Moonstruck In Manhattan

“I’ve heard of men undressing women with their eyes, but this is the first time I’ve actually witnessed it taking place,” Miranda said.

Zach tore his gaze away from the woman at the bar to find his aunt laughing at him. He felt the heat rise in his cheeks. That hadn’t happened since he was a teenager, either.

She leaned closer to him. “If you’d like I could make a quiet exit stage left and you could go introduce yourself to that young lady.”

Zach frowned but he couldn’t prevent his eyes from returning to the woman in the bar. “A lady would hardly be wearing a skirt like that. Nor would she allow a man to fondle her in a public place.”

Miranda’s eyes widened. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak about a woman in quite that judgmental way before. You sound like your brother.”

“Ouch!” The corners of his mouth curved as he pantomimed pulling an arrow out of his heart. “Way to hurt a guy.”

“Drastic measures were called for. One stuffy prude for a nephew is all I can handle.”

“Speaking of Jerry, how does our esteemed congressman feel about your decision to put me in charge at Metropolitan magazine?” Zach was sure it must have come as an unpleasant shock to his older brother that Miranda was going to do what his father had failed to do—hand the publishing part of his empire over to the black sheep of the family. “He must have given you a hard time at the board meeting.”

“On the contrary. He had no choice but to support my recommendation. If he’d made any strenuous objection, it might have looked as if he was stabbing his brother in the back.” Miranda’s lips curved. “You have to be very careful not to do that when your campaign for public office is based on restoring family values.”

“And they all agreed to let me break the news to the editorial staff?”

“Absolutely. It’s your magazine now. You call the shots.”

My magazine. He played the phrase over in his mind, liking the sound of it. Running Metropolitan had been a dream of his since he’d been a child. Unfortunately, it had not been part of his father’s dream for him. Jeremiah McDaniels, Sr. had wanted his sons to run for public office. He could train people to run his businesses, he said. He wanted his sons in positions of power. Zach’s brother had gone along with the plan. He hadn’t. “Jerry can’t be happy.”

Miranda shrugged and smiled. “He didn’t like it much when you made Harvard Law Review either. That was one distinction that eluded him. Your father was proud of you that day.”

“One day in thirty years.” Zach shook his head. “But he wasn’t proud enough of me to give me a job at Metropolitan after I graduated. And he definitely wasn’t proud of me when I turned down the position he’d lined up for me at that prestigious law firm.” He could still recall his father’s exact words, ones that he’d heard over and over as he’d been growing up. Can’t you do anything right? “Let’s face it, Aunt Miranda, there just isn’t enough evidence for you to win your case here. My father did not want me at Metropolitan.”

“All right.” She threw up her hands in surrender. “I give up. Serves me right for trying to argue with a Harvard law man. From now on, I’m just going to enjoy having lunch with my favorite nephew.”

Zach reached for her hands. “I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful, Aunt Miranda. I know that you really had to go to bat for me with the board. They can’t have liked all the job-hopping I’ve done since law school.”

“You don’t need to thank me. What might look like job-hopping to some looks entirely different to me. I’m sure that while you were consulting for those newspapers in San Francisco, Chicago and Atlanta, you were gaining experience and making contacts that will prove very valuable to Metropolitan.”

Zach’s eyes narrowed as he studied her. “What makes you think that?”

Miranda squeezed his fingers before releasing them. “I’ve known you since you were a little boy. Even then you were a planner—never making a move until you weighed all the options. I can’t wait to hear what you’ve planned for the magazine. It’s been going downhill since your father became ill, I’m afraid.”

“I’m going to make changes—in the focus, even in the intended audience.”

Miranda threw back her head and laughed. “Why am I not surprised?”

Zach leaned toward her. “It’s what I’ve always wanted to do, but Dad would never have allowed it. He always thought power lay in the hands of the government. But the real power is in ideas. I want Metropolitan to become a forum where the respected writers and thinkers of our time can discuss ideas.”

Miranda lifted her water glass in a toast. “Then go to it. And see if you can catch the eye of our waiter. We should be toasting this with the drinks we ordered.”

Zach shifted his gaze to the bar and stared. The bartender had his hand up the woman’s skirt again. “Look at that. Someone should put a stop to it.”

“TURN ONCE MORE,” Daryl said, fastening a final piece of tape in place. “There. That should do it.”

Taking a step back, Chelsea glanced from Daryl to Ramón. “What do you think?”

“I need to get back to my soufflé,” Ramón said.

“I think I’m falling in love,” Daryl said.

Chelsea stared at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t.”

“Not with you, sweetie. It’s this fabric. It’s quite unique. It looks black at first, but there’s a thread running through it that reflects the light.” He rubbed the material between his fingers.

Chelsea heard someone draw in a deep breath. Raising her eyes, she saw that Pierre, the maître d’, had raised his hand to his chest as if he’d just taken a blow. He was still staring at her with a bemused expression on his face. “Miss, I…”

Just then, she felt Daryl lift her skirt again. Glancing down, she saw that his head had disappeared beneath it.

“Daryl! What are you doing?”

“I have to know what material this is.” Daryl’s voice was muffled. “There has to be a tag somewhere with care instructions.”

“Enemy approaching at one o’clock,” Ramón announced.

Chelsea glanced up to see that Pierre was still staring at her. Beyond him, the scowling man was doing more than stare. He was striding across the bar toward them.

Quickly, she reached out and grabbed her coat from the stool. “Get up, Daryl. I don’t want to get you and Ramón in trouble.”

Daryl pulled his head out from beneath her skirt and made a quick assessment of the situation. “I think I’ll stay right here. It’s harder to hit a man when he’s already on his knees.”

Daryl had it right. The tall stranger certainly looked as if he wanted to hit someone. Quickly, she tried to shrug into her coat.

“Are you crazy?” Daryl said under his breath. “Don’t cover up that skirt.”

“What do you mean?” Chelsea asked.

“Take a look at Pierre. He’s clearly smitten. Let’s hope it works its spell on the white knight who is riding to your rescue.” Picking up the edge of the skirt, Daryl waved it in the approaching stranger’s direction.

“Stop that,” Chelsea hissed.

When Daryl didn’t drop her skirt, the man said, “The lady asked you to stop that.”

2

CHELSEA FELT the soft brush of the skirt against her leg as Daryl released it, but the rest of her attention was totally focused on the man who stood three feet away. Though she was aware of the rugged good looks—the dark hair that grew past his collar and the nearly faded scar on his chin—her eyes never once left his.

They were the dark blue color of sapphires and right now there was a look in them that spelled danger. Beneath the sleek lines of that designer suit, this was a man poised for a fight.

The other men sensed it, too. Daryl shifted on his knees, Ramón swung around the end of the bar and Pierre cleared his throat. “Sir…”

“Come here.”

Chelsea took a step forward, responding to the command in the stranger’s voice before the words even fully registered in her mind. Immediately, a nightmare began to unfold before her. Rising to his feet in one smooth movement, Daryl assumed an attack stance.