Sliced Ice E-Book

Lee Winter

• Herausgeber: Ylva Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 347

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Ten short stories based on Lee Winter's fierce and unforgettable ice queens and villains have been gathered into one anthology containing lesbian love, lust, and friendship, and romance. Revisit iconic characters from The Brutal Truth, Breaking Character, Hotel Queens, Requiem for Immortals, The Red Files, and Under Your Skin. Winter's fierce, captivating women come out, wreak revenge, propose, and make love.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Other Books by Lee Winter

Introduction

Five Times Felicity Met Elena

Aliens of New York

The Brutal Lie

Skye Storm’s Invite Absolutely Everyone Ultimate Pool Party

The Friend

Number Five

Flashbang

When DC Met Iowa

First-Class Villains

Love is Not Nothing

Other Books from Ylva Publishing

About Lee Winter

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www.ylva-publishing.com

Other Books by Lee Winter

On the Record series

The Red Files

Under Your Skin

The Superheroine Collection

Shattered

Standalone

Hotel Queens

Changing the Script

Breaking Character

The Brutal Truth

Requiem for Immortals

Introduction

When Ylva first suggested the idea of a short story collection, I was over the moon. My short stories have always been scattered to the winds, some tucked away in a clutch of anthologies; others available only to my newsletter subscribers, and one has never appeared anywhere before.

To bring all ten together is so satisfying. I love that, finally, all three of my Brutal Truth short stories can rub shoulders in the same place. And, for the first time, I can unveil a short story from the Hotel Queens universe, about a certain popular CEO sex fantasies goddess and her most unexpected client.

All these stories were so much fun to write, and I’m delighted to be able to share them with you all.

Five Times Felicity Met Elena

Twenty-three

Felicity Simmons is twenty-three, a junior legal associate, professionally ambitious, personally miserable, and entirely straight, thank you very much.

It’s rather odd how vigorously that last fact jumps into her head as she reviews the icy woman opposite her. Elena Bartell. Media mogul. So-called Tiger Shark. Devourer of failing newspapers that get strip-mined for her burgeoning empire.

Today, Bartell is overseeing the takeover of yet another small print masthead. And Felicity’s team, led by her boss, is negotiating—disastrously—on behalf of the minnow of a paper to secure a decent deal. Felicity supposes she should be more concerned by how badly they’re doing.

Instead, she’s staring.

Power exudes from Elena’s compact form, making her beautiful in the way of a predatory panther. Short jet-black hair is slicked around her pale face. Elena’s piercing blue eyes roam restlessly, dismissing her competition with contempt. Yet for all her unnerving presence, the woman says little, leaving the legal white noise to a phalanx of cloned, gray-suited males on either side of her.

Felicity’s never been more impressed in her life. If she wants to make partner, and Felicity really does, she should pay attention to impressive women like this.

Much later, when they’re back at the office and her boss is chugging antacid like frat party beer, all she can recall clearly of that meeting is the godawful mustard yellow carpet in the newspaper’s boardroom…and Bartell’s victorious smirk.

For the briefest of moments, it occurs to Felicity she might not be entirely straight after all, when that taunting smile sticks in her mind on a loop. But that is entirely ridiculous. You can admire a woman’s power and beauty without wanting to run your fingers down her shapely arms, drop kisses under her proud chin, or take her pink, perfect earlobe into your mouth and run your tongue all over it. Obviously.

Twenty-five

The next time Felicity sees Elena, Felicity is a senior legal associate, working on her first ulcer, and keeping herself together with cigarettes, coffee, and willpower.

She’s still totally straight, not that anyone’s asking, and so busy she can’t even remember the last time she went on a date—so it’s all rather a moot point.

On that note, her friends think she should try Tinder. “Friends” is a loose term for her regular Starbucks servers—the only people she sees often enough to form any sort of a lasting attachment with. And she is deeply, deeply attached to her Caffè Americano.

She’s not going to try Tinder. Well, not before she’s made a partner. Her focus on her goals is steely, sharp, and distraction-free—something she picked up from studying a certain someone else.

Elena Bartell’s not hard to study these days. Business profiles on her are now appearing regularly in national papers, examining Bartell Corp’s transformation, seemingly out of nothing, into a publishing behemoth.

Gone is the surprised undertone about the steepness and suddenness of her brilliant career trajectory. Instead, there is now grudging respect about her acumen and net worth, and the reports are tinged with wonder as to what will follow. Felicity herself has been wondering the same thing rather a lot lately.

Felicity’s firm is once again representing a newspaper’s interests against the ambitions of the Tiger Shark. This paper’s only middle-sized, but it’s important. It has a long history, real heritage, and means something to the locals. So it’s vital that Felicity’s firm pulls off a miracle and gets the newspaper an excellent deal that will keep it running close to its current form. Sometimes Elena allows that—she’ll reorganize papers instead of gutting them if she thinks bad management is all that’s preventing them from turning a healthy profit.

