The Very Thought of You

1

There were flowers on her desk again, the sort of sophisticated blooms that let Madeleine Moncrieffe know she was being pursued by a very ardent admirer. Taking off her designer coat, she approached the desk, leaning forward to inhale the luxurious fragrance that filled her office. Mmmm; white gardenias: the perfect welcome home to New York City after her whirlwind week in Milan.

The flowering plant must have cost the sender a pretty penny. Interest piqued, she reached for the card attached to the stem, pausing to appreciate the elegant silver lettering. Whomever had sent the flowers certainly hadn’t scrimped the way some industry insiders did. This was a display of class and taste, a very smart choice for whomever was trying to woo the editor in chief of Focus Magazine.

Madeleine put on her glasses and opened the card.

Flowers from your boyfriend?

She nearly jumped at the unexpected greeting, but composed herself without showing even a hint of the anxiety flooding her. Thirty years at Focus had taught her a thing or two about being in control.

Frowning, she pivoted toward the sound of the intruder’s deep voice. She could often guess a person’s habits from clues that other people didn’t notice. The timbre of a voice, the scuff of expensive loafers on her shiny office floor. Based on his gravelly tone, she suspected that he drank whisky and occasionally smoked cigars. A man with enough wealth to paper over his rougher edges.

As she stared across her workspace, she met the man’s steely, blue-eyed gaze with a confident lift of her chin. A tremor of desire went through her. Followed by a surge of extreme irritation. Pressing her lips firmly together, Madeleine narrowed her eyes at him. She should have known.

Eric Sorensen, her arch-nemesis.

In the cutthroat fashion industry, relationships could be adversarial. It was inevitable that anyone with ambition would make enemies, and Madeleine had made her fair share: rival magazine editors, thin-skinned fashion designers, demanding supermodels. She had also managed to antagonize luminaries outside the industry, from rock stars to royals, even a few presidents. But none of them had ever gotten under her skin the way Eric Sorensen did.

Arrogant. Entitled. Smug. As the millionaire CEO of the world’s largest sportswear company, Eric seemed to believe that the world revolved around him, a belief he always tried to drive home whenever she had the misfortune of bumping into the self-centered mogul. He was genuinely intolerable. A truth made all the more irksome to her when she noticed, not for the first time, that he was devastatingly handsome: brilliant blue eyes, a square jaw, salt-and-pepper hair serving to enhance his rugged good looks. Frankly, it was very annoying, and definitely one of the downsides to interacting with him.

She seemed to quiver every time she was in his presence. And Madeleine didn’t make a habit of quivering. Not in all her years of marriage, nor during her college days when she’d been chased by a slew of suitors.

She was far too practical and clear-eyed for all that now anyway, except for some reason, her body had a mind of its own when Eric was around. It had been that way ever since she’d met him over a year ago, in this very office, as she recalled.

Boyfriend? Hardly. Dating in New York at her age was quickly losing its appeal; each date felt more and more like a job interview: the same litany of questions, a rush for it to be over, promises to call followed by radio silence. Not that she wanted them to call, of course. Why would she, when spending the night with a man usually involved awkward foreplay followed by sex that would be over in ninety seconds? And those were the men who weren’t perpetually chasing after younger women; New York’s eligible bachelors, it seemed, hadn't gotten better with age. The bloom was well off the rose, as far as her love life was concerned. There simply were no sparks, no breathless exhilaration.

The dizzying excitement she craved, she found in her career in fashion instead, and her position at Focus.

Though right now, that delight at being back at the magazine’s New York offices was currently losing out to burning animosity towards Eric.

However, she couldn’t very well respond to his question with the truth, so she mustered a curt, No. The flowers aren’t from a boyfriend.

Perhaps if she treated him coldly enough, he would leave.

Madeleine resumed reading the message inside the card: yet another designer trying to butter her up. But flowers weren’t going to convince her to showcase the latest upstart designer in the magazine, regardless of their talent. Talent was the bare minimum to even be considered for a feature in Focus’s illustrious glossy pages. To get featured, a designer needed to be unique, prolific, and avant-garde enough to be ahead of the fashion curve. As the editor in chief of the world’s premier fashion bible, Madeleine had set very high standards for the publication, all while steering Focus through the ups and downs of a changing media landscape. Her longevity in the business had earned her the respect of her peers. Sending flowers wasn’t going to cut it.

She let go of the card and decided that she could no longer make a show of pretending that Eric wasn’t there. His gaze was far too intense and Madeleine could feel the heat of it from across the room. The exquisite flowers almost forgotten, she addressed him with a dismissive glance. How did you get in here, anyway? Did you get lost on your way to a baseball park?

Hockey. I played hockey, he corrected pointedly, taking a swaggering step towards her. Eric certainly looked like a former athlete: imposingly tall with wide shoulders, sinewy forearms that she could see thanks to the rolled-up sleeves of his denim jacket. Those arms were tanned, covered in a light dusting of silvery hair.

Oh Lord. Heat crept up her face. Here she was, thinking about what it would be like to trail her fingertips down one of those firm arms.

Same thing. She stared down at her desk, pretending to take an interest in the mockups for an upcoming issue’s layout, a gesture she hoped he would interpret as boredom, rather than her desire to avoid his gaze so that he wouldn’t catch her blushing.

Your assistant Hannah let me in, he explained, after a beat. We have a ten o’clock meeting.

