Nic Tatano - Boss Girl

Nic Tatano

A division of HarperCollins Publishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Nic Tatano Nic Tatano I've always been a writer of some sort, having spent my career working as a reporter, anchor or producer in television news. Fiction is a lot more fun, since you don't have to deal with those pesky things known as facts. I grew up in the New York City metropolitan area and now live on the Gulf Coast where I will never shovel snow again. I'm happily married to a math teacher and we share our wonderful home with our tortoiseshell tabby cat, Gypsy.

Dedication For Myra, my love and source of inspiration.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

It Girl

About HarperImpulse

Copyright

About the Publisher

I've always been a writer of some sort, having spent my career working as a reporter, anchor or producer in television news. Fiction is a lot more fun, since you don't have to deal with those pesky things known as facts. I grew up in the New York City metropolitan area and now live on the Gulf Coast where I will never shovel snow again. I'm happily married to a math teacher and we share our wonderful home with our tortoiseshell tabby cat, Gypsy.

For Myra, my love and source of inspiration.

I used to think I was Eve in a previous life. But then again, if that were true, I would have made the serpent eat the apple.

Doesn't really matter. These days, no Adam stands a chance against me.

Because I'm the new keeper of the Garden of Eden. Right now it's known as a television news network. I, Sydney Hack, a/k/a Neutron Syd , (Okay, okay, so I've fired a few people) have been running it for a year and a half.

I'm the Boss Girl.

And the ratings have not budged one inch with news anchored by the pageant fembots (those beauty queen androids.) If they don't move in six months, I'm out of a job.

That scraping sound you hear? Someone upstairs sharpening the guillotine.

Sydney Hack, white courtesy phone, please. Your career is calling.

Time for a pre-emptive strike.

So I'm changing the rules tonight. I'm going to start giving our target demographic, women over thirty, what they really want.

And what they want on their "to-do" list is on his way from the front door. He struts, as if in slow motion, a chiseled six-foot-two trophy buck with tousled black hair and a chin that could carve granite. I cross my legs and playfully rock a Kelly green four-inch heel on my toe and smile, calling my dimples and high cheekbones into service as he makes his way through the crowded, dimly-lit restaurant. The brass rails and colorful Tiffany lamps are suddenly painted in sepia tones as his powder blue eyes stand out like they were surrounded by black velvet. His five o'clock shadow is a light brushstroke of virility.

Members of my target demographic drool, posture dramatically improves as c-cups raise their hands for attention, and forks are suspended in mid-air over crème brûlée as he passes.

I can see it in their eyes as they note my bar stool is his destination.

He's ten years younger than her.

Why not me?

And I know he's the key to the ratings.

Damn, it's so simple. Robbing the cradle. Age inappropriate. Cougar newscast. Or call it whatever. Older woman, younger man.

I shove my long copper tangles back behind one ear, widen the eyes that have been dipped in the Caribbean (thanks to the kind folks at Eye-World, with several convenient locations to serve you) and stand to greet him, my heels taking my five-ten slender frame up to his level. I'm the long-stemmed Red Queen of the Garden.

Scott Harry extended his hand. "Good to see you again, Ms. Hack." His deep, smooth voice flowed, the edges of the words smoothed over as they segued into one another.

"Sydney, please," I said, sliding back onto the stool. "Our table won't be ready for a half-hour. Would you like a drink?"

"Never drink on a job interview," he said, smiling, dimples to match mine, then hopping up onto a bar stool. He leaned toward me, and the faint scent of his Polo cologne followed.

"The interview was this afternoon," I said. "This is the negotiation."

He tried to hold back a smile, but couldn't. The twenty-nine-year-old Ken-Doll didn't have a poker face. "So, you're making me an offer?"

"Well, I'm still considering two other candidates." I paused, watched the color drain from his face as if I had pulled a plug.

Gotcha.

I ran my eyes up and down his body. "But I like what I see." I turned my attention to my glass of bourbon and took a sip. "Your agent tells me you've been looking for an anchor gig for a while."

"The job market's tough."

"Well, to be brutally honest, your reporting skills aren't the best."

His head dropped.

Okay, he's ready to swallow the hook.

"But you're a decent enough anchor for our purposes." The head raised up, a hint of hope crept back into those powder blues. I downed the rest of the drink in one gulp and checked my watch. "Tell you what, Scott. I don't feel like waiting here thirty minutes for dinner, and the service is slow anyway. I'm thinking room service."

He furrowed his brow. "Huh?"

I reached into my beaded bag, pulled out a Montblanc pen, and grabbed a cocktail napkin from the stack on the bar. "Tell you what, if you want to continue our negotiations, here's my room number at The Plaza." I wrote 1634 on the napkin and slid it over to him. "If not, well, I'm sure you'll have a nice career in Indianapolis."

His face remained a twisted puzzle. "Ms. Hack… are you—"

Geez, the man needs a road map.

But, if the other head works and he can read a teleprompter, I'm good to go.

I slid my toe inside one cuff of his slacks, gently running it up his shin. "If you want the job, just bring yourself to my room. I need to check your… references."

I hopped off the barstool, smoothed my short green halter dress and headed out, zigzagging through the tables.

Watching my target demographic look at me like I was nuts.

I had them.

And I was pretty sure I had him.

Two hours later, his references checked out.

* * *

As an attractive 38-year-old woman, I didn't need focus groups or expensive research to know what women want in a newscast.

They sure as hell don't want a blonde pageant fembot who is prettier than they are.

And they don't want to feel past their prime.

So here's a newsflash for the next generation. I'm giving them news delivered by a woman who is one of them. Middle-aged, smart, experienced, attractive.

And for dessert on this news buffet, male eye candy.

But not just any confection. They want a late twenty-something with a body so hard you could give him an hour-long massage and a bottle of wine and still bounce quarters off his ass. A guy with a chiseled face and a smile that can melt a heart. Eyes that can look through the camera and caress a soul. Buffed shoulders that could easily carry you into the bedroom.