Vivian Carlisle, editor in chief of Du Jour and famously frigid fashionista, is expecting, according to inside sources. Is it her soon-to-be-ex-husband’s? Will the pregnancy patch up her marriage to finance guru Robert Kirk? Not if the pictures of him with British hottie Lennie Jeff are any indication, although it might be easier to keep two women apart when they’re on different sides of the pond. Maybe he can have it both ways?

She took in a sharp breath.

“Charming, isn’t it?” Vivian said through her teeth.

Jules wanted to suggest getting the New York Post reporter fired, but Vivian’s influence didn’t extend that far in the publishing world; if it did, Page Six would never say anything about her at all. It was weird to think that her power, which sometimes seemed all-encompassing, actually had limits. And that she’d reached them.

Jules heard a low, growling sound. It had just come out of her own throat, powered by a fury she had no right to feel.

Vivian turned at the sound.

Jules squeaked, but Vivian only looked bitterly amused.

“Was that therapeutic?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Jules said. She bit her lip and returned the phone.

Vivian took it, pursed her lips in consideration, and growled too.

It startled a laugh out of Jules, who immediately followed it up with, “Oh, sorry.”

Vivian shook her head in dismissal. “Not bad, but I’m going to need something a little more substantial.”

“Like what?” Jules was already prepared to get it for her on a silver platter, no matter what it was. Anything to get that look out of her eyes.

But Vivian was way ahead of her. “Nothing you can help with,” she said. “It’s beyond your reach. No, you just leave this to me.” Her expression turned into something much, much scarier. Her eyes gleamed with a light that could only be called diabolical.

Jules actually throbbed between her legs. If ever there was an inappropriate time…

“Ben,” Vivian said, “stop by a bar. I’m going to buy an old fashioned.”

Jules couldn’t have heard that correctly. “You’re what?”

“That’s my favorite drink.”

Her jaw dropped. “But… What? You can’t—”

“I know that. That’s why you’re going to drink it for me.”

After a long moment, Jules said, “You’re kidding.”

“No,” Vivian replied, “I’m delegating.”

Luckily, in New York, bars started serving at seven. So, sitting in a dive at eight thirty in the morning with Vivian Carlisle staring at her the whole time, Jules threw back an old fashioned. She’d never had one before.

“Huh,” she said. “Not bad.”

“Right? Someone once told me it wasn’t a woman’s drink. I ordered one right in front of him and never looked back.”

Jules couldn’t stop a grin. It wasn’t returned, but the darkness had retreated from Vivian’s eyes.