax after work," Isaid.

His cobalt blue eyes stole a glance at mylegs, then locked on my own, looking right into my soul and almostputting me in a hypnotic trance. He smiled, revealing dimples thatran like trenches along his rugged twenty-eight year old face thatbristled with a three-day growth. A shock of coal black haircascaded over his forehead. He hopped on the barstool next to mineand swung it around to face me. His knees gently brushed mine,sending an electric charge through my body.

Damn, he makes Scott Harry look like a BoyScout.

"You're not what I expected," he said.

"I hope that's good."

"Oh yeah."

"And you look good in clothes," I said.

His face flushed a bit as he shook his head."I can't believe you actually saw that Off-Broadway disaster."

"Hey, Shakespeare in the nude wasn’t allthat bad."

"Right. That's why I'mstill waiting tables uptown after playing oppositeLady McBare."

"Did you have a problem doing nudity onstage?"

"Nah. I just needed the work. At least I gotdiscovered by you, right?"

"Right."

"I'm frankly surprised you'd actuallyconsider an actor to be a news anchor."

"Well, we've had an actor as President andone is currently the Governor of California. It's all about beingable to communicate. What's the difference?"

"True." He looked off to the side for amoment, then turned back to me. "I do have one question that wedidn't cover during our phone conversation."

"Shoot."

He bit his lower lip, then fired away. "I'veread the tabloids about your… hiring practices. And the regularweekly--"

"Let me answer your question with aquestion," I said.

"Okay."

I leaned forward and slid my hand on thesmooth bar toward his so that our fingers lightly touched."Hypothetically, mind you. If you were to be offered a job, a greatjob that paid really well, and one of the duties was to take careof the sexual needs of your boss, how would you respond?

"Hypothetically?"

"Of course."

He shrugged. "Well, that depends."

"On what?"

"On who the boss is. If the boss is sometwenty-five year old ditsy blonde looking for a commitment, thenI'm not the guy. Romance can't be part of the picture. If it's somewrinkled sixty-year-old prune, forget it." He looked around, thenleaned closer while putting his hand on top of mine. "The bosswould have to be, say, a very attractive tall redhead with a greatpair of legs and spectacular eyes. It would also be nice if shewere a little older than me. I like women who are… seasoned."

Well, rub some spices on me and toss me onthe grill.

"So," he continued, "to answer yourquestion. If I were to be offered a great job that required me tohave weekly sex with my hot boss, and no romantic strings attached,well…"

"Yes?"

"I'd jump on it."

Gulp. (I don't even wantto describe the image that flashed through my head, but let's justcall it the really Off-Off-Broadway nude production ofTaming of the Shrew.)

"Really," I said, feigning surprise. "Youwouldn't consider it any sort of sexual harassment?"

"Oh, please. Hell, I'd let her be in chargein the bedroom too. Great job, free sex, where do I sign?Hypothetically, of course."

"Of course," I said.

"You know, the service at this place isreally slow," he said, looking around at the lack of empty tables."I oughta know, I used to work here. And the food's not that greateither."

"True." I reached into my beaded purse,pulled out a ten-dollar bill and tossed it on the bar. "You know, Ithink we should continue our conversation elsewhere. I have a roomat the Plaza."

"They have excellent room servicethere."

"They do. Are you hungry?"

He licked his lips, hungry eyes lookingdirectly into mine. "I think I will be in a couple of hours."

He hopped off his stool and extended hishand. I took it and slid off the chair, then stood straight andtall, inches away from his face, breathing in his muskycologne.

"Oh, I do have one more question," hesaid.

Uh-oh. "Sure."

"All I have to do is read and look good,right? No reporting in the field, no journalism stuff, no writing.I mean, I'm an actor, not Edward R. Murrow."

"That's the deal. You're not a real newsanchor, you just play one on TV."

"Okay."

"You only have to remember one thing,Jason," I said. "It's not brain surgery. It's just