Madeleine raised an eyebrow. A meeting? That wasn’t possible. For one thing, she would never have scheduled a meeting with him, of all people. Though they moved in similar social circles among New York City’s elite, they both had the sense to avoid each other. For another, they had no common interests. What could they possibly have to discuss? No, I don’t think so. You’re mistaken. I’ll have my assistant show you out. Goodbye, Eric.

You don’t know what’s going on at your own magazine? Eric shook his head, suddenly looking thoroughly entertained. He gave her a wry smile, his firm mouth distracting her momentarily. Those sensuous lips were utterly kissable, an aggravating thought she desperately wanted to shove aside. I’m surprised the all-seeing, all-knowing Madeleine Moncrieffe has been left in the dark about such an important meeting.

He was attempting to needle her with the sarcasm, but it wasn’t going to work, no matter how much heat Eric inspired whenever he said her name in that knowing, mocking, overly-familiar way of his.

Stifling a frustrated sigh, she took off her cat-eye reading glasses and set them down on her desk. What are you talking about?

I have a meeting with you, he repeated. Your boss arranged it.

That didn’t sound plausible. Her boss, Susan Post, was the artistic director of Forward Communications, the media company that owned Focus. Taxing as Susan could be, there was no chance she had invited the CEO of a sportswear company to a meeting. Focus was devoted to couture fashion, high-end streetwear, beauty trends, and celebrity icons; in other words, glamour. Maybe he’d been scheduled to meet with an editor at one of Forward Communications’ other publications; one of their fitness magazines, surely?

Still, she ought to clear this up. It would be easier to get him out of her office if she knew where to send him. I just got back from Italy last night, so I’ll have to catch my bearings, she said briskly.

That explains it.

Explains what? Madeleine reached into her designer handbag to retrieve her cell phone.

Your vacation. It explains why you don’t seem to have that stick jammed so far up your—

I dare you to finish that sentence. She marched up to him, eyes narrowed. It was so like him to be insulting.

Are you sure you want to dare me? The rude, arrogant man stared down his nose at her. I warn you, I can be a fierce competitor.

So can I. She almost faltered when she realized they were so close she could feel the heat of his body envelop her. Fighting her reaction, she placed a hand on her hip. And for your information, it wasn’t a vacation. I went to Milan for work. Madeleine didn’t take vacations. Focus was her life.

A trip to Milan that’s all business and no pleasure, he observed, his gaze dropping to linger on her mouth on the last word.

Madeleine trembled. She half expected him to elaborate further; to finish the thought and supply her with the rest of the infuriating innuendo. Eric seemed to think her tightly wound and unyielding, which explained his attempt to rattle her with comments about how stuck-up she was. Everyone in the industry likely agreed with him; Madeleine had garnered a reputation for being intimidating and aloof. Well, so what if she was? In an era when magazines folded all the time, Madeleine had secured the Focus brand for another generation. She hadn’t survived three decades in a merciless industry by being a shrinking violet.

Eric didn’t elaborate. Instead, he let the remark hang in the air, adding to the tension between them. He probably hadn’t meant it to be suggestive, but her physical reaction to him made her interpret everything he said into something charged. Now she was tormented by her desire to know exactly what he was thinking as he stared at her mouth with all that heat in his eyes. The fire in his gaze had to be hostility. It couldn’t possibly be hunger.

Allow me to check my schedule. Though I sincerely doubt there’s an appointment at all, she said icily, and began to swipe at her phone screen. Madeleine was not going to give him the satisfaction of an argument, even if he was hell-bent on provoking her. Unfortunately for him, she had more important matters to attend to than dealing with Eric’s ego.

Madeleine, I didn’t come all the way down here to have my time wasted, he said, his tone blunt. There had better be a meeting.

The nerve of him. As if her time wasn’t valuable as well. Eric Sorensen wasn’t the only person on earth with a high-powered job and a demanding schedule. Yet it was so like him to act as if his job was more important than everyone else’s. Well, damn it, her job mattered too. Five years ago she’d lost both her beloved parents and gone through a painful divorce within the span of twelve months, and Focus had kept her going. Now it was all she had; without the magazine she’d be nothing but a lonely, bitter divorcée. At least she had a purpose here. Fashion was her calling. Even if parts of the job were becoming more and more thankless each year.

Irritated, she swallowed a retort, and put her glasses back on as she checked her schedule. There it was, marked in her online calendar, an early morning meeting with Eric Sorensen. "Susan did schedule a meeting, she said, in surprise. She’ll be joining us via conference call."

So, I wasn’t mistaken.

Madeleine frowned. His tone was entirely too smug and self-satisfied for her liking. What is this meeting even about?

He shrugged. Your guess is as good as mine.

Oh, she didn’t care for that response at all. Peering at him over her glasses, she narrowed her eyes. My time is precious too, Eric. I need to know if this meeting is important or if it’s just some social call that Susan is pushing for.

The owners of Forward Communication liked to wine and dine potential sources for advertising revenue. But that wasn’t Madeleine’s department. She didn’t go around, hat in hand, trying to schmooze for money. That had always struck her as undignified.

I assure you, it’s important.

How so? she pressed. Since you don’t even know what the meeting is about.

"It’s important because I’ll be there."

Madeleine took in his denim jacket, T-shirt with his company’s logo, and— jeans; Eric, the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, had actually walked through the halls of Focus Magazine wearing denim, although the expensive loafers were a nice touch. She wondered how he would dress for a casual meeting, if