LITMIR.BIZ

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age. He was only thirty-five, but lately, that felt old.

      He needed a drink, so he angled off to the bar for a quick Scotch to ease the tension of the day.

      He sat at the end of the bar, where he could check out the clientele—an old reporter habit—and ordered a Scotch rocks.

      The place was busy with conventioneers—identifiable by their plastic name badges—and locals from nearby offices, wearing business clothes, drawn by the happy-hour prices, no doubt. There were a few unattached women, he noticed—a cluster near the bar and a few in booths.

      One woman in particular caught his eye. Dressed to kill in a clingy blue dress, she moved toward the restroom alcove with a determined stride, but wobbled in her heels, like a kid wearing her mother’s pumps. Driven, but shaky. Hmm.

      Great curves, firm-looking breasts, her hair swept up in a style that invited a man’s hands, but as she passed, he saw it was held in place by a barrette in the shape of a cartoon kitty.

      A hot babe with a child’s heart? Interesting contradiction. And a great ass, he saw, as she disappeared from view.

      He turned his attention to a guy flirting sheepishly with three women at a booth. He was either married or their boss. Rafe would love to get close enough to eavesdrop and verify his hunch. He smiled at himself. More knee-jerk reporter stuff. He was obviously bored.

      He took a drink, welcoming the smoky burn. He liked travel, liked visiting the other MM properties, liked making his mark on the magazines they snapped up. But the rest of his job was getting predictable and he was tired of charity events, stakeholder meetings and advertising revenue reports.

      Strangely enough, he found he missed journalism. He’d been thinking a lot about his days at the Miami Tribune, where he’d been the lead reporter on an investigative project about funeral companies. He’d dug through piles of records, coaxed reluctant bureaucrats to spill, uncovered the kernel of the crime and then helped write the series that sparked an over-haul of the industry, new legislation and a Pulitzer nomination.

      The work had been rewarding, but at the time, he hadn’t realized how much it meant to him. He’d been a restless guy in his twenties. A couple of feature assignments further raised his profile, and he’d gotten an offer at Man’s Man as a feature writer. The money was great and he liked the Bay area. Before long, he’d moved into editing, a new challenge, and then into management as a vice president.

      Where he now felt stuck. He’d made his choices, though. The publisher counted on him. Maybe he was just going through a restless period that would pass.

      He’d spend one more day in Phoenix, during which he’d go over details with Will and talk to the last writer—E.M. Samuels, the entertainment columnist, who was coming to the magazine offices for her check and mail.

      He wasn’t looking forward to the meeting. The woman’s work epitomized what was wrong with the pub. She reported on food, wine and clubs with a sort of Town and Country flavor that was passé for the target demographic—and the times. Connell, who seemed protective of her, wanted to keep her on as a feature writer because she had a flair for words and lots of talent. Rafe was willing to offer her that option, but she would have to leave the column behind.

      If only she wouldn’t cry. Her genteel writing made her seem the type who might. He hated making women cry. Which was why he steered clear of any female who even hinted at getting serious.

      Actually, he’d steered clear of all women lately. He took another swallow of Scotch, not allowing himself to think about what that meant, focusing instead on the changes at Phoenix Rising.

      Until Will could find someone with the right spice to take Em Samuels’s place, Rafe would have the “Man’s Man Gets Some” columnist, Zack Walker, do a few guest pieces.

      In two days, he’d be back in the home office in San Francisco. Just in time for a big shareholders’ meeting, followed by a charity golf tournament and a week of work on a strategic business plan. Truly tedious and deadly dull.

      Unlike the woman with the kitty-cat barrette, who’d emerged from the bathroom. She caught his gaze, smiled a smile that lit her eyes, then flew past, as if afraid he might speak to her.

      He felt the urge to do that—just to get the scoop on that barrette—but she lighted at a table with a morose guy. No doubt the boyfriend, though how he could look so glum with a dish like her in his grasp was a mystery to Rafe.

      She said something to the guy, who answered, then grinned, stood and hurried away. Had she sent him on an errand? She smiled him off, then her shoulders slumped. She’d been faking her cheer?

      She got up from the booth, seemed to hesitate, then moved toward the rest rooms again. She didn’t even glance at Rafe this time—too busy fishing a phone out of her handbag. He shifted so he could watch her—and listen.

      “Sara?” she said, standing in the alcove, one hand over her ear. “Except for the drinks, this was a complete bust…. What?… I did meet a guy. Yes. Except it turns out he just had a fight with his girlfriend…. Yeah. See what I mean? It’s hopeless… What do you think? Of course I helped him. Plus, I suggested a gift. Roses are on sale at that shop on Central, and if he puts them in a vase from the final clearance table at Osco’s, he’ll have a sixty-dollar gift for less than thirty…. What?… I was not sabotaging myself. The point is that I cannot do this…. I do too want to get laid!”

      She covered her mouth, chagrined, and looked up—not in Rafe’s direction, thankfully, because she’d have seen him practically choke on his drink in reaction to her words.

      Had her friend dared her to pick up a guy? And she’d zeroed in on a loser on the rebound? He shook his head, amused, and listened harder.

      “I’m not the kind of woman men pick up,” she continued. “I’m the kind they ask for advice about their girlfriends. I’m going home. What else can I do?… I know…. I know what I said. Yes, I know it will be good for me.” She chewed her lip, listened to her friend. “Okay, okay. I’ll try one more guy.”

      She hung up and walked slowly down the length of the bar toward her booth.

      One more guy, huh? To have sex with? Hmm. Could it be him? The possibility gave Rafe a charge he hadn’t felt in a long time. The woman had a girl-next-door freshness with an undercurrent of hot babe he wouldn’t mind tapping into.

      How to approach her? He noticed that a ballpoint pen lay on the floor beside her table. It was a place to start. He eased off the bar stool and headed her way. He’d get the story on that barrette, one way or another. And maybe a whole lot more.

      “IS THIS YOURS?” THE HUNK who had smiled at Beth on her way back from the rest room extended a pen in her direction.

      “Uh, no. Not mine. Maybe the waitress’s?” She pointed to where the woman stood.

      He smiled down at her, confident and handsome, his eyes a fierce blue. “Mind if I wait for her?” He seemed to be teasing her.

      With a jolt, she realized the pen and the waitress had been a conversational ploy. He wanted to join her. “Oh. Sure. Have a seat.” What luck.

      He sat and reached to shake her hand. “I’m AJ.”

      “Beth.” His grip was firm but not overwhelming, and his hand was extremely warm. That was the reason Sara’d had sex with Rick—high body temperature. So insane. But it’s just sex, Sara would say, not the meaning of life.

      Beth watched as her new companion sized her up in a masculine way. Unsettling, but pleasant. Flattering, really.

      There was an edge to his face—he had a square jaw, a straight, strong nose and an intense, almost hard expression—but his broad mouth, easy with a smile, softened the effect.

      His most dramatic features were his eyes—blue and sharp-edged as shattered glass, but there was humor and intelligence in their depths and wry crinkles at the edges.

      Just as the mutual appraisal

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