Shirley Jump - If the Red Slipper Fits...

What were the chances? And surely, he would have told her right away, wouldn’t he? Then again, given their history, the chances were slim he’d tell her anything. There were a lot of navy-blue-suit-wearing men out there.

But not very many interested in a Frederick K stiletto.

“What do you mean, if I want to find that shoe?” she asked.

He danced his fingers on the arm of his chair, that damnable grin lighting up his features. It was the kind of smile that said I know something you don’t. “I might know where it is.”

Relief exploded inside her, quickly chased by the sobering reality that this was Caleb Lewis she was talking to. The man hated her guts. His vague comments about the shoe’s whereabouts could all be a trick. A way to get back at her for all those columns. “You have to return the shoe. It’s private property.”

That smile flitted across his face again, too fast to read its meaning. The tempting aroma of chocolate wafted up from the basket to greet Sarah, as if saying, trust him. He’s okay. He came with chocolate.

“Is there a reward involved?” Caleb asked.

“Mr. Lewis, if you have that shoe—”

“Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. Either way, I’m not admitting anything, because Lord knows you’re very good at declaring me guilty before you’ve looked at all the facts.” He draped an arm over the back of the chair, as easy with being there as if he were in his own office. “Why don’t you meet me over at my office at say, two o’clock, and we can discuss an … arrangement of sorts.”

One more smile—the same smile that had undoubtedly charmed half the female population of New York City—and then he left. Leaving Sarah in a position she hadn’t been in before with Caleb Lewis.

Out of control.

Caleb should have been glad that of all people, the reporter who had been his nemesis had been the one to lose the Frederick K. He could call it karmic payback for writing all those stories about his personal life.

Sarah Griffin had created an image of him—one nearly everyone believed—as a womanizing, shallow man. One more concerned about the blonde on his arm than the bottom line.

She didn’t know the truth—no one did—about why he filled his nights with the mindless world of nightclubs. Why he chose to forget his mistakes by spinning through relationships like an errant top.

When he’d walked into the magazine’s offices earlier today, he’d had no intention of talking to any of the reporters who worked for the tabloid side of the magazine. Especially not Sarah Griffin. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her—he barely knew her—or find her attractive—because she was beautiful, quite so—it was more that he wanted to avoid the person who had painted him with a one-dimensional brush.

He had seen Sarah Griffin dozens of times, in the background of the clubs he frequented, the restaurants where he dined. She avoided the spotlight that shone on him, never taking off the reporter hat to have a drink or take a spin on the dance floor. That didn’t stop him from noticing the quiet, observant woman in his periphery. Her wide green eyes took in everything he did and said, then her poisoned pen pasted all that information on the next issue’s pages. He often wondered how she was judging him—though all he had to do was open the latest issue to find out.

If it were any other day—and any other circumstances—he would have been intrigued by a woman like Sarah. Her slender frame held the kind of curves that said she enjoyed food and didn’t spend her days subsisting on diet soda and cigarettes. Her brown hair hung in a long, sleek curtain down her back, with a couple of loose tendrils curling around the edges of the bronze-rimmed frames of her glasses. She had an understated beauty about her, one not augmented by the artifice of overdone makeup and overbright hair dye. She was very much a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of woman.

For Caleb, who had met far too many of the illusion-is-my-middle-name kind of women, Sarah’s fresh-faced looks were refreshing. Intriguing.

Except for the fact that she’d written half the stories that lambasted him and painted him as a carousing devil—she could be the kind of woman he’d date. Still, hadn’t he learned from watching his mother’s own heartbreak that a reporter could turn on a subject in an instant, all in the quest for that immortal headline?

But, as he had crossed the room full of the writers’ cubicles, he’d realized bringing Sarah Griffin around to his side could serve him in more than one way. If he could convince her to do a story on LL Designs, maybe she’d see another side of him and of the company. And in the process, he hoped he could convince her to stop trotting his personal life through the “Seen and Heard” pages of the magazine.

What was that old saying? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer? Over the years, Sarah Griffin had definitely become an enemy of sorts. Keeping her close seemed like a good idea. Despite the trash she was in charge of penning, he had to admit—grudgingly—that she was the best writer at the publication. Whether he agreed with them or not, her stories were witty, punchy and memorable. Exactly the kind of piece he needed for LL Designs.

Then he’d seen the poster for the missing shoe.

Jackpot.

With the shoe as leverage, he could surely get Sarah’s attention, be able to work out some kind of deal, encouraging her to be more amenable to writing a favorable-to-the-company article. Maybe convince her he wasn’t the bad boy she thought he was and see how writing an in-depth story on LL Designs’ new season could benefit them both.

Who better to understand and appreciate his launching of a shoe line than the woman who was in possession of the debut pair of Frederick Ks? At the same time, it hadn’t taken him long to realize working with her meant bringing her into the office—and risking that she would see the missing Frederick K on his desk. He could just see the headline now: Desperate Business Owner Swipes competitor’s Newest Design.

Yeah, not the kind of press Caleb was looking for.

Still, it was a chance he was willing to take. He had a feeling this could be a very beneficial arrangement for his business.

He reached up, grabbed the shoe and shoved it into one of the drawers of his desk. He would tell her he had the stiletto—but after he had a chance to explain what had happened, and make Sarah Griffin see he wasn’t as bad as her headlines painted him.

The numbers on his office clock had just flipped to 2:00 p.m. when Martha buzzed Caleb. “You have a visitor,” she said.

Caleb chuckled. Right on time. He wasn’t surprised. Sarah Griffin was probably completely freaked out about the missing stiletto. Losing something like that—particularly when the issue’s deadline was right around the corner—had to have her stomach in knots. And to lose one of the ultra-secret Frederick Ks? If her job wasn’t already on the line, it would be soon.

And that gave Caleb leverage. “Send her right in,” he said.

“Uh, it’s not a her.”

Not a her? Had Sarah Griffin sent someone else in her stead? Or had she decided he was bluffing about the shoe and just blown him off?

His door opened and a heavyset man in a bright blue suit stepped inside. He stood about six feet tall and half that in width, with a shock of short white hair that stood out in a cloud-shaped halo around his head. Beneath the suit he wore a red-and-white striped button-down shirt, complete with a matching pocket square. There was nothing about the man that said simple, understated or pay-me-no-mind. Not his clothing, not his mannerisms and definitely not his infamous booming voice. “Hello, Caleb.”