A Fairytale Christmas by Susan Wiggs Page A

did have was looks, brains and money. In deadly excess. She made him want to cross his fingers to ward off evil. Worse, she made him want to make love to her until she cried out for mercy—or for more.
    She stopped in front of his desk. He had a perfect view of her face: dainty cheekbones and a nose that was probably used as a model at plastic-surgery conventions; eyes as blue as the bottom of a swimming pool; pale blondhair done into some sort of painfully neat macramé arrangement.
    She brought a French-manicured fingernail to her full lower lip and held it there just for a moment in case of the unlikely event that she had not gotten his attention. She eyed the lopsided miniature Christmas tree; clearly it was as alien to her as moon rock.
    If she was waiting for him to stand and remove his cap, she would miss her party tonight.
    “The waste-management finance scandal?” she inquired. Her upper-crust East Coast accent rang with the tones of generations of selective breeding and years at Marymount and Vassar.
    Jack gave her his most crooked, irritating smile and stroked the week-old bristle on his chin. “Why don’t you hurry up and hire a managing editor to ride herd over us wayward boys?”
    “This is my paper, Mr. Riley, and I’ll ‘ride herd’ over whomever I please.”
    “Sounds kinky, Miz Langston,” he muttered. Leaning forward, he jerked a file from the stack under his feet and held it out to her.
    Platinum-and-pearl rings flashed as she opened the file. An empty potato-chip bag drifted to the floor. She made an admirable effort to ignore it. Her gaze snapped over the typed copy.
    She gave the barest of nods, then said, “And the school, er, health controversy?”
    Jack chuckled. “You mean the debate about whether or not we should hand out rubbers to high schoolers?” He savored the delicate coral blush on her cheeks. “Yeah, it’s ready.” Keeping his gaze trained on the boss lady, he tapped on his keyboard. The printer beside his desk ejected a copy of the story.
    Her refined nostrils flared subtly. “Mr. Riley, how has such a charming man managed to live so long without sustaining serious bodily injury?”
    He grinned and toyed with the short, curly ponytail at the nape of his neck. “Guess I’m just quick on my feet, sweetheart.”
    Her look of disdain would have done Katharine Hepburn proud. “I see.” She took the hard copy, still warm from the printer, and added it to her stack.
    To his relief, she turned her ice-dagger gaze on Brad and Derek. “What about you gentlemen? Have you made your deadlines, for a change?”
    They stared at her like a pair of dieters eyeing a box of Godiva chocolates. Idiots, thought Jack. He knew they had a standing bet to see who could get her into bed first. As if either one had a chance. Who would want to, except maybe a polar explorer with a suit that could withstand subzero temperatures?
    Jack Riley, that’s who
, he thought in self-disgust. She was everything he should despise in a woman, but perversely, he found her the sexiest thing he had ever seen. He wanted her. Bad. Wanted to melt the ice around her with his own heat.
    “Sure thing, Miss Langston,” Brad said, looking like the soul of efficiency.
    “Yep,” Derek agreed.
    “Excellent.” Madeleine turned to go. Before Jack could get comfortable again, she pivoted back, her three-hundred-dollar shoes clicking on the linoleum floor. “Oh, and gentlemen? Will I see you at the Dakota tonight?”
    “Of course,” Derek and Brad said in unison. Their cashmere sweaters and Top-Siders personified the ersatz newsroom-clone look. They would be swell in their tuxes. Just swell.
    Madeleine Langston’s gaze fixed on Jack. Damn, she was a good-looking woman. What a waste of a great set of j—
    “Well?” she asked, interrupting his thought. “Are you coming?”
    Jack decided it was too easy to take advantage of her choice of words, so he relented. “Naw,” he said, laughing with his eyes at her look