More Naughty Than Nice

“I think that is possibly the wor—”

“She’d love to,” Anna cut in. “Fabulous idea.”

“Anna!”

“It’s great, Owen. Just give me a call and I’ll set you up with her schedule for the next week or so. Anything you want, you have access.”

And then the traitorous Anna stepped in front of Stevie, slipped him a business card, told him what hotel they were at, gave him her cell phone number and ushered him away, before Stevie could get in there and object.

More interviews with this guy? Following her around on a typical day? Breathing on her, touching her, pretending he was moving in for a kiss and then not?

“Not bloody likely,” she said under her breath.

No way in hell she was getting anywhere near Owen Dasher ever again.

3

Bliss at the Bookstore

By Owen Dasher, Chronicle Columnist

When I went to see Stevie Bliss, the newest self-help maven, invade Chicago earlier this week, I expected Round Billion-and-one in the War of the Sexes. You know, men/bad, women/good, yadda, yadda, yadda.

Turns out Ms. Bliss is more into the Game of the Sexes. And when she puts up a pass, you can bet there will be a receiver. Lots of them. You see, that’s a potent part of her offense. She looks for multiple receivers. To quote from her book, Blissfully Single, “Why limit yourself to one man? You’re more likely to win if you play the field.”

Good strategy, huh? Oh, and she knows how to kick the extra point, too. Right through the uprights.

Stevie Bliss 7, Chicago 0.

Who knew bookstores could be so much fun? Stevie Bliss, apparently. She’s packed humor, moxie and a whole lot of steam into Blissfully Single, so it’s no surprise she’s a powerful package in person. As her assistant puts it, “Stevie bites.” Ouch.

If I doubted that before I saw her in action, I didn’t after. Sure, she had some guys from the Swingin’ He-Men Club stop by to give her a hard time. And the Righteous Moms Brigade, too.

But Ms. Bliss gave ’em all the old heave-ho, knocking out the competition with a few well-timed put-downs and an impressive display of pseudo S&M costuming. All this Leather Lady needs is a whip to really knock the crowd senseless.

Stevie Bliss 14, Chicago 0.

She says she’s not anti-men or anti-marriage.

If that’s what she wants me to believe, I’m not going to fight her on it. She might sizzle me with her dazzling blue eyes. She might walk on me with her spike heels. She might bring out the whip and make me beg for mercy. I’m only a guy, after all. I don’t stand a chance….

“HEY, DASHER, nice column.”

Startled, he glanced up from his computer screen. He’d thought he was alone in the newsroom. “I just sent it, T.J. You read it already? What are you doing here, anyway?”

T.J. was an intern who floated from department to department to fill a hole here or there. The staff reporters had figured out that she was very good at research and background material, and they kept her pretty busy doing grunt work they didn’t want to. “I’m bored. I’m gonna be here late,” she explained, ruffling her cropped orange hair with one hand. “I’m doing a round-up tonight for Sports. Lots of turkey tourneys.”

“So you were just sitting there waiting for me to press Send, huh?”

“We’re the only ones here. And I always like your stuff.” She shrugged. “But I gotta tell you, I was expecting something different.”

“Oh, yeah. Why?”

“When Mike or somebody said you were off to see Stevie Bliss at a bookstore, I thought, whoa, this is going to be good. But you weren’t as snarky as I thought you’d be.” She grinned. “You liked her, didn’t you?”

“Uh, no.”

“You did so,” she teased. “Poor Dasher. Begging for mercy. Who ever thought we’d see Dasher goin’ for the nasty girl? But he is totally smitten.”

“I’m not smitten. I was making fun of her and the crowd’s reaction to her.” Owen concentrated on his computer screen. Surely there was something he needed to edit. “And she wasn’t that nasty.”

“Sure she was. I mean, she is.” T.J. scooted around behind his desk, as if she planned to read over his shoulder. “It’s not like it’s a bad thing. Nasty girls are totally cool. Like Buffy, you know. Or Charlie’s Angels.”

“Isn’t there something else you should be doing?”

“Nope. Just waiting for the Sports phone to ring.”

“Okay. Well, you can wait back in Sports.”

But she stayed where she was, continuing to scrutinize him.

Finally, he asked, “Is there something else?”

“Just curious. ’Cause I’ve read the book. Blissfully Single, I mean.” She scooted closer. “After reading the book and then waiting to see what you said about her, I thought for sure you’d toast her.”

Yeah, well, that was what he’d thought, too.

“You always flame the pop-culture dudes, y’know? So, good for you, for letting one slide.”

He still wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing. But there was something about Stevie Bliss… Something that had more to do with her brain than her ridiculously short skirt or her plunging neckline. Or even that wicked little moan she’d made when his thumb brushed the soft skin of her thigh. If he were a betting man, he’d lay odds she didn’t even know she’d made that noise.

And that was what made it interesting. Everything else about her was so conscious, so planned. Except that noise. Now that was spontaneous.

He wasn’t sorry he’d danced on the edge of impropriety to get her to make that tiny whimper, either. He’d been replaying it on his tape for hours.

Yet there was definitely more to his interest in her than an impromptu moan. It was the potent combination of brains and body, and the curious mix of audacity and innocence. Innocence? He must be mistaken. There was nothing innocent about Stevie Bliss, the leather-clad siren who strode into a room like she owned it, who slept with anyone who took her fancy, who had professional athletes for breakfast and politicians for lunch.

But the expression in her eyes when he touched her, and that amazing little noise…

She was a mystery, that was for sure.

“So, Dasher?” T.J. asked, interrupting his thoughts. “Why did you give her a bye? If you’re not hot for her bod, I mean?”

Not hot for her bod? He was plenty hot. Maybe not admitting he was hot for her bod was more accurate. Or not sharing that fact with T.J., at any rate.

“Some of what she said made sense,” he grumbled. “And I liked how she handled herself on her feet.” He pushed back in his chair, eying the intern. “So you read the book? Did you buy into what she was saying, about playing the field and not getting tied down?”

“Sure. Well, not totally. I’m in no hurry to get married, that’s for sure.” T.J. plunked herself down in a nearby chair and gave herself a spin. “I think the one-month rule—you know, where your boyfriend automatically expires after a month, kind of like old milk?—that strikes me as cold. But it’s a sharp idea if a few high schoolers look at their prom dates and go, hey, maybe I should go to college instead of getting married to this dweeb. Or even more so, chicks hitting twenty-five and getting all weird about not having a ring. Like the ones on… What was that terrible show, with all the women trying to get that one lame dude to marry them?”