The Sexiest Man Alive (The Romanos 1)

“Would you please phone the first restaurant on the list and make reservations for—is eight o’clock a good time for you, Susannah?”

“Is eight o’clock…” Susannah’s smile turned to a look of horror. “You mean—you mean, you want me to go to dinner with you?”

“Certainly.” His expression was polite and very proper. “You promised our readers you’d choose the winning restaurant yourself.”

“I know I did, but…”

But what? Susannah was trapped, and by her own pledge.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SUSANNAH stood before the open door of her bedroom closet in her robe and counted to ten.

Ten didn’t do it.

Twenty wouldn’t, either.

Nothing, nothing would take the edge off her anger except a headline in the paper that said Matthew Romano had moved his business interests to Mars.

Oh, damn.

She groaned and flung herself on the bed. It was seven o’clock. She had half an hour to choose something to wear, fix her hair, put on her makeup. Half an hour before she had to carry out her sentence and have dinner with that obnoxious man.

“The nerve of the man, Peter,” she said, “the nerve!”

“Mrrow.” Peter leaped onto the bed and settled happily on her chest, paws kneading her terry-cloth robe in contentment.

Susannah sighed and stroked his silken fur.

“You cannot imagine how horrible he is, Petey. And how self-centered. Why, compared to Matthew Romano, you’re the essence of humility.”

“Mrrow?” Peter asked, and butted his head against Susannah’s jaw.

“I know, I know, it seems impossible, but it’s the truth. Actually, I’m amazed the city’s big enough to hold him and his ego.” An image of Matthew carting a blob-shaped ego flashed through her head, and she giggled. “Oh, how I’d love to tell him that. How I’d love to tell him to take his attitude and his magazine and tuck them both up his…”

The doorbell buzzed.

“Bankroll,” she said, and sat up.

It was only ten minutes past the hour. Susannah’s stomach clenched. Surely, Matthew wouldn’t have arrived so early?

But he had. A glance through the peephole confirmed it.

She swung around and pressed her back to the door.

He couldn’t come in. She’d specifically, explicitly told him she’d meet him downstairs, in the lobby. Actually, she’d told him she’d meet him at eight o’clock at Aunt Sally’s, the first restaurant on the list.

“A Romantic Evening,” he’d said, in that smarmy tone she hated, and in a way that made her see the capital letters that began both words, “does not begin with a man and woman arriving separately at their destination.”

“We are not a man and woman,” she’d said, “we are an editor and her publisher.”

Matthew and everyone within hearing had laughed gaily, as if she’d made a charming joke, and then Matthew had said, most politely, that he’d be at her door at seven-thirty, and she’d said no, she’d meet him in the lobby.

The doorbell buzzed again. “Susannah?”

A muscle ticked in her jaw. Perhaps it was time to learn to count to ten in Urdu, she thought, and she turned, undid the locks and flung open the door.

“You’re not supposed to be here yet, Mr. Romano.”

Matthew grinned. “And good evening to you, too, Miss Madison.”

“I said I’d meet you in the lobby. And you said you’d come by at—”

The tirade caught in her throat.

What a gorgeous sight he was. Aunt Sally’s was very casual—the recommendations had all emphasized that—and casual was the way Matthew was dressed. He was standing in the doorway, smiling, wearing what looked like well-used hiking boots, faded jeans, a deep blue sweater and a leather jacket that looked as if its patina of age really came from hard use.

So what? Susannah thought, gathering her wits together. The only hard use the jacket would have seen would have been in its manufacture. Ditto for the boots. As for the man’s good looks, there was no reason to gawk. His looks had never been in question. He was handsome, she was willing to admit that—assuming you liked the type.

“At seven-thirty,” she said briskly. “And it’s barely—”

“Seven-fifteen. I know. But the guy delivered my car earlier than I expected, and I couldn’t see much sense in having the doorman park it for twenty minutes, so I drove over and there was a space right downstairs.”

