Baby proof

one season and for being a bit of a womanizer-not the sleazy kind, but the 'never been married smooth intellect who wines and dines beautiful women' kind. He's in his late forties but, unlike many men his age who are lucky to fetch descriptions like 'handsome' or 'attractive,' Richard can fairly be called hot. He has a very square jaw, deep- set blue eyes, and a slightly receding hairline, a combination of traits that conjures a certain rugged confidence. Even his nose-which looks as if it has been broken at least once-is sexy.

Richard has not only been on my list since I arrived at Elgin Press, but he has consistently occupied my top slot, a fact that I've only admitted to Michael and a few other close friends (with others, I hem and haw, pretend to never have considered the subject, and then issue the preamble, 'Please know that they are in no particular order,' which somehow makes the exercise seem less serious). In fact, Richard not only consistently tops my workplace list, but when Jude Law was caught in bed with his nanny, all his appeal went out the window, and a spot became available on my celebrity list. A spot I gave to Richard. At the time, Ben insisted that I couldn't commingle my lists, whereupon I argued that he was 'famous' at work. The point did not go over so well (Ben insisted that the whole theory behind the celeb list was their unattainable nature). So I bumped Richard, replacing him with Ed Harris-who, incidentally, could pass for Richard's brother.

'Where'd you hear that?' I ask Michael, feeling somewhat shamed by my racing pulse. But in my defense, I haven't had sex in months.

'From the horse's mouth,' Michael says, proudly cracking his knuckles.

'You asked your boss that question?' I say, marveling over Michael's ability to elicit illicit information from people, including higher-ups.

He shrugs. 'Yeah, so what. Guys over lunch, you know. Phil Loomis and Jack Hannigan were with us, and incidentally, Hannigan had you on his list, too.'

'Damn Phil screwed me out of the hat trick?' I say.

Michael laughs as I casually return to the subject of Richard. 'So who is Margo's number one? Stacy Eubanks?'

Stacy Eubanks, a secretary in sales, is Beyonce's blonde, blue-eyed twin and word has it that she moonlights as a porn star. (Michael claims to have spotted her in a video called Lezzie Maguire.)

'Nope. Stacy didn't make his cut.'

'Imagine that,' I say, giving Richard's list even more credence.

'I know. Shocked the hell out of me, too.'

'So who is his number one?' I say nonchalantly.

'That new French chick in sub rights.'

'Oh, yeah. Marina LeCroy. She's very… French.'

'Uh-huh. But apparently Richard's got a thing for redheads because Naomi Rubenstein is in his mix, too.'

'I'd hardly call that a thing for redheads.'

'Two redheads out of five definitely qualifies as 'a thing.' I mean, you all don't exactly make up forty percent of the general population.'

'Fair enough,' I say, wondering who the other two non-French, nonredheads on his list are.

'So what are you going to do about this?' Michael asks.

'Nothing,' I say, laughing.

'Nothing? Why not?'

'Because… I'm a professional,' I say in a jokingly prim tone.

'There's no antifraternizing policy here. And you don't work for the guy,' Michael says. 'You're not even in publicity. What's the conflict?'

'I don't know. It might show an air of favoritism. Somehow discredit my books.'

'C'mon. That's a reach,' Michael says.

Technically he is right. Richard runs the publicity department, and as such, has responsibility for all titles in the house. But many different publicists cover my books, and there are other checks and balances in sales and marketing, so it would be virtually impossible for Richard to make much of a single-handed impact on my career or the success of my books. Still, publicity has a huge say in book proposals and they can easily quash a book, so there could be an inference of favoritism coloring my success. Bottom line, I've never dated anyone at work, and I have no intention of doing so now. I tell Michael this and then say, 'The whole discussion is moot anyway because Richard Margo is not interested in me. He was only humoring you by playing your little game.'

'I wouldn't be so sure about that,' Michael says. 'Besides, I totally teed you up.'

'How so?' I ask nervously.

'I told him about your divorce,' Michael says. 'He had no idea.'

'Michael!' I say. I know it's ridiculous to keep hiding the fact from everyone, but I can't help it-I don't like my personal affairs being discussed at work. And there's something about divorce that is equated with failure, which is never a perception you want to parade around in the workplace.

'It's no big deal,' Michael says.

'What did he say?' I ask.

'That he was sorry to hear it… But I think you should know that he didn't look one bit sorry to hear it. If you catch my drift.'

Michael leaves my office after giving me a final, dramatic brow raise and a skilled drumroll on my desk.

As much as I try to downplay my interest in Richard's list, I report the news back to Jess that evening. She has never met Richard, but has heard me speak of him over the years and relishes the mere scent of an intraoffice romance. So instead of taking the story for what it is-a juicy, self-esteem-boosting bit of trivia-she becomes wildly animated, saying that he is perfect for me.

'He's way too old to want kids,' she says.

I shake my head and tell her not to be ridiculous.

But a week later when Richard calls me out of the blue, saying he wants to discuss some matters over lunch, I can't help wondering about his intentions. I've sat with him in numerous meetings, but have never had a one-on- one meeting with him. And certainly not over lunch.

'Sure,' I say, reminding myself that, our work lists notwithstanding, I have no interest in Richard (or vice versa). I'm sure that he only wants to discuss business. After all, I am becoming more senior all the time, and maybe an occasional lunch with Richard just reflects my status in the house. Perhaps he wants to go over publicity plans for my upcoming Amy Dickerson novel. Or maybe he wants to formulate a strategy to handle my most difficult author, Jenna Coblentz. Jenna's been a huge commercial success for over a decade, but she is so demanding with publicity that her behavior borders on abusive, and it's an editor's responsibility to act as a buffer for the publicists.

'How does Thursday look?' Richard asks me in his rich, radio-DJ voice.

'Thursday's perfect,' I say, without consulting my calendar.

'Bolo at one?' he says. Bolo is a popular spot with people from work and the publishing scene generally. He'd never choose Bolo if his intentions were at all impure.

'That works for me,' I say, all business.

On Thursday, I wear my most flattering pair of jeans and green seersucker jacket to work. I look casual, but stylish. Then I spend about ten minutes touching up my makeup at my desk before leaving for lunch. I stand by my claim that I have no interest in Richard, but figure that it never hurts in life to look nice, particularly when you're going to be in the company of a hot man.

Richard e-mailed me earlier to tell me he was coming from a dentist appointment and would meet me at the restaurant. I walk briskly the few blocks to Bolo, but still arrive five minutes late. I spot Richard right away at a corner table wearing a sport coat and tie. A glass of red wine and a bowl of olives sit on the table before him. He is talking on his cell phone, looking somewhat agitated as he glances down at a small notepad, the old-school kind reporters carry. He has an air of importance. Then again, maybe I just know that he is important.

When he looks up and sees me, his face brightens and he waves me over. I give him a signal, as if to say,