As Felicity slides into a leather chair in the conference room, she’s hopeful for the paper’s loyal readers that today’s the day her boss earns his six-figure salary and does his damned job.

It isn’t to be. Once again, Hank is getting mauled as if someone tossed an antelope into the lion enclosure. This time, though, it’s Elena shredding and twisting his arguments with his own verbal intestines. She’s not even a lawyer. Her burgeoning confidence and expertise are brilliant to watch—too bright to stare directly at, impossible to look away from.

God, Hank is useless.

Felicity tries to help of course, shoving urgent notes across to her boss to bolster his weak arguments at critical moments.

Each time she does, Elena shoots her a knowing look.

And each time, Hank ignores Felicity’s assistance and tosses her an annoyed glance.

Surely the intellectually stunted egotist will be getting his useless ass fired soon? Anyone who nukes an important deal this badly would have to cause a reshuffle. Then Felicity’s excellence will be recognized. She should make partner by thirty.

She has it all mapped out. She has everything mapped out now. She’s even started diction lessons with Mrs. Allsop to sound the part and scrape any last traces of Pinckney, Michigan, from her lips. Felicity will be ready.

The meeting breaks up with a lopsided deal and another triumphant smirk. It’s all too easy for Elena apparently, and she can’t be bothered hiding it.

Well. The mockery is deserved.

Felicity’s boss is bowed as he gathers his paperwork and shoots Elena a hateful stare.

She ignores him and clears her throat. “A word, Ms. Simmons?”

Felicity almost drops her own folders and frowns. What could the Tiger Shark possibly want with a lowly associate?

Elena perches on the edge of the boardroom table, her pinstripe skirt riding up just a little, and waits as the room empties out of men in near-identical business suits. Once they’re alone, Elena leans in. “Your client might have won today if you’d run that meeting.”

Despite being in full agreement, Felicity folds her arms. “We didn’t lose. We negotiated a mutually beneficial deal.”

“Mutually beneficial?” Elena’s voice contains mockery laced with humor. “Sure it was. And if you believe that, you’re not the woman I take you for.” She slides smoothly to her feet, pivots, and saunters off with a jaunty sway of hips.

Dear God. Felicity makes a mental note to buy a pinstripe skirt suit if that’s the effect they have.

Back at their own office, Hank asks what Bartell wanted.

“To gloat,” Felicity murmurs. Although, she’s not so sure. Her hormones do a delighted little quiver at the reminder of that badass suit.

Totally straight, she reminds herself. Of course she is.

Twenty-eight

Felicity’s now older, seasoned—well…jaded—starting to question her partner prospects, and trying to quit stress-smoking. Peering into the mirror of the Ladies Room just off from the Park Hyatt’s main ballroom, Felicity wonders whether her fourteen-hour days are starting to show. She prods the darkening skin under her eyes for answers.

A stall door opens, and familiar, taunting eyes lock with hers in the mirror. Their owner glides over to the marble sink and washes her hands.

“Ms. Simmons, we meet again,” Elena purrs.

It’s a complete mystery to Felicity how this woman is called a shark when she’s clearly pure jungle cat, with the lethal, rapier claws to match. She’s sleek, sensuous, powerful…

Felicity blinks. Now’s hardly the time to reevaluate her sexuality. She has a boyfriend and everything. Tim. No…Tom. Christ!

Elena’s watching her, waiting for an answer.

“Congratulations on your Businessperson of the Year award tonight.” Felicity winces at how stiff she sounds. She reaches for her lipstick and rolls out the crimson. “That’s impressive.”

“It’s meaningless. Bartell Corp is a hundred-foot-high tsunami, impossible to ignore, so they feel obligated to throw awards and other such nonsense at me. I’m more interested in that award you were up for last month. A shame you missed out. You were robbed.”

Felicity detests compliments. The awkwardness of having to appear grateful while she works out why they’re being offered makes her hyperventilate. She’ll be up all night picking over this one. “I’m sure Jason Hampton deserved it more.” She grits her teeth.

Like hell he does. The New York Law Journal’s Rising Star Award? Please. No contest.

The objective truth is that Felicity has had one hell of a year. Even her boss admitted as much as he turned her down for a promotion.

“You don’t seriously believe that he was more deserving?” Elena’s eyebrows lift.

Felicity hesitates. Sometimes it’s hard being careful not to look too ambitious, too smart, too immodest… She glances around, checking they’re alone. “No. I deserved it.”

“There now.” Elena’s eyes glitter. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She sways into Felicity’s space. “Claim your worth, Ms. Simmons. And when you finally give up on waiting to be appreciated, call me. I can make far better use of your talent than your firm.” She opens her clutch and flips an embossed pearl business card onto the counter.

