Hung Up on You. Holly Jacobs

sighed.

      Yesterday, Collin didn’t ravish her on the park bench, and now this good-sounding and good-looking man was scowling at her.

      She couldn’t seem to catch a break lately with men.

      Thinking about her parents’ strained relationship and the tabloid’s perversion of her research, she realized it wasn’t just men she couldn’t catch a break with but rather life in general.

      “Yes?” she said with a sigh.

      “You’re the Adrienne Kelly from this article?” He held out a well-crinkled copy of the Rag.

      Drat.

      A reporter.

      Yes, this was just what she needed to start her day off right.

      “I’m sorry, I’m not doing any interviews.”

      It was almost a sin that a man who sounded that good was a reporter—a man who made his living listening more than talking.

      Wait, maybe he worked for a television station, although she didn’t see a camera.

      “I’m not a reporter,” he said. “It’s not about an interview. I want to see copies of your findings. I want to see the figures you collected. You’ve single-handedly set out to ruin my company with this article and I want you to back it up.”

      He waved the paper at her, as if he wanted to be sure she knew what he was talking about.

      “Who are you?” she asked.

      Annoyance faded and for a second he looked slightly chagrined. “Sorry. I’m Simon. Simon Masterson. I called you last night. I own SimonSays. We produce computerized telephone answering systems for businesses. We work hard to see to it that our products are the best there are. And you are trying to ruin us.”

      “Oh.”

      Okay, Ari realized it wasn’t the most brilliant reply, but at the moment she was feeling less than brilliant. As a matter of fact, she was feeling quite rumpled, anxious and sleep deprived.

      This Simon Masterson owned a business that manufactured answering systems. No wonder he was annoyed.

      “Mr. Masterson, I had nothing—absolutely nothing—to do with that article. I’m as upset as you are. Rag Magazine used my name, but totally bastardized my study.”

      He shot her a look of disbelief.

      “I didn’t even know about the article until last night. I had to go out and buy a copy. My findings were published in a reputable psychology magazine. Maybe that’s how the Rag stumbled on them.”

      “Could we talk?” he asked, calmer now.

      Ari knew that there was nothing she could do for him…nothing for them to talk about. And yet, he had the look of someone who could make a pest of himself. Maybe it was better to just get it over with.

      “I don’t know what we have to talk about.”

      “Please?” he asked.

      It was the please that did it.

      Since Ari had spent the night worrying rather than sleeping, she was still wearing yesterday’s jeans and blouse. She knew she looked decidedly wrinkled, but at least she was presentable enough to let him in.

      Remembering caution, she asked, “Do you have a card with you?”

      She didn’t doubt his story, but felt it was wise to be sure. Plus, as he dug through his pocket, she had a few moments to collect herself.

      Rather than thinking of something to say, she noticed his hair. Dark-brown hair…so dark it bordered on black. It had a slight curl to it so that, even though she suspected he’d recently dressed and brushed it, it had a disheveled sort of look to it. It lent a boyish sort of charm to his looks.

      This Simon Masterson was the sort of man that women fantasized about.

      Not that she fantasized about other men. She had Collin for her fantasies.

      The thought didn’t exactly cheer her.

      “Here,” he said, handing a card through the gap in the door.

      “And here’s my license.” He opened up his wallet and flashed her a license.

      It was indeed him, with the name Simon Masterson on it. And it was a good picture.

      Who on earth did he bribe to get the DMV to take a good picture for his license?

      She always ended up looking like she was recovering from a weekend binge, or surgery—which was to say, she looked horrible on every license she’d ever been photographed for.

      Shaking her head at the injustice of it all, she looked at the card.

      SimonSays.

      Unfortunately, he seemed to be legit, which meant she probably should let him in to talk about the stupid article. Not that there was really much she could say.

      She closed the door in his face, unlatched the chain and opened it again. “Come in, Mr. Masterson.”

      “Simon,” he corrected as he strode into the apartment, which suddenly seemed smaller with him in it. It was as if he filled up all the empty space, displacing it and the oxygen that normally filled it.

      That had to be why she suddenly found herself short of breath. He was hogging all the air.

      “Miss Kelly?” he said.

      She realized she’d been standing there, just looking at him. She gave herself a mental shake and said, “You can call me Ari. I just made a pot of coffee. Would you like some?”

      “Fine.”

      She led him to the tiny kitchen and nodded at one of the stools next to the island. “Now, what did you think we had to talk about?”

      She turned her back to him and busied herself at the counter, needing a moment to collect her rather frayed wits. She was obviously sleep deprived, or else this man wouldn’t be affecting her like this.

      She wasn’t the type to be turned on by a man’s looks, or even his voice. This strange reaction to Simon Masterson had to be the product of her current state of stress.

      Yes. Stress-induced lust.

      That’s what it was.

      “I came here to insist you print a retraction. But if you really didn’t know about the article, and if they really got your findings wrong, then I want you to insist they print a retraction,” he said.

      She turned around.

      Big mistake. He looked even more gorgeous up close.

      Her breath deserted her with a whoosh, and she barely managed to squeak out, “Mr. Masterson—” when he interrupted her.

      “Simon.”

      “Simon,” she repeated.

      She took a deep breath and started again. “Simon, like I said, I had nothing to do with the distortion and out-and-out fabrication in the article. I learned about it last night when I came home to a full answering machine. It’s not even close to accurate. They distorted my study until the only thing that’s really mine is my name, and I can’t tell you how much I wish they’d made that up as well.”

      “That’s why you can demand a retraction.”

      She took two mugs out of the cupboard, then turned around and shook her head. “I don’t think that will help. It will just give them more fuel for their flames. It’s what papers like that love.”

      “I think you’re wrong. I think they’d be forced to print a retraction.”

      “Simon, Rag Magazine doesn’t worry about who it offends, or how it bends the truth.” She poured coffee into the two mugs, handed one to him and took the stool opposite him as she continued, “It just