Bravo Unwrapped. Christine Rimmer

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СКАЧАТЬ it every five minutes for over an hour. Eventually, she realized it was either get up—or admit she was taking a sick day. B. J. Carlyle did not take sick days.

      So she crawled out of bed groaning and headed straight for the bathroom, where she dropped to her knees, banged the seat lid back and threw up. Repeatedly.

      By the time she finally stopped gagging and staggered upright, it was much too late for her usual session on the Stairmaster, let alone her blenderized breakfast cocktail of fruit juice and vitamin-packed protein powder.

      Okay, she told herself. Fine. Tomorrow for the Stairmaster.

      And the protein drink? Skipping it was not a problem, considering that the thought of gulping it down had her queasy stomach threatening to bring her to her knees again.

      B.J. ate three saltine crackers and grabbed a quick shower. Precious extra minutes went into her makeup. She troweled on the concealer in a mostly failed effort to hide the ravages incurred by five virtually sleepless nights in a row. Finally, she put on her favorite short black pencil skirt and that cute pink Donna Karan silk blouse with the opera-glove sleeves and the wild spill of ruffles at the neck and the black snub-toed Pradas with the four-inch heels. Though she was a tall woman—five-eight in flats—on a day like this, she could use all the extra height she could get. She pulled on a short, snug pink leather blazer over the blouse, grabbed her big black alligator bag and her briefcase, and went out the door without so much as glancing at her message machine.

      That little red light was blinking and she knew it. It had been blinking when she came in the night before. She knew who’d called. She’d checked the display.

      Buck.

      She wasn’t talking to him—she wasn’t even going to listen to his deep, sexy recorded voice. Uh-uh. Not a chance.

      Downstairs, she waited, trying not to tap her toe, while sweet old Melvin, the doorman, got her a cab. Traffic on Broadway was a zoo—no surprise. The cab smelled of garlic and wet shoes. Her cell rang twice. Probably Giles, her right-hand man at Alpha. By now, Giles would be wondering where the hell she was.

      B.J. ignored the calls. She stared out the side window at the sea of scurrying pedestrians and honking vehicles and told herself she was not going to vomit—garlic and stinky-shoe smell be damned. She was keeping down her three measly crackers and that was that.

      At West 58th, she got out of the cab and sucked in a deep breath of lovely exhaust-rich, garlic-free air. She paid the cabbie. She tugged on her blazer and brushed at her skirt. Then she yanked her shoulders back, stuck her chin in the air and strode purposefully toward the black-marble-and-glass building that housed the offices of Alpha magazine. B.J.’s father, L.T. Carlyle, owned the building. Alpha had the fifteenth floor.

      B.J. spent the ride up to the offices trying not to look at her own reflection in the elevator’s mirrored walls and ignoring her cell, which was ringing again. She had that Bride of Chucky look around the eyes. Scary. Very scary. And she really should have used a little more blusher….

      The doors slid wide and she was facing the Alpha reception desk, complete with stunning receptionist Melanie, who had exotic slanted eyes and preternaturally large lips—lips that went with her breasts, as a matter of fact. Melanie automatically beamed her blinding big-lipped smile, as she’d been trained to do whenever the elevator doors opened.

      Then she realized it was B.J. “Oh! B.J. You’re…late.” Melanie stated the obvious with a look of pure bewilderment. B.J., after all, was never late. And beyond the bewilderment, didn’t Melanie seem a little…guilty? She had a magazine open in front of her. She flipped it closed, folded her slim French-manicured hands on top of it and blinked three times in rapid succession.

      Even with Melanie’s tightly clasped hands in the way, B.J. could see enough of the cover to make a positive identification: TopMale magazine. Apparently, Melanie felt guilty for checking out Alpha’s competition. Did B.J. care what the receptionist read while she was supposed to be working?

      Not today, she didn’t. “Good morning, Melanie,” B.J. announced vehemently, and headed for the hallway to the left of the desk.

      Melanie called after her. “Uh. Giles says he needs to talk to you. He’s been trying to reach you….”

      B.J. stopped, pivoted on her mean black heels, and gave the receptionist her most terrifying smile. “And I’m headed his way as we speak, now aren’t I? Or I was, until you stopped me.”

      “Uh. Well,” said Melanie, coloring prettily. “Yeah. Okay. That’s right….”

      B.J. proceeded down the hall, sprinkling tight greetings at random colleagues as she went, careful not to make eye contact, which would encourage further communication. She was so not up for anything beyond “Hi,” right then—not that anyone tried to get her talking. In fact, they all seemed a little…strange, didn’t they? A little sheepish, their grins of greeting bordering on smarmy.

      Or was she only being paranoid due to sleep deprivation, unremitting nausea and raging hormones?

      Hmm. Could be.

      Giles had the office next to hers. His door was open. She had to walk past it to get to her own. She was tempted to try that—zip right by, pop into her own office and shut the door. Silently.

      Which was absurd. No point in coming to work just to hide in her office.

      She stepped boldly into the doorway of Giles’s narrow cubicle, which only achieved the designation of “office” because it had actual walls and a door he could shut. “What?” she demanded.

      Giles tossed his head as he looked up. His sleek blond hair flew back out of his eyes. “God. I thought you must have died.” People assumed that Giles had to be gay, he was so pretty. He let them assume it. Women adored him. They felt safe with him, even though they weren’t. He loved to gossip and he cared about fashion. His last name was CynSyr, pronounced sincere—which he actually was, on occasion. Giles spotted her shoes. “Darling. I love those. All you need is a whip.”

      “Is there a problem or not?”

      “Unfortunately, there is.” He peered at her more closely. “Are you…all right?”

      She stood straighter and lied—aggressively. “Fabulous.”

      “Did you, ah, see the new issue of TopMale, by any chance?”

      She scowled. “What is it with that? Melanie was reading it just now, when I came in.”

      “You haven’t seen it.”

      “No. Why?”

      “Ah—first, the good news.” He grabbed the Starbucks cup at his elbow and held it out to her. “Decaf mocha almond. Venti. One packet of Splenda. Just the way you like it.” His golden brows drew together and he wrinkled his aquiline nose. “Sorry, but it’s lukewarm by now.”

      She stepped into the room and took the latte from him. “Thanks. You do have your uses.”

      “I figured you’d need it.”

      “I do.” Assuming she could get it down without hurling. She gestured with the covered cardboard cup. “Okay. Let me have it.”

      “Disaster, that’s all.”

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