Felicity’s mouth falls open, but she can’t think of a single thing to say.

“Look, I know those men,” Elena continues, meeting Felicity’s gaze in the mirror. Her expression is intense and knowing but, for once, not mocking. “They’ll never let you into their boys’ club. You’ll never be a partner there. No matter how many hoops you jump through, no matter how impressive your CV, or how you straighten out your Midwest vowels.”

She noticed that? Her lessons with Mrs. Allsop have been coming along well, sanitizing any hint of Felicity’s unflattering origins, which she prefers not to dwell on.In truth, she borders perilously close to sounding like Julie Andrews these days if she doesn’t watch herself. Spit bloody spot.

Wait, never be a partner? Her head snaps up.

Elena almost smiles. “Sore point?” She waves at Felicity’s fingers as she leaves.

Startled, Felicity looks down. Lipstick has snapped off in her hand—a crime scene of crimson debris spread across skin and sink.

Felicity sighs. She glances over to Elena’s card, in two minds about whether to bin it or frame it.

Twenty-nine

The fourth time Felicity sees Elena, she’s twenty-nine, still not a partner—a fact which grates constantly given how close she is to her personal deadline—and the jury is out on her sexuality.

She’s been having dreams for which she’s hard-pressed to find a heterosexual explanation. That’s not to say she isn’t still interested in men. She is. But she can’t tally that up next to muddled, erotic meanderings involving dark hair and blue eyes belonging to high-cheekboned faces that aren’t rough in the least.

Could just be the stress.

Probably all it is.

Tonight Felicity’s at a glamorous but oddball LA event to launch some blog for Hollywood movers and shakers. A blog, for heaven’s sake. But due to the powerful, triple A-list guest list, it’s been purloined as the must-attend networking extravaganza for anyone associated with the print, social media, or entertainment industry. So that includes herself, her boss, and several lawyer colleagues who handle takeovers and mergers for newspapers all over the US.

Hank has dragged his team here tonight in the quest to win over a normally reclusive online news CEO’s multi-million-dollar legal business. Even from halfway across the room, Felicity can already tell he’s going to crash and burn so badly.

It’s a white-themed ball, and the organizers apparently have no qualms about making their guests snow-blind. At least the men in white tuxes look sublime, especially the one who’s just sauntered in as though auditioning to play a Hollywood prince. So much jaw.

Felicity’s dormant-of-late hormones give a little purr of approval. There. Still firmly heterosexual, thank you very much. She almost sags in relief.

Tonight Felicity’s wearing her favorite gown, a floor-length cream de la Renta that cost her six months’ salary and only just lets her breathe. It’s a good thing she lives on a perpetual carb-free diet. With her pinned-up, long blond hair and teardrop pearl earrings, she’s well aware she looks more than acceptable—at least if her useless boss’s speculative gazes are any indication.

Her teeth grind. Why the hell is Hank still her boss? She’s saved his pitiful ass more times than she can count, and he never acknowledges her aside from empty promises to make it up to her come promotion time.

Every single time he says those words, she tries to believe in him. Needs to. Christ, she’s like a slot machine addict, too frightened to walk away from the machine she’s invested so much in, in case it’s about to pay out the jackpot a minute later.

Felicity thinks back to the embossed pearl business card stuck to her fridge back home in her Manhattan apartment. Every now and then, when she’s at her lowest, Felicity reminds herself of the time a publishing goddess saw her worth.

She straightens. Well, maybe Hank could shock her completely and do the right thing soon. The company is due to pick a new partner this year. So maybe he’ll…

Felicity throws back a gulp of dry martini. Sure he will. She’s being a fool most likely, but she is committed to seeing her “law partner by thirty” plan through.

She needs air. And a cigarette. Even though she’s quit.

The first hotel balcony she comes to involves a jungle’s worth of potted trees and a glimpse of two women she can’t make out too well in a steamy clinch. Typical for a publishing ball—add alcohol to uptight, stressed-out media types trying too hard to dominate in their field, and they’re bound to get smashed and fuck in dark corners.

The next balcony is quieter, only one inhabitant. It’s likely a fellow smoker, so Felicity enters and closes the French doors behind her. Her cigarette is lit, and she’s halfway to the railing when she realizes who she’s joining. She freezes, eyes wide, just as Elena Bartell turns to eye her.

A stunning black organza flowing gown greets Felicity, and it shimmers with the movement. The dress highlights Elena’s jet-black hair and brings out shadows under her cheekbones, giving her the look of a classy European model. The deep vee of her cleavage is…well…as hard to miss as it is spectacular.

“Sorry to intrude. I’ll go.” Felicity’s mouth is suddenly dry. She’s not sure how she feels about her sexuality jury being out again.

