If the Red Slipper Fits...

The elevator doors opened. Sarah’s steps stuttered when she saw who was waiting for the car.

Frederick K.

The designer was talking on his phone—barking into it, really—and didn’t even notice her as she passed by him and into the corridor. Not that he ever had. Frederick K was the kind of guy who talked to his people, and told them to talk to all the “other” people. Those who existed beneath his stratosphere.

Had he been here about the shoe? Had Caleb Lewis double-crossed her? After the elevator doors closed behind Frederick K, Sarah breezed straight into Caleb’s office, bypassing his assistant’s desk over the woman’s objections. “Did you sell me out?”

Caleb stared at her. “Sell you out? To whom? For what?”

“I just saw Frederick K leaving here. Did you tell him?”

“About the shoe you lost?” A grin darted across Caleb’s face. “Now, why would I do that?”

“Because that’s the kind of man you are.”

The grin disappeared, replaced by a scowl. “You have me all wrong.”

“I wrote the stories, Mr. Lewis. I did the research. I know you.”

He came around his desk, until mere inches separated them. His woodsy cologne teased at her senses, tempting her to draw closer.

She didn’t.

“You’re wrong, Miss Griffin,” he said, his voice low and quiet. “I’m not the man you have portrayed on your pages.”

His gaze met hers, and her thoughts stammered to a stop. Every time she came into contact with the owner of LL Designs, Sarah forgot her own name, never mind what she was going to say.

He had a way of riveting his attention on her, making her feel like no one else existed in his world at that moment except her. But she knew better—she herself had put together the gossip pages that linked Caleb Lewis to every runway model in a five-mile radius. A smart woman would avoid entangling herself with a man like him. He had heartbreaker written all over his face.

“Why am I here?” she asked. “If this is some kind of ruse—”

“Don’t you want to know where that shoe is?”

Did he have it? Or know something she didn’t? Her heart skipped a beat. She put a smile on her face, hoping diplomacy would bring him over to her side—and get her the information on the stiletto that much faster. “I know my articles on you haven’t been that flattering, and I appreciate you being so understanding about this shoe … fiasco.”

He perched on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms over his chest. “I never said I had it or that I would give it back, just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

Damn. He must have the stiletto. Then why wouldn’t he admit it?

What did he want?

“One shoe doesn’t do you any good, Mr. Lewis. Certainly—”

“Quid pro quo, Miss Griffin. You want something and so do I.”

She glared at him. “If this is some twisted way of propositioning me, I assure you—”

Laughter burst from him. “I assure you, this is not about sex.”

Her ego smarted at the words, and heat climbed her neck. Well, geez. He didn’t have to be so blunt about it.

Why did she care what he thought about her? She had no desire to be part of Caleb Lewis’s model harem. But stills …

It’d be nice to have him notice her. Just for ego’s sake. That was all.

“I want ink,” he said.

“Ink?” She pushed her glasses up on her nose, acutely aware that in her jeans and dark-brown cowl-neck sweater she didn’t exactly scream sex goddess. Surrounded by images of the stunning women who wore LL Designs’ latest creations, she felt out of her element. Particularly with Caleb Lewis zeroing so much of his attention on her. Attention that clearly had nothing to do with sexual desires.

Was that because her brown sweater made her look about as sexy as a loaf of bread? Or simply that Caleb was sticking to business only? Still, his questions, his directness, unnerved her. Sarah was usually the one behind the scenes—not the one in the scene. “Isn’t that what Office Depot is for?”

“I don’t mean printer ink,” Caleb said. “I mean a story. On my company.”

Suspicion rose inside her again. He knew what she’d written—surely he read Behind the Scenes—why would he want her, of all people, to write the story on his company? One that he undoubtedly expected would put a positive spin on the struggling design firm?

“Why me?”

He leaned forward. “Because contrary to some of the … fluff—” In his tone she heard the struggle to use a euphemism for his true feelings about those columns. “—you have published in the past, you are the best writer on staff over there. And though I may have disagreed a time or ten with what you’ve written about me,” at this, a grin whispered across his face, then disappeared so quickly she wasn’t even sure it had been a genuine smile, “I have found your writing to be smart and witty.”

The compliments washed over her, settling into the insecure cracks in her writer persona. She didn’t care if someone was the most successful writer or painter in the world, there was just something about the creative spirit that was more vulnerable than that of, say, an accountant. She’d obsessed about every story she’d ever written, always sure her editor was going to kick it back with a big red REJECTED stamp across the top.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Miss Griffin. There’s an addendum to this offer.”

“Mr. Lewis—”

“Call me Caleb, please.” That grin danced across his features again, and Sarah’s stomach did a little flip-flop. “I feel like my grandfather when you say that.”

“Caleb.” His name slid off her tongue. Too easily. “The editorial calendar is set months in advance and I can’t—”

He pushed off from the desk and closed the gap between them. He was so close, she could see that his eyes—which she’d always thought were just blue—were a tempting combination of blue-gray, like the sky just after a storm cleared. She didn’t recognize his cologne, but resisted the urge to inhale the deep, musky notes. “If you wanted to badly enough, you could.”

Could what? Kiss him? Because some insane part of her wanted to do that. Pretty darn badly. Especially the way he looked today—in a white button-down shirt open at the collar, the crimson tie tugged down just enough to expose a tempting V of his neck. He’d taken off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of his chair. The simple deletion had transformed him, and the relaxed, almost cavalier tone to his attire made her want to see what would happen if she unknotted that tie, then slipped each one of those tiny white buttons out of their holes and—

She cleared her throat and moved back. “No can do. I’m sorry.”

Really sorry. She’d have done about anything to see him grin again. No wonder the models gushed about him as though he was a movie star. He had the kind of charm that tempted a woman to drop her guard, expose a chink in the walls around her heart, and go after him with wild abandon. She’d watched him from afar a thousand times, but up close—

Up close, he exerted a raw sexuality that said he would be very, very good in bed. Oh, boy.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, “but I’m not willing to compromise my ethics and just write some pretty little ego-stroking piece about you to counteract any bad press you may have received.”

He scowled. “This isn’t about me.”

“Then what is it about?”

“The company. I want a story written on LL Designs. Showcasing the company in a way your publication hasn’t done for years. I promise, it’ll be a great exclusive.”