Hot Spot. Debbi Rawlins

it’s an assignment, so she didn’t get that right, either.”

      Karrie squinted. “Not for—”

      Madison nodded. “For Today’s Man.”

      “No way. Which issue?”

      She grinned at her best bud.

      Karrie stepped back. “The sexiest-man layout?”

      “Yep.”

      “Oh, my God. That’s terrific! When were you going to tell me?”

      “I got the call this afternoon. I still can’t believe it myself.”

      Karrie raised her glass. “Congratulations. Damn.”

      “Save the kudos until I get the man-of-the-year cover.”

      Karrie sighed. “Would you chill out long enough to enjoy the moment? This is major. World class. How many photographers vie for that shoot each month? And you got it.”

      “Yeah, but—”

      “Nope.” She held up a hand. “I’m not listening to any ‘yeah buts.’ You’re too hard on yourself. You’re a damn good photographer, and you deserve the assignment. Period. Which state are you covering?”

      “New York. I’m shooting right here in Manhattan.”

      “Cool. Who’s the guy?”

      “That’s up to me.”

      “I know you have someone in mind.”

      “A couple of guys, actually, but I have over a month before I have to submit a name.”

      “Are you going to give me a hint?” Karrie waited during the span of a leisurely sip. “I’ll give you one. The question was rhetorical.”

      Madison laughed. Yeah, she had one guy in particular in mind. But he wasn’t going to be easy. Others had tried to snag him to no avail. “I’m superstitious. I don’t want to jinx it.”

      “Oh, brother.” Karrie sighed. “Okay, I’m sure you’ll find someone positively delicious.”

      “Delicious?” Madison sipped her drink again, wishing it was later so they could head home. “I just pray that he’s photogenic, and not an insufferable prick.”

      “Who knows,” Kerrie said, her brows arching. “Maybe you won’t find his prick insufferable at all.”

      1

      Three Months Later…

      “EXCUSE ME, JACK, but there’s a Madison Tate on line two for you.” Lana stood expectantly at his office door, pushing the mass of shiny black hair away from her face. “She says you’re expecting her call.”

      Jack Logan hesitated. He should talk to her and get it over with. The sooner he got the eager Ms. Tate off his back the better. “Take a message, will you, Lana?”

      “Sure.” She smiled, first at him and then at Larry before turning to leave, her short skirt showing off a pair of dynamite legs.

      Shaking his graying head, Larry exhaled sharply as he tapped the edge of Jack’s desk. “I don’t think my heart could take having a secretary who looked like that.”

      Jack smiled at his longtime agent. “She has a husband and twin toddlers she adores.”

      “With those eyes and that smile she should be working in front of the camera. Maybe I ought to try and sign her up—”

      “She’s not interested. She’s just a nice kid from Nebraska who can’t wait to get home to her kids every day.” Jack loosened his tie and motioned with his chin to the briefcase on Larry’s lap. “You have papers for me to review?”

      Larry stared back, his weathered face creasing into a frown. Years of golf without sun protection had added ten years to him. He suddenly looked grim. “You’re not going to like the new contract.”

      “That’s a given. Let me see it.”

      “Not to say it’s not a good deal. It’s entirely favorable to you. Any other morning-show host would give his right arm for the concessions they’re willing to make. I heard that Matt Lauer couldn’t even—”

      “Larry, just give me the contract.”

      The older man sighed and took the leather folder out of his briefcase. “Don’t be rash. Think about how much you have to lose.”

      “Jack?”

      They both looked toward Lana standing in the doorway. She made an apologetic face.

      “I’m sorry to interrupt you again,” she said with a helpless wave of her hand, “but this Madison Tate says she’s already left two messages and that it’s important.”

      Jack sighed. Right. An important beefcake magazine spread. Talk about an oxymoron. Pictures of insurgents’ victims in the Middle East, earthquake victims in India—now, that defined the word important.

      “You haven’t returned her calls?” Larry gave him a stern look. “If you want to leave room for negotiation, don’t piss off the network.”

      Jack’s jaw clenched. Of course he knew Larry was right. Didn’t mean he had to like the idea. “I’ll take it, Lana. Thanks.”

      She glanced at Larry, nodded and then left.

      “Consider this a trade-off,” Larry said, as Jack reached for the phone. “The network wants this exposure.”

      “I don’t need the sales pitch. I already agreed.” Jack started to use his speakerphone and quickly changed his mind. He wanted some illusion of control over this ridiculous publicity stunt his producer and Larry had arranged. He brought the receiver to his ear and depressed the blinking red button. “Jack Logan.”

      At his brusque tone, Larry shook his head in disgust.

      “Madison Tate here,” the woman responded equally businesslike. “We haven’t talked before, Mr. Logan, so I’ll take this opportunity to thank you for agreeing to this photo shoot. Now, let’s talk about a time and place.”

      Jack half smiled. She knew how to get to the point. “I assume you already have a place in mind.”

      “At Hush. It’s that hot new boutique hotel located in midtown owned by Piper Devon. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

      His smile faded. “Yes, I have.”

      “You sound annoyed.”

      “Why there?”

      “It’s not only the hippest place in Manhattan right now, but the decor is gorgeous.”

      He briefly closed his eyes. Yeah, he knew the place. He knew Piper, too. Nice lady. But from the day it opened, the hotel had attracted its share of scandal, a field day for the press, who’d labeled it the sex hotel.

      “Mr. Logan?”

      “Yeah, I’m here.” He glanced at Larry, who listened with far too much interest. “Let’s talk about that further. Maybe we could meet for a drink.”

      “Okay,” she said slowly, “but we’ll have to start shooting soon. I’m sure you can appreciate that I have a deadline.”

      “Of course.” He opened the jar of jellybeans he kept on his desk. “I’ll check my schedule and—”

      “How about this evening?”

      He paused, his hand halfway into the jar. For a moment he thought about blowing her off. Telling her he’d call back tomorrow, but his grudging appreciation of her no-nonsense approach stopped him. “What time?”

      “Your call.”

      “Six.”

      “Perfect.”