“It’s fine, Ms. Simmons. You stay.” Elena glances at Felicity’s lit cigarette, and her lips press together. “I’ll go.”

“No.” Felicity says quickly. She stubs out her cigarette. “I’m trying to quit anyway. It’s a cheater’s way to stress relief.”

“Hmm.” Elena’s amused gaze fixes on her. “You need a hobby then, if your job is stressful enough to drive you to an early grave. And by hobby, I mean more than just elocution lessons.”

Felicity doesn’t bother to deny the lessons. “I’m going to be a partner soon.” Does she sound confident? She hopes so. “No time for hobbies.”

“Sure you are.” Elena’s voice is pure cynical drawl.

“Well you don’t have any hobbies,” Felicity retorts, irritated at being mocked. It’s just a guess of course, but how could Elena fit any in between building up her media empire and smashing any tawdry little rags she deems unworthy?

“Is that so?” Elena cocks her head. “For all you know, I could be the drummer in an indie band.”

It takes Felicity a full minute to register the joke for what it is because her brain has just fritzed at the mere idea of Elena Bartell doing something as lowbrow as that.

Elena laughs. “Your face.” She shakes her head the tiniest amount, then becomes serious. “It’s true; empire building doesn’t leave me much free time. Especially now.”

There’s a gleam in her eyes, something there, something she wants to talk about. Felicity can almost smell it. “What are you working on?” she prods.

“Something…special. International. I’ve been in LA all week talking to a few backers.” Pride and excitement light Elena’s eyes. “My project is going forward at last.”

“Specifically?”

“Why do you want to know?”

Because everything you do is larger than life.You’re astonishing. Ruthless. Powerful. I want to be like you. “Curiosity.”

“Ah.” Elena’s eyes cloud over. “An itch to scratch.” She seems disappointed in the answer.

Regret floods Felicity, and she wonders what she should have said. Before she can think of something else to say, something better, Elena sighs and glances out over the darkened view.

Felicity stares down too. Not much to see. Headlights and taillights of cars and cabs whizzing by in orange and red trails. Lots of bright, flashy, fluorescent signs and tourist lures.

“I came out here for fresh air,” Elena says suddenly. “Well, and to escape the endless sycophants.”

“I don’t think you’ll find much fresh air in LA,” Felicity notes.

“No,” Elena murmurs in agreement. “A tactical error on my part.”

“You don’t make many of them.” Felicity intends her words to sound dry, but they come out awed. She cringes.

“Didn’t I just mention I was trying to escape the sycophants?”

Felicity bristles. “It was an honest observation, not an attempt to curry favor.”

“Mm. Perhaps. It’s hard for me to tell these days.” Elena sighs and gives the view a morose look.

“Tell me about your big project?” Felicity tries again.

“Why?”

“So I can see if I’m right.” She smiles. “About you not making many tactical errors. Or whether this is the first.” Oh, that’s cheeky. She can’t believe she even said that. The impudence of her, lowly lawyer Felicity Simmons, daring to judge Elena Bartell’s grand schemes. She can’t believe her own fucking audacity. Felicity’s heart starts thumping faster.

Elena’s eyes narrow into slits. “I’m starting an international fashion magazine to rival CQ and Vogue. It will be extraordinary in scale and content. So, Ms. Simmons, do tell me all about your extensive expert knowledge in fashion and magazines that will enable you to determine the success of my new project. I’m all ears.”

There’s real bite to her tone, and it contains that vicious, mocking sarcasm she sometimes adopts when she’s filleting Felicity’s boss. She only uses it when someone’s dared suggest she’s less than excellent at her job.

“You’re right,” Felicity concedes. “I’m not an expert. But why fashion? Bartell Corp’s all about news. It’s what you excel at.” She can’t help the trace of skepticism that leaks at the idea of Elena’s corporation dipping its toe into fashion.

“You really don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“I take it back—you’re not a sycophant.”

“As I told you…”

“You’re worse. You lounge around and poke at sharks, blithely unaware of their natures.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, Ms. Simmons, you should do your research before making a fool of yourself and questioning my expertise.” Elena’s gaze drifts over Felicity’s shoulder to the party beyond. “Ah. I see Richard’s deigned to appear,” she murmurs almost to herself. “I should mingle. I’ll leave you to your…bad habits.” She waves at the stubbed-out cigarette still clutched in Felicity’s fingers.

Felicity follows Elena’s gaze and sees a white-tuxedoed form through the French doors. Jesus. She’s with the perfect-jawed prince?

Richard’s eyes are sharp and interested, devouring Elena’s cleavage. As Elena glances down at the handle to open the doors, Richard’s gaze slides surreptitiously over to rake Felicity’s body too.

Christ. What a catch.

