Expose Me. Kate Hewitt

that first prickle of anxiety at being in a crowd and resolutely forced it back. Alex returned with her glass of seltzer in one hand, a beer bottle in the other. “Here you go,” he said, and gently but with clear purpose, his hand coming around her back, he steered her toward a private space near the window. She didn’t resist, but as soon as possible she stepped away from him, gave herself a little needed distance.

      “Amazing view,” Alex commented, the beer bottle raised to his lips. “I never get tired of it.”

      Chelsea didn’t even glance out the floor-to-ceiling windows. She had virtually the same view from her penthouse apartment, and her eyes were on this man. “So why are you interested in my show, Alex?” Might as well spell it out. Spit it out, no needless sugarcoating.

      His lips twitched in something close to a smile. “You’re good at what you do.”

      “Which is?”

      “Seeming sympathetic while slipping a dagger between the ribs.”

      She blinked, surprised, and then smiled because yes, that was definitely one description of what she did. Cozying up to celebrities so she could make them confess and cry. But they liked it; they needed the absolution her show seemed to provide.

      “And you like that?” She hadn’t meant to load that question with sexual innuendo, of course she hadn’t, yet somehow it came out anyway, and she saw Alex’s pupils flare, felt that same hard kick of attraction she’d felt in the limo. Painful. Unwanted.

      “I like people who are good at what they do.”

      “Still, it doesn’t seem like the type of thing you’d feature on your network, if you are in fact implying you’d want to go somewhere with this.”

      “No, it doesn’t.” He took a sip of his beer, and Chelsea kept her face neutral. Waited—but for what?

      She could still feel the aftershock of attraction, like pins and needles on her skin. She knew Alex felt it, too, and wondered just how complicated this would be.

      She didn’t do complicated. Didn’t mix business with pleasure, or sex with emotion, or sex with anything. Not anymore. She kept sex in the same mental box as annual physicals or biannual dental cleanings. Sometimes it was fun, and sometimes it was very fun, and sometimes it was just boring. But necessary, no matter what, to good health.

      Alex lowered his beer bottle, gave her a considering glance. “How did you end up getting Treffen to agree to a prime-time interview with you?”

      She bristled, because he sounded so incredulous. As if he couldn’t imagine how a ditzy used-to-be-blonde like her had been capable of it. “I worked hard.”

      “Treffen’s never done a television interview before.”

      “I realize. I did do my homework, you know.” Inwardly Chelsea winced. She sounded defensive. Pathetic. And she didn’t do either.

      Alex’s mouth curved, and Chelsea felt her pulse skyrocket. The man had the sexiest smile she’d ever seen. Just the twitch of his lips made her shift where she stood, feel a rush of warmth she tried to ignore. “So tell me,” he said in a low voice that rolled over her like a wave of honey. “How did you do it?”

      “I was patient.” The words came out clipped, because now terseness was her only defense against the tide of desire that was washing over her, wrecking her resolve like castles in sand. “I spent a year getting to know him, making sure I was at the same parties he was, admiring his work—”

      “Sucking up.”

      Chelsea drew back, startled by the scorn in his voice. And a few seconds ago she’d been semicontemplating having sex with this man. “He’s an incredible person,” she said shortly, “who has done a world of good for women’s rights—”

      “I know what he’s done.” Alex smiled coldly, and the eyes she’d thought were so amazing with their golden glints now looked like chips of black ice. “But I wonder if you do.”

      “What’s that supposed to mean?”

      “Are you going to put him on your sofa? Have him spill his secrets and make him cry?”

      His voice was a low purr but Chelsea still heard the sneer. Felt it. “It’s not that kind of interview,” she answered coolly. “I’m not interested in shock value with Treffen. But frankly, I’m not really sure why you care.”

      “Because I care about Treffen.”

      “You sound like you hate the man.”

      “Hate isn’t the right word. But I’d like to see what he does with an interview. What you do with it.” He raised his beer bottle to his lips again, his mouth still curved in a cool smile, his eyes still hard.

      Chelsea decided she’d had enough of his innuendo and snark. So he didn’t like Jason Treffen. Considering the lawyer and human rights activist was lauded as a modern-day saint, that was a little strange, but it had nothing to do with her.

      Except maybe it did. Because she was interviewing the man, and if she wanted to make it as a serious investigative journalist, she needed to know. Needed to dig.

      But not right now. Not when Alex Diaz was making her feel so weak, both from his mockery and the attraction she still, damn it, felt. It coursed through her relentlessly, a river of want that carried her will right along with it.

      Almost.

      She straightened, flashed him one of her glittering smiles. “Well, stay tuned, then. It airs live on March twentieth.”

      And without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away from him, her shoulders thrown back, her chin held high.

      * * *

      Alex raised his beer to his lips as he tracked Chelsea’s movements around the room. For a moment there he’d considered telling her the truth about Jason Treffen, but then he’d thankfully thought better of it. It was hardly cocktail party chitchat, and he didn’t know her well enough to trust her with that particular powder keg. Not yet, anyway.

      She was ambitious, he got that, and tough. He was pretty sure she had the balls to bring down Treffen on live television, if she wanted to.

      The question was, did she? Could he convince her? He possessed a savage need to see Treffen with his world crumbling around him, and everyone else seeing it, too. No longer would the man fool everyone into believing he was such a damned saint. They would know him not just as a sinner, but a devil.

      Austin had already exposed Treffen to his family, with the help of Sarah’s sister, Katy. Hunter was working on ousting Treffen from his law firm. And Alex had been charged with confronting the man on national television, showing the world what he really was: a monster who used the women he said he was saving. Who damned them to lives of shame, scandal and sin. Everything in Alex ached to see Jason publicly exposed—and he would do whatever it took to make it happen.

      Including use Chelsea in whatever way he could. The woman was cold; she’d slept her way to the top. He didn’t feel so much as a flicker of guilt for using her. Sleeping with her, if it came to that.

      But he did feel a certain amount of frustration. Sexual frustration. Never mind Treffen, he wanted Chelsea Maxwell in bed, beneath him, those gray-green eyes turned to molten silver with desire. He wanted her haughty little smile to become a desperate, begging kiss, to turn her tinkling laugh into a breathy sigh of pleasure and need.

      He wanted to be the one to do it. To shatter her icy control and make her melt. For him.

      He glanced at her walking away from him, her dress flowing over her like mercury. The front might have been high-necked and as chaste as a nun’s habit, but the back plunged right down to the tempting curve of her butt. Alex had always considered himself more of a breast man, but the sight of Chelsea Maxwell’s back, golden and perfect, made him reconsider.

      He watched her glide away from the crowd and then instinctively followed, curious as to