Shirley Jump - If the Red Slipper Fits...

“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.”

For a second, she thought of another kind of exclusive—the kind where Caleb Lewis paid attention to her and no one else. The kind where she spent her evenings with him parked in front of a roaring fire, exploring every delicious inch of his tall, broad frame. And him doing the same to her, over and over again.

Get a grip, Sarah. The last thing you need is a relationship with a man like him.

And the last person a man like him would go for was someone like her. She wasn’t leggy or glamorous. She was … just Sarah. Nothing wrong with that, but nothing spectacular about it, either.

“I don’t know,” she said. “How do I know you’ll make this story worth my while?”

“I have something you need.” He paused. “The missing Frederick K stiletto.”

The shoe. He did have it.

All the years she’d worked at Behind the Scenes, Sarah had done her job—and done it well—and figured a promotion to the inside pages, to the real meat and potatoes of Smart Fashion,

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