Half an hour later, Felicity is slamming down cocktails, in a proper mood, while her colleague, Larissa, is talking her ear off about environmental law and the caterer’s “sublime” cheese canapés.

Felicity’s tuned out, having little interest in either topic. No one has accused her of being a fool in her entire life. That barb stings and stings.

Larissa suddenly leans over and curls a loose strand of blonde hair around Felicity’s ear. “Want to clear out of here? You, me, and your hotel room?” Her smile is pure mischief.

“I…what?” Felicity’s head snaps up. “I’m not…” What? What aren’t I? “I like men.”

“You can like both, you know.” Larissa’s eyes are laughing. “Bi’s an actual thing.”

That thought freezes Felicity in surprise, given she’s never considered it about herself.

“Don’t you like me?” Larissa thrusts her cleavage in Felicity’s direction, and Felicity has to admit it is surprisingly appealing. “I always thought you did.”

“I rather do.” There. Felicity flings back the rest of her drink and wonders what’s possessing her to be so honest with herself. But it would be rather nice to get Elena out of her head for a little while. Infuriating woman.

An hour later, Felicity is orgasmically sated and re-reevaluating her sexuality. This is getting irksome. She’s almost thirty. Shouldn’t she know basic sexuality stuff about herself by now? Felicity reviews her situation. She’s naked, sweaty, postcoital, and rather enjoying Larissa’s wandering fingers, which seem to have a sixth sense for all Felicity’s erogenous zones.

“Saw you talking to the Tiger Shark earlier tonight,” Larissa murmurs. “She’s looking fine. Her outfit is perfection. But that figures, doesn’t it?”

That gets Felicity’s attention. “Why do you say that?”

“Don’t you know who she was before she founded Bartell Corp?”

“I…no?”

“She was being lined up to be the youngest editor of CQ magazine; hell, she was going to be even bigger than Anna Wintour.”

“You’re joking.”

“Oh no, back in the day, Elena Bartell used to live and breathe nothing but fashion magazines.”

The hell? None of the business profiles ever mention that. The finance journalists only ever focus on Bartell Corp and its news-based beginnings. Felicity pauses. The all-male finance journalists…who probably think a onetime dalliance in fashion glossies is either too embarrassing to mention or not worthy of the column space.

I’m starting a national fashion magazine.

Elena’s words replay in Felicity’s mind, along with the way she uttered them. So much pride in her eyes. Her ambitious plan is to go back to her first love, to her fashion roots. And what does Felicity do? Imply she’s an out-of-depth rookie trying a risky venture.

Felicity has been foolish indeed. “How do you know all this?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Larissa laughs. “I have the hots for her. She’s my celebrity free pass. I do a lot of research on her.”

“Oh.” Felicity’s face heats up. She’s trying very hard not to think of Elena in such a blatantly sexual way. That would be…impolite.

“Round two?” Larissa suggests. Her brown eyes darken. She rolls over onto Felicity and presses her bare, beautiful tits into Felicity’s much smaller ones. “You interested in more fun, beautiful?”

Felicity swallows, then nods. This is the most sex she’s had in years, and she’s not about to say no. But there’s something else hammering away at the back of her brain now. She tries to figure it out as best she can as Larissa slides her sure hand between their bodies and finds Felicity’s heat.

Oh God. That feels good.

Larissa is sensual, attentive, and beautiful, with dark, short hair and sparkling eyes. She’s someone to fuck through the bed as if there’s no tomorrow. Now Larissa’s fingers are inside Felicity, and Felicity rocks against them, moaning. Oh, this is so, so good. When has it ever been so good? Larissa’s perfect. So lovely.

A shame her eyes aren’t blue.

What an odd thought to have.

Felicity comes hard against those thrusting fingers, pressing her mouth into Larissa’s, and nips Larissa’s bottom lip in playful thanks for a most acceptable orgasm.

Rolling off her, Felicity lies back and languidly trails her fingertips over all that soft, supple skin. Arousal flares again, and she pictures all the ways she’ll take Larissa next—when she catches her breath.

A flash of engaging blue eyes darts into mind, and a smirking face to go with them. Felicity’s seen these eyes so many times in her fevered dreams.

A clear, perfect picture forms of one Elena Bartell.

Oh. Oh hell.

Thirty

It’s time. Time Felicity admits some inconvenient truths. One, she’s failed ather plans to be a partner by thirty. Two, she’s galled to find Elena knows Felicity’s firm better than she does. Three, Elena’s sexy as hell, and Felicity can no longer deny it. And four, the big one, Felicity’s now honest enough to acknowledge her bisexuality, at least to herself, although she doesn’t plan on sharing. Ever. It’s no one’s damned business.

There’ve been a few…dalliances…in recent months. Although, lusting for straight women with sharp blue eyes and ebony hair is an absolute no-fly zone. That much Felicity’s damned clear on. She’s careful to have never made that lapse again.

