Primal Instincts

She shouldn’t have looked.

She was going to be sick.

Two Weeks Later

“YOU LOOK LIKE HELL,” Miriam said.

Ian Cole slumped into the burgundy leather chair in front of his editor’s glass-and-chrome desk, ready for his latest assignment.

“That’s a bit harsh,” he told his sister.

“It’s true. Have you seen yourself in the mirror?”

Maybe she had a point. He certainly felt like hell, and he probably looked it, too. Yeah, well, what else was new? “I’ve just spent three weeks tracking drug runners. You’re lucky I caught a shower before catching the redeye back to the States.”

“Maybe you should try catching a shave and a haircut. And three days worth of sleep.”

“The boys gave me a good send-off before I broke for the airport. A little R & R,” he said, rubbing his temples, and trying to remember just what they’d done.

Maybe too good a send-off.

Miriam’s lips thinned. “I’m not sure the parties those guys cook up could be cataloged as either rest or relaxation. They’re certainly not good for you.”

“We were all of legal age, and you didn’t have to bail me out of jail, so I’m calling it good,” he said, blinking against the light beaming through her large office window overlooking Manhattan.

Miriam shuddered, as she walked toward the window to close the blinds. “Thanks for the reminder. You should have heard me explaining to our accountant that bail money was a legitimate tax expense.”

“You’re lucky you got to bail me out. There are quite a few pissed-off officials who’d just as soon kill me as have me share the luxury of their penal system. There’ll be no welcome mat for me in Mexico.”

“True,” his sister said, reaching for the wand on the blinds.

“Come to think of it, there’ll be no welcome mat for you, either.”

Miriam turned on her heel and glared at him. “You’re right, and I have a time share in Mazatlan I’ll never see again. I left my skinny swimsuit there, so screw your hangover. It’s your own darn fault you’re in this condition, so you can live with the sunlight. I like my view and I like my rays.”

Ian looked around the office. “You worked hard enough to get here.”

“Damn straight,” she said, her angry attitude vanishing. He knew his big sister could never stay mad at him for long.

Kicking off her pointy black power heels, she rounded the corner of her desk. She tossed a manila folder on her brother’s lap. “I have a new assignment for you. In fact, I think you’ll like it. You’ve talked in the past about doing more feature writing, less fieldwork. I have a book for you to look over.”

It physically hurt to make the face that expressed how he felt inside.

“You’re going to tell me you’re the only reporter who’s never secretly longed to write their own book?” she asked.

“A book is a long way from a feature spread in a magazine.”

“Think of it as one hundred features strung together. I need this to work. Cole Publishing has just acquired the rights to an exciting new concept book,” she told him as she reached for her ever-present bottle of water.

Ian sat up in his chair. “Ah, the side trip to Oklahoma. I see it went down smoothly.”

Miriam coughed on her water.

Expanding into books had been a dream of their father’s, which he’d inherited from their grandfather, who’d founded Cole Publishing. They’d spun off a few books from their newsmagazine to other publishers in the past, but the dream of becoming a major player had eluded their father. Since Miriam had taken the reins, his big sister had streamlined production, lowered costs and developed a nice, healthy bottom line.

Looked like Miriam thought the time to revisit the dream was now.

Apparently she planned to drag him along, too.

“And you want me to do the writing? Isn’t that backwards? Aren’t authors supposed to bring the completed manuscript to us?”

His sister straightened in the large executive leather chair. It had been their father’s. That and the two leather seats in front of the desk were the only things she’d kept. The rest of the office had her stamp: rounded corners, sunburst motif—art deco all the way. “She’s an academic, a doctor of anthropology as a matter of fact. Her writing is somehow, well, awkward.”

How like his sister. She was tough as nails, battled reporters, distributors and every yahoo who didn’t think she could run a company with the big boys. She was all business. But when it came to talent, she never liked to criticize anyone.

Years ago, Ian had found his sister’s weak spot; she feared an utter lack of talent in herself. Artistically speaking. And to be honest, her fears were quite well-founded. She couldn’t sing, dance, paint and her writing was terrible. Even her carefully worded memos to staff needed a good editor. So unlike their graceful and talented mother. So unlike him, minus the graceful.

Well, he liked to think he exuded grace in one area. In bed. No complaints there.

His sister called the doc’s writing awkward. That must mean it read like an academic snooze fest.

“Why me?” he asked.

Miriam didn’t meet his gaze. “Because you’re my best reporter and photographer.”

Ian dropped his elbows to his knees and leaned forward. “Reporter being the operative word there. Why would you want me to help write it?”

“You can work magic with words. And this project definitely needs some sparkle.”

“Don’t say sparkle around any of the guys. So what’s the story about?”

“I haven’t settled on a title yet, but she’s calling it Recipe for Sex.” Miriam’s brown gaze dropped from his.

Ian snorted. “Just to ensure I’ll never be taken seriously in the world of journalism again?”

His sister shook her head, her dark hair not budging from the neat knot on top of her head. “You’re a crime and war reporter. You’re jaded. It’s time to do a little something different.”

Yes, and here it came. The big lecture on his lifestyle. He’d walk if she called him a danger junkie. But his sister was a businesswoman, and he knew how to fight dirty. He’d attack her bottom line.

He settled back against the leather chair. “Jaded appears to be selling. Readership’s up twenty-five percent.”

“And my migraines are up forty-five percent. One hundred percent because of you.”

She couldn’t be serious about yanking him. Hot stuff was brewing in South America. He itched to cover it. “What is it you’re saying?”

“I’m saying you’ve become a pain in the ass. After your last series of escapades, I need to keep an eye on you.”

Ian gritted his teeth. “You may be my big sister, but I’m plenty capable of taking care of myself.”