This is stupid. Richard is my boss. He’d be off limits even without his baggage. Richard, left at the altar. Could it be true? How could any woman about to marry Richard leave him? The gal must’ve been crazy.

I get a mental picture of his handsome, chiseled face staring at the bride as she runs down the aisle away from him. The intelligent spark of his chestnut irises subdued as he lowers his gaze to the church’s floor in defeat. The lovely crinkles he gets around the eyes when he smiles banished by sorrow. Forehead creased. Jaw tense.

Then he raises his face again, and the gentle, trusting man is gone. Features hardened, cheeks gaunt, and lips parted in that cynic, uncaring grin Richard uses to scorn the world. He’s a man wearing a mask. He’s the Richard I know.

***

In the end, ambition wins out over my silly crush for the boss. The next morning I find myself knocking on Richard’s door as soon as he gets into the office.

He looks up and smiles. “Blair, come in.”

“Hi,” I stutter nervously, taking the chair in front of his desk.

“How can I help my star employee?”

“S-star employee?”

Richard frowns. “Nobody showed you the numbers?”

“Uh, no.”

His entire face lights up, and my stupid belly flutters in response. I need to swallow mothballs and kill the love bug infestation. Richard shuffles some stacks of paper on his desk until he finds the folder he was looking for. “These are the first analytics from your pages; it’s amazing what you were able to do in only three weeks.”

To build some one-hundred backlist articles, I had to call in every favor anyone in the industry owed me, and now I’m all spent. That’s why a big, Saskia-Landon break is what I need.

“These looks great.” I grimace, staring at numbers that are a teensy fraction of what I used to pull at Évoque. “But we need something truly spectacular if we’re hoping for a real breakthrough.”

Richard shakes his head. “Even with numbers as good as these, I can’t allot any extras to your section.”

“Okay.” I flash him a mischievous smile. “But you can intercede with your connections.”

Richard frowns questioningly.

“Was that Saskia Landon you left with yesterday?” I cut to the chase.

Richard’s eyes widen. “Yeah, Saskia is a good friend.”

A good friend? As in only a friend?! Please be specific, Richard, these things matter. Friend or girlfriend? I ignore the ramming questions in my head and ask, “As your good friend, would Saskia agree to do a photo shoot for us?”

“We can’t afford her.”

“Don’t you worry about that. Deliver Saskia for two hours, and I can get any brand on the planet to pay her fee, the photographer’s fee, and book a year’s worth of advertisement with us as well. Fashion houses will fight each other to jump at the opportunity.”

“And you can guarantee this?”

“One-hundred percent.”

“All right,” Richard finally agrees. “Saskia leaves New York in three days; can you pull it off with such short notice?”