Still, it doesn’t hurt to look. And right now, Felicity’s eyes are fixated on the back of Elena’s head, where the woman is sitting in the front row at a writer’s festival.

Felicity, who’s waiting to hear a feminist historical writer she’s liked ever since the woman did a guest lecture at Felicity’s college, almost face-plants at the sight of Elena. She tunes out the author on stage and wonders why she’s so startled to see Elena here. Felicity never expects to see her business hero outside of boardrooms and industry balls. But why wouldn’t a woman who is in the business of words go to a writer’s festival?

The author on stage is a sandy-haired man with wire glasses and a thoughtful expression. He oozes a sort of rumpled haplessness, like a puppy left out in the rain. He’s handsome in a nonthreatening way.

Felicity would gladly ignore him and head for the next tent to fill in time before her preferred writer turns up, but she’s too puzzled as to why Elena’s interested in this unassuming man to leave.

What possible allure can he have? Elena’s dedicated to power and conquest and success. Not only that but she’s brilliant at it. Yet here she sits, absorbing the words of a mediocre author of a book about toads as a metaphor for modern politics, which became a surprise hit.

Then, he says it: A media mogul joke. Not even a clever one.

The crowd titters.

He follows it up with a cutting dig about corporate media and those who run it, likening them to Medusa, she of the hissing head of snakes. As he does so, he looks directly at Elena.

What on earth? This whiny, mocking little wastrel unfit to tie Elena’s boots clearly means his barbs for her, and he wants everyone watching him to know it. For all Elena’s enemies and rivals, not one has ever had the audacity to imply she hasn’t deserved her success. Well, not for many years now. And this foppish fool dares?

Suddenly, every time Hank has ever dismissed Felicity’s intellect or excellence flashes into mind. Every pitiful, mediocre imbecile who’s ever put her down, used her work without crediting her, or slithered into the jobs she’s earned fills her thoughts. And Felicity’s talents aren’t even close to the blinding brilliance that is Elena Bartell, international media legend. Yet some snickering, third-rate, man-child gets to make fun of her as if he’s even worthy of being in the same universe as her?

Without thinking, Felicity shoots to her feet and strides toward the stage, blasting out a furious diatribe comparing his paltry writing career to that of a go-getting media entrepreneur’s. Just a generic entrepreneur, of course. No one specific.

“In conclusion,” Felicity finishes, voice rising to a lashing snarl, “two-bit hacks wearing unironic plaid don’t get to judge anyone!”

So there.

The crowd’s booing now. Yes, well, he’s the invited guest; she’s a heckler. Fair point.

As a security guard makes his way up the aisle, she makes good her escape. Elbowing her way to the exit amid further boos, her cheeks still burning from her rant, Felicity’s unsure whether it’s wise to look at Elena.

She sneaks a peek anyway. The briefest flash of surprise is the only emotion on Elena’s face before her cool mask swallows it whole.

Outside the writer’s tent, Felicity takes a few deep breaths, bums a cigarette from a passing patron, and considers what she’s done. She’s incredulous. She never makes a scene. Certainly not over something that doesn’t matter to her one bit. Who cares why mundane writers toss grenades at successful businesswomen?

Felicity suddenly stares at her unlit cigarette in confusion. Hasn’t she given up smoking? Apparently not.

“Why, Ms. Simmons, you appear to have offended my husband.”

Felicity’s head snaps up.

Elena is eying her curiously, arms folded.

“Husband?” But wasn’t she on with white-tux man?

“Well, ex-husband. Spencer and I were incompatible for a vast number of reasons. I think you nailed quite a few of them.” Elena smirks. “To think I was beginning to give up on you. Your potential.”

“I…what?”

“Finally speaking your mind? In front of witnesses no less? Standing up for what you believe in? That’s something I need from a chief of staff. And you need a new job. It cannot possibly be fulfilling watching junior, less-talented colleagues stealing your promotions.”

The careless comment burns like acid. Of course Elena would know about that. Felicity’s boss has been offering placating, condescending platitudes to her for weeks since she lost her partnership to an underling while Felicity’s blood slowly boils.

She should have known. Hell, Elena knew. She’s known for years. “Is this your ‘I told you so’?” Felicity asks suspiciously.

“No. It’s my job offer.”

“I’m a lawyer…not anything else.”

“You’d make a better chief of staff. You’re smart, organized, and know the law better than most of my suits.” Elena cocks her head. “Tell me something: Did you keep my business card? Or rip it up in a fit of misplaced loyalty to your mediocre little firm?”

It’s still on Felicity’s fridge door. She’s been thinking about that card a lot lately, to be honest, wondering whether the opportunity to call Elena is long gone. She’d assumed it was, given how Elena had put her in her place last time they’d met.