“Your car?” she asked blankly.

“Yeah I rented one. I know everybody jokes about New York being the last place on earth to own an automobile, but heck, I’m a California product. A car’s a part of life.” He sighed at the look on her face. “Okay. I’m early, and I apologize. I’ll sit down on that couch and I promise you won’t even know I’m here.”

An apology was more than she’d expected. “Well, all right. Come in. I’ll make you some coffee and you can drink it while I get—”

Dressed, she’d almost said. Such a simple word, but it made her suddenly aware of how she must look, in her old robe, her bare toes peeking out from under the hem.

Aware of how simple it would be to go to him, put her arms around his neck, lift her mouth to his for his kiss.

“On second thought,” she said, “I’m all out of coffee.”

Matthew nodded. “No problem. I was only joking. You just go ahead, forget I’m here and get—”

Dressed.

That was the word. He knew she hadn’t been able to say it, and damned if he could, either. Beneath the word, the truth lay shimmering like starlight on a field of snow. He didn’t want Susannah dressed. He wanted her undressed, naked, in his arms. And despite all her indignation, all her protests, he knew it was what she wanted, too.

What would happen if he put an end to the lies? If he took her in his arms and kissed her? Opened the sash of that foolishly girlish robe, drew it away from her shoulders, buried his face in her throat and kissed his way down to her breasts?

Oh, hell.

He turned his back, put his hands into his pockets and marched to the window where he admired a truly spectacular view of a line of trash cans at the curb.

“Just get dressed,” he said, his voice suddenly harsh. “I’m only a few minutes early, Madison. Common sense would have told you to be ready and waiting.”

So much for his apologies. The smile faded from Susannah’s face.

“And common courtesy would have told you not to show up where you weren’t invited.”

She marched into the bedroom, slammed the door and scooped Peter from the bed where he waited.

“You were right not to come out,” she said into his fur. “The man’s an animal.”

“Mrrow?” Peter said, in softest cat speak.

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; “Oh, not an animal like you, Petey darling. He’s a beast. You know the Doberman down the hall? Believe me, the dog has a better personality than Matthew Romano.”

* * *

Aunt Sally’s was crowded, noisy and smoky.

It was, Matthew thought, about as romantic as an L.A. freeway at rush hour.

It was, Susannah thought, about as charming as a subway car at five o’clock.

She pulled a small notebook from her purse after they were seated.

“I made up a checklist.”

Matthew’s brows rose. “A checklist?”

“Uh-huh. There are five categories. Ambience. Decor. Food. Wine. Mood. And ratings from one to five.”

“Ratings? You mean, stars?”

“I guess.”

He put his elbow on the table and propped his chin in his hand “Hearts,” he said.

Susannah looked puzzled. “Hearts?”

“Sure. Little hearts. Instead of stars. One heart, two hearts, three.”

“Oh.” She smiled “Yes. Okay. That’s a great idea.”

He watched as she bent her head and scribbled in her notebook. “Just trying to be helpful,” he said, and wondered if her hair felt as soft as he remembered.

“Anyway,” she said, looking up, “I’m going to rate the restaurants on. Is something wrong?”

Matthew frowned and cleared his throat. “No, no. I, ah, I was only thinking… Ambience, you said. And décor and mood? But those are all the same thing.”

Susannah gave him a pitying smile. “Not at all, Mr. Romano. Ambience is the overall feel of the place.”

“The feel of it,” he repeated.

She nodded. “Does it give off an aura of romance? Is it charming? Is it a place a couple would be likely to remember?”

Matthew looked around. The closest to an aura of anything was the overwhelming smell of charcoal drifting from the kitchen.

“And decor?”

“Décor is—well, it’s décor. How the place is furnished, the table settings, whatever.”

He nodded. They’d been seated at a table with one rickety leg, which he’d propped with a matchbook after his water glass had almost slid into his lap. The place mats listed the menu offerings, and two tines of his fork were bowlegged.