Hot Spot. Debbi Rawlins

offered her hand. “I look forward to working with you, Jack.”

      “Me, too.”

      “Liar.” Laughing, she turned up her collar and headed home.

      JACK SLID INTO THE BACKSEAT and leaned against the leather upholstery, watching her stride along Forty-sixth. No jacket, just her thin coat, even though it had to be only forty degrees.

      “Where to, boss?” Dutch looked at him in the rearview mirror. “Your apartment?”

      “Yeah, I guess so.” He’d have dinner, something disgustingly healthy his housekeeper had left in the refrigerator for him. Then watch some boring television. “Dutch, I’ve changed my mind.”

      The young man’s eyes instantly met his. “Okay,” he said, disappointment in his voice. Probably thought his day wouldn’t be over yet. “Where to?”

      “Drop me at the studio, and then go home.”

      “But how will—”

      “I think I remember how to hail a cab.” Hell, maybe he’d even walk the three miles and skip the treadmill tomorrow morning.

      “But, boss—”

      “Dutch, don’t argue.”

      The man said nothing, only frowned and then concentrated on pulling the black Lincoln Town Car away from the curb and into traffic.

      Jack sighed. He hadn’t meant to sound short. “So how are Jenny and the kids these days?”

      “Noisy and expensive.” Dutch snorted. “The three of them are gonna land me in the poor house.”

      Jack smiled. He’d known the man for five years, and the litany had been the same. But everyone who knew him also knew he lived and breathed for his family.

      “Yep, don’t ever have girls, boss. Too high maintenance. I ought to send them to Catholic school. Make ’em wear uniforms. No more whining for designer jeans.”

      “I doubt that would stop them. Well, maybe when they’re forty.”

      “I won’t care then. They’ll be somebody else’s problem.”

      Jack chuckled, his gaze lingering in Madison’s direction, but she’d already disappeared. Laying his head back, he briefly closed his eyes.

      Saturday was going to be hell. Why had he ever agreed to this absurdity? How could people regard him as a serious newsman with his face spread across the pages of a magazine? He understood why so many celebrities had to accept that kind of exposure. They had to promote their new movies and themselves. He’d interviewed enough of them himself. Most of them didn’t like to do it, but they understood that the hype was part of the business.

      He didn’t fall into that category. He just investigated and reported the news. Not that he did half the amount of investigation he’d like. His main job was to look good in front of the camera each morning, banter with his cohost and, yeah, subtly flirt with his female audience. He knew all that, and he’d played the game. But it was getting old. Fast.

      Sighing, he brought his head up and pinched the bridge of his nose. His temples were starting to throb. Probably from the scotch. He didn’t drink often and generally not on an empty stomach. He should’ve offered to buy Madison dinner. Better than going back to his apartment and eating alone. Just like he did most nights. Something he normally preferred.

      Not tonight, though.

      He looked out the heavily tinted window and watched two young women chatting as they walked, one of them tugging at the leash of a black Great Dane, who seemed hell-bent on stopping at every trash receptacle and tree. Other pedestrians gave them a wide berth, dodging out of the way when the dog started sniffing too intimately.

      Jack smiled. He didn’t see many big dogs in the city. People mostly kept smaller dogs, which made sense because of the size of the average apartment. Small. Really small. He’d had one of those once. In the beginning, before he’d taken over the morning show. The bedroom and living room practically shared the same space, yet had escaped the label of studio apartment. But at least it hadn’t been a walk-up, and a doorman always monitored the building’s entrance.

      Now, everything was different. He had a large, well-appointed three-story brownstone, a housekeeper who spoiled him and a house in Connecticut on the water. He even had Dutch to drive him wherever he wanted to go. So why wasn’t he happy? Hell, he knew why: he missed being out in the field. But was he really ready to give all this up?

      4

      “SORRY I’M LATE.” Madison flew through the doors of Shelly’s Family Portraits and dropped her bag behind the counter next to Shelly, who stared at the new computer she’d bought last week. “I’ll be set up before the Dennisons get here.”

      “Don’t rush. They’re gonna be late,” Shelly said without looking away from the computer screen. “Mrs. Dennison called ten minutes ago. Oh, and she changed her mind about the blue-sky backdrop.”

      “Oh, God, what does she want now?”

      “The garden scene. The one with the butterflies.” Shelly pressed a button and then muttered a mild curse. “Hey, do you know anything about these damn contraptions?”

      “A little but let me get set up first.” Madison barely got the words out through clenched teeth as she headed into the cramped back room.

      The butterfly scene. How she hated that one. In fact, she hated every one of the cheesy backdrops. She’d begged Shelly to let her take the clients to Central Park. She’d be able to get some dynamite shots there. But Shelly was old school. Claimed no one wanted to be dragged outdoors when there were perfectly good fake backgrounds right in the studio.

      At least Shelly was an easygoing boss. She required little of Madison, letting her work sporadically when she needed money, unless Shelly got slammed with appointments, which didn’t happen often. Madison just had to remember this was only part-time and temporary. Some easy money to help make ends meet. And then let it go. She’d absolutely die if she thought she had to take family portraits for the rest of her life.

      But not after she made the cover of Today’s Man. If she hadn’t been confident before she’d met Jack Logan in the flesh, she would be now. He was the perfect subject. She couldn’t think of anyone she’d rather photograph more than him. The strong line of his jaw alone was enough to make a woman weep. And those hazel eyes, caught by the right light, seemed to glitter with deviltry, daring and tempting and mocking every feminine resolve.

      Good thing she was immune. Not counting the dream she’d had two nights ago where she practically tore off his clothes. The brief memory brought a flash of heat, and she accidentally kicked the tripod. She caught it before it went over but not without causing a racket.

      “You okay back there?” Shelly had lost most of her southern drawl except when it suited her purpose, but her trademark blond “big” hair hadn’t changed since she’d moved to New York fifteen years ago, a former Texas beauty queen, with more hope than promise.

      “Fine. I’m almost done.” Madison smoothed the horrid butterfly backdrop and tacked the right corner. “Which one of the darling little Dennisons am I shooting today?”

      “Oops. Should’ve warned you. It’s the twins.”

      Madison groaned and pulled out another chair. Of the four kids, the twins were the ones who made her most insane. At only three years old the boys were already tyrants, but their mother considered them simply adorable. Bad combination.

      “I know they irritate you,” Shelly said, lowering her voice as she ducked into the back, “but frankly, if Eileen Dennison weren’t so neurotic about capturing every little pout and smile, I’m not sure I would’ve made the rent last month.”

      Madison got it. It was Shelly’s subtle way of telling her to make nice with Eileen Dennison, who, Madison