Felicity doesn’t answer, not willing to let the woman know she matters so much as to have had her card in pride of place on Felicity’s fridge all this time.

Elena apparently doesn’t require a response. “I’m planning a global media revolution.” Her blue eyes are glinting at the prospect. “Want in?”

“Why me?” Felicity croaks in astonishment.

“I see you, Ms. Simmons…Felicity. You’re ready. It’s long overdue, wouldn’t you say?”

Thirty-six

Felicity sees Elena Bartell daily. And each day, Elena looks at Felicity, challenges her, and tells her, not in so many words, that she’s valuable.

They’re taking over the media world together.

Felicity’s stress levels haven’t improved from her old job, given idiots and incompetence still surround her, but her satisfaction has. Hundreds of lawyers all across the world now have to answer to Felicity if they want to deal with the impenetrable Elena Bartell.

Felicity’s old boss is one of them. She takes a perverse delight in taking Hank’s calls and explaining in detail just how busy Elena is while they’re conquering the world. It’s petty, yes, but Elena did tell Felicity she needs a hobby.

Felicity snorts to herself. She probably needs a better hobby. Maybe she should call Larissa back for another hookup. Or even Tim. Or was it Tom?

“Felicity, pull up the contract on Hudson Metro News,” Elena calls out to her from her glass office. “Time we think big.”

That little flea-bitten boot-scraping of a newspaper? How is that thinking big? Curiosity floods Felicity. She’s been to its waterlogged, smelly nether reaches near the Hudson River, and there’s nothing remotely revolutionary nor interesting about the commuter rag.

But Elena is often mysterious about such things. She rarely explains much, so Felicity never knows what her boss is up to next—her mind whirs far beyond that of mere mortals. Felicity’s sure that whatever it is, her plan will be exceptional.

It doesn’t matter that Elena doesn’t confide in her, she reminds herself. It’s just good being this close to the action.

Felicity’s thirty-six, has quit smoking, is professionally satisfied, and is thoroughly bisexual, thank you very much.

She never did make partner.

And now she no longer cares.

* * *

Want to continue the journey? What happens when the seemingly straight media mogul, Elena Bartell, meets a cute, blunt, slightly eccentric reporter from Australia working at Hudson Metro News? Find out in The Brutal Truth by Lee Winter.

Aliens of New York

Maddie Grey took a centering breath and tried to suppress her nerves. She could do this. This was just a book launch, right? Just some random collection of the blogs she’d written while homesick and miserable as a graveyard-shift reporter more than two years ago.

She gazed out the window at the New York streets below. In her mind, she was back at her old Hudson Metro News office, staring down at the bagel streetcart, suicidal bicycle couriers, and snaking yellow cabs with their winking red taillights.

This was where she’d first tried to make it as a reporter since arriving from Sydney. She was standing on the exact spot she’d failed.

Of course, it was all different now. Her struggling commuter rag had been gobbled up by Bartell Corporation, then knocked down and turned into the Hudson Shard—1,200 feet of vast, gleaming office space, a building as sleek and beautiful as the woman behind it.

On the ground floor sat a bookstore/café that, in a matter of minutes now, would be the site of the launch of Maddie’s first book. She still had to pinch herself to believe that a major publishing house had asked for the rights to her whimsical collection of blogs on life, loneliness, and drowning in a city everyone else seemed to love.

Book boxes stamped Aliens of New York surrounded her, along with stacks of other novels the bookstore had no space for downstairs. The smell of freshly printed ink wasn’t that far removed from that of her old paper, where she’d hunched over her desk turning late-breaking stories, obits, and crime stats into something interesting for the next day’s commuter crowd.

Her publishing house’s publicist, Alicia Keen, had blown in fifteen minutes ago, deposited Maddie in this storage room with a foldout chair and a view, told her to relax, and announced that a crowd was building in the bookstore, one that included several influential book reviewers.

Maddie still didn’t quite understand why her blogs had captivated the online attention they had, let alone earned a buzz when the book deal had been announced.

Alicia reappeared, eyes gleaming with excitement. She blew out a breath. “Almost ready for you. I must say, there are a lot of finance reporters downstairs.”

“What? Why? My blogs were about emotions, not business.”

“Yes, well, darling, there’s this absurd rumor that’s spread like wildfire that a VIP would be making an appearance.” Alicia rolled her eyes. “I mean, it’s silly. Why would a media mogul and fashion-editing icon of Elena Bartell’s international standing bother with a…” She faded out, realizing her mistake.

“A weird set of blogs like mine?” Maddie replied dryly.

“I was going to say a small, esoteric book of blogs, darling.”

Maddie grinned. “Nice save.”

“Well.” Alicia looked flummoxed. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Your book is fabulous; of course it is. I loved it!”

