The Sexiest Man Alive. Sandra Marton

morning? Why was she wasting precious time thinking about a man she’d never even met?

      “Ridiculous,” she said.

      Ridiculous, indeed. There was absolutely no reason for the insufferable Mr. Romano to wander through her thoughts, but this was the second or third time it had happened since she’d seen him on the Cape. Actually, it had been equally ridiculous for her to have taken such an instant dislike to him It was just the way he’d strutted along with the blonde on his arm and that smug, I-am-the-world’s-gift-to-womankind smile on his face.

      Positively insufferable.

      She’d never even have noticed him if she hadn’t been thinking about CHIC and about publishing. There was Ted Turner, who everybody knew was brilliant and who looked like a nice guy, and then, by contrast, there was Matthew Romano, who’d probably never done anything more difficult in his life than play with his money and his groupies, looking as if he figured every woman on the planet wanted his body

      Not that it was a bad-looking body.

      Susannah frowned and plucked her watch from the dresser. By now, it should be just about a quarter after six....

      Oh God.

      Her stomach tumbled to her toes.

      Mickey Mouse grinned at her, one white-gloved, fourfingered hand pointing at the number four, and the other...

      The other pointed straight at seven.

      She tossed the bath towel across the room. It soared through the air and onto the bed, landing, with a dreadful accuracy, on Peter’s head.

      “No,” she whispered, but it was too late. Peter came awake in a flash, bristling with anger. He shot to his feet and glared at her through cold green eyes. “Peter Oh, Petey, sweetheart, I didn’t mean. ”

      Whether she’d meant it or not didn’t matter Peter didn’t believe in apologies. He never had, not since the day he’d come into her life. She watched as he turned his back on her and stalked from the room.

      “Do your thing, Peter,” she muttered. “I couldn’t care less. I’ve got more important things to worry about this morning than you and your attitude.”

      Peter muttered something out in the hall, but Susannah paid no attention. She was going to be late. Later than late, and on this, the first day of the rest of her life.

      Well, it was.

      She was holding the very first meeting she’d ever called at CHIC, the first she’d oversee as its editor-in-chief. That was the good news. The bad was that the meeting might be her last, unless this morning’s brainstorming session ended in some wild and wonderful idea that would make the brass from Update Publications decide their latest acquisition was worth keeping alive Otherwise, CHIC and the biggest chance she’d ever had in her career, along with all the magazine’s staffers, were going to be flushed out to sea.

      Susannah threw another harried glance at her watch as she pulled on her jeans.

      Seven twenty-four. If she got out of here in the next ten minutes—make that eight minutes—she had a chance. All she had to do was put on a shirt, her sneakers, find the notes she’d worked on all weekend, dump them into her handbag...

      Peter yelled.

      All she had to do was finish dressing, get her stuff together, give Peter his breakfast, and she’d be on her way.

      She yanked a Beethoven’s Got the Beat T-shirt over her head. Droplets of water flew from her short black curls. She shrugged impatiently and tunneled her fingers through her hair. Forget about the luxury of blow-drying. Forget about toast, or even coffee. Forget about everything but the meeting. Assuming the subway trains weren’t running late, assuming the construction mess around Third Avenue had been cleaned up, assuming all was right with the world, maybe, maybe, she could make it into the office on time.

      She had to.

      On Friday, she’d laid down the rules for today’s conference. She’d done it not by E-mail or interoffice memo—it was too important for that. Instead, she’d told her secretary to phone each person in the CHIC organization, from Eddie the mail-room boy...

      “Eddie, the mail-room intern,” Pam had said, raising her eyebrows.

      “I don’t care if he’s Eddie, the mail-room CEO,” Susannah had answered. “Just make sure he and everybody else knows I want them assembled in the boardroom today at ten minutes to five.”

      They’d straggled in, which she’d expected. CHIC was casual when it came to dress, something that was pretty common in the publishing world, but now, thanks to the revolving-door editor-in-chief policy, some of the staff had an attitude of indifference that verged on apathy. Her staffers had crowded into the room with their containers of coffee, their cans of diet cola, and once they were all there, Susannah held up her hands for quiet.

      “Here’s the deal,” she’d said briskly. “It’s just a matter of time before this Update outfit decides to take a closer look at us. When they do, we’d better be ready to dazzle ’em with facts and figures and plans for the future so they leave thinking that CHIC is an eagle, ready to fly—instead of a dying swan that needs to be shot to put it out of its misery.”

      “I don’t think they do that to swans,” the features editorial assistant had said, but she was shushed to silence

      “I want you all to go home and think about what we need to do to kick start this magazine into the twenty-first century,” Susannah had continued. “And then I want you to show up here Monday morning, ready with innovative projects that will work, not just ideas that are impractical and expensive. And I want you all here promptly at eight.”

      There were grumbles and protests, but Susannah had stood firm.

      “Look at it this way, people,” she’d said. “If we’re not ready with an A-number-one plan when Update comes in, we might as well figure on convening our next meeting at the unemployment office.”

      That had stopped the protests. CHIC’s staffers had filed out of the boardroom looking unhappy but determined.

      “Eight sharp,” Claire had said, and Susannah had nodded.

      “Exactly,” she’d replied.

      The big hand on the twelve. The little hand on the eight. Eight exactly. Not eight oh-five, or eight-ten. Eight.

      Susannah puffed out her breath. There was nothing like setting a good example for the troops.

      Okay. Zip up the jeans. Fluff up the hair one more time so maybe it wouldn’t dry plastered to her head. Pull on socks, tuck feet into sneakers, tie laces...

      Tear lace on right sneaker in half.

      Easy. She had to stay calm. There had to be another pair of laces somewhere in the room In the dresser drawers. In the closet...

      There wasn’t. Susannah said a word that would have made her grandmother blush. She grabbed two safety pins from the top drawer, hooked them through the eyelets on the sneaker, linked them together and closed them.

      Then she stood and looked in the mirror.

      Oh, boy.

      No makeup. A hairdo that would have brought tears to the eyes of her hairdresser. A T-shirt that had a bleach spot on the sleeve and jeans that had really seen better days.

      There was no sense even thinking about the safety pins and the sneaker.

      Nevertheless, she was ready, and wasn’t it a good thing that CHIC was so casual, because if she’d had to put on panty hose and iron a blouse, pick out a suit, buff a pair of pumps, put on makeup and jewelry and fix her hair, it would be noon before she got herself out the door.

      As it was, Mickey was already pointing his white-gloved hand at...

      Oh, hell.

      Susannah raced from the bedroom and nearly collided with Peter, who was waiting