Uh-huh.

“But Ms. Bartell is insanely busy,” Alicia rushed on. “She spends most of her time in Sydney these days. It’s likely that she’s not even in town!”

Maddie grinned. “I heard she was.” And she’d seen her, felt her, kissed her, and a few other things that would doubtlessly scandalize Alicia Keen and the greater population of New York if they knew.

Maddie’s secret relationship with Elena had led to some awkward moments at times, especially lately when it came to Maddie’s book. There had been much confusion from her publishing house when Bartell Corp had, out of the blue, offered to host the launch of the Aliens of New York blog collection at its popular Hudson Shard Bookstore. Then there had been utter bewilderment when the media corporation had told Maddie’s publisher it would be promoting Aliens of New York in all its newspapers and magazines globally.

Privately, between kisses and mumbles about nepotism, Maddie had protested Elena’s decision, only to be cut off by Elena’s fierce declaration that it was a business decision.

“Excellence deserves to be celebrated, Madeleine,” Elena had said, her breath hot against Maddie’s ear. “And I won’t debate this. It’s done.”

It might have been done, but no one at the publishing house could make sense of it.

Alicia shook her head, causing a dramatic bounce of hoop earrings. “Look, just don’t expect to see Ms. Bartell today. I know you once worked for her, and that’s probably what’s fueling the rumors, but you were her assistant for barely five minutes; am I right, darling?”

“Yep.” Maddie hid her smile.

“Exactly! Would she even be able to pick you out of a lineup given how many assistants she goes through? Pfft. It would be lovely of course, if she did drop by. What a boost that would be! But, I mean, really, why would she? Trust me: I deal with that type a lot. The Tiger Shark and her sharp little teeth wouldn’t be caught dead in here.”

Alicia leaned over and tucked the tag down in the back of Maddie’s blouse. “There, all set.” She patted Maddie’s shoulder. “I’m glad you went with this. So much better than that grunge T-shirt you threatened to wear. You weren’t serious, were you, darling? No, don’t answer that. Now, I’ll just head back downstairs and make sure everything’s shipshape. I’ll come and get you when we’re due to start.”

At the door, she hesitated. “And just in case the rumor is true, could I please ask that you don’t act so…Australian? You can be a bit overfamiliar at times. Very…down-to-earth. Oh, it’s refreshing—I mean that in a good way—but I doubt a woman of Elena Bartell’s reputation and status would appreciate someone who…” Alicia paused. “Well, you know.”

“Right.” Maddie bit the inside of her cheek. “I’ll do my best.”

“Lovely.” Alicia beamed. “Okay, I must finalize things. Back soon, darling.” She disappeared in a rustle of skirts and a clinking homage to seventies jewelry.

Maddie finally released the laugh she’d been desperately holding in. Oh, the Tiger Shark was indeed the possessor of a fine set of teeth. They’d gently nibbled along Maddie’s thigh at five this morning to take her mind off her nerves about today. By the end of it, Maddie couldn’t even remember her own name, let alone that of her book.

“Madeleine?” The door clicked open and shut behind Maddie before a familiar warmth pressed itself into her back. “It’s only me.”

Funny how she said that. There was no “only” about Elena Bartell.

Maddie leaned back against Elena, inhaling the scent that was distinctly her. “Do you recognize where we are?” Maddie asked after a few moments of basking in Elena’s presence.

Elena peered over Maddie’s shoulder into the street below. “Should I? Beyond being in the same location where your old newspaper used to be?”

“Remember when you moved into Hudson Metro’s office for a month? This was your view from your window. I should know; I gazed into your office often enough. For reasons.” Maddie gave a small laugh.

“Ah. You know, I don’t think I ever looked outside even once. My attention was fixed on my redesign plans…and, occasionally, on this maddening junior crime reporter who sat outside my office at crazy hours.”

“Oh, her.” It still surprised Maddie that Elena had noticed her at all in those days.

Threading her arms tighter around Maddie’s waist, Elena asked, “So what do you see out there?”

“Memories. How alone I felt. Me failing in a city everyone dreams of being in. It was hard, feeling too far from home and being unable to make friends when I worked crazy late hours. I craved connection.”

“Feeling isolated in a city of millions?” Elena murmured. “Mm. I think that’s why I loved your blog, why I was drawn to you. Your words resonated.”

“Plus I bribed you with treats so you’d talk to me.” Maddie grinned.

“Ah, now all those late-night food drops make sense.” Elena’s voice became amused. “So I was just…there? A warm body to talk to and take your mind off things?”

“Oh, no. You were also all kinds of fascinating.”

“You didn’t always think so.” Elena’s voice was a soft purr. “Once you called me a calculating, icy, money-hungry bitch of a shark.”

“For good reason!” Maddie frowned.