The Mogul and the Muscle: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(60)

In Russian.

All three men went pale. They cast each other worried glances. Jude said something else, then turned back toward me.

The first man rose from his seat and nodded at me. “So sorry. Have a nice evening.”

The other two followed suit, rising from their table and mumbling apologies. They put their heads down and walked out the front door.

I gaped at Jude. “What was that?”

“They were being rude.”

“You speak Russian?”

“Yes.”

“What did you say to them?”

He shrugged. “I told them not to talk like that in front of a lady, especially when she’s my lady.”

“Is that all?”

“And I told them to apologize.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. He must have said something else to intimidate them so easily. “Did you threaten them?”

He smirked, all cool casual confidence. “I wasn’t serious.”

“Is that why they left?”

Another shrug.

“How do you know Russian?”

“Mostly YouTube.”

I stared at him for a long moment. “Who are you?”

“No one of consequence.”

Shaking my head, I smiled. This man.

I wondered if I’d ever discover everything there was to know about the mysterious Jude Ellis. Probably not.

But for now, we had key lime tarts to get home to.





25





Cameron





Derek and my PR team had come up with a comprehensive plan to counter the bad press. Our small board of directors made a public statement indicating their support, and several of our executives did the same. I released a brief statement noting the glaring inaccuracies and lack of fact-checking.

My PR team was still trying to reach Milton—he was on his yacht somewhere in the Caribbean—but I hoped a statement from the founder would help discredit Sydney’s article. Noelle was conveniently out of the office, so I hadn’t been able to confront her about her part in all this. For all I knew, she was behind everything.

Part two of the plan was very similar to what we’d done when I’d first hired Jude. I needed to be seen in public as if nothing was amiss. Business as usual.

Which meant tonight, I was attending the Southeast Aerospace Association dinner at the Intercontinental Hotel.

I’d gotten a saucy look from Valentina when I’d told her that as much as I loved the long evening gown she’d chosen for me to wear tonight, I was going with something a little less predictable. A pale peach dress with silver mermaid-scale accents that was just long enough to be appropriate on my tall frame—and only just.

We’d agreed on a pair of glittery Louboutins. Their shimmer was understated, yet sexy. The whole outfit—along with Valentina’s expert hair and makeup treatment—made me feel confident despite the media debacle.

Jude looked utterly charming in his tux. I didn’t bother asking why he had a custom-tailored tux on hand. I had a feeling he wouldn’t give me a straight answer if I did. So I simply enjoyed how delicious he looked and hoped we’d be able to manage an early exit. As good as his clothes looked, I wanted to slowly strip him out of them.

The dinner was uneventful. Good food. Industry chat with other aerospace executives. No one mentioned my bad press. Most of the attendees were either high-level executives—many of whom had faced something similar in their careers—or engineers who either didn’t pay attention or didn’t care about that sort of gossip.

Three attendees, however, were not industry people. They were journalists.

And they were here for me. I could tell by the way they watched me.

I’d noticed them just after the keynote speech. I stood with Jude near the bar, feeling like a gazelle being circled by a pack of hyenas. None of them had come close yet, but I knew as soon as one did, the rest would dart in to attack.

“How did they get in here?” I asked. It was mostly a rhetorical question. But typically these regional industry events didn’t draw much in the way of mainstream media. Representatives from Aviation Week or Aerospace Manufacturing Magazine, perhaps. But those publications were interested in industry news, not in stirring up fabricated CEO scandals.

Those three weren’t industry reporters. And by the predatory looks on their faces, they were out for blood.

“I’d say they aren’t here for you, but they’re obviously here for you,” he said.

“I should have worn sassier shoes.”

“We can go,” Jude said.

I took a casual sip of my champagne, pretending I hadn’t noticed them. “They’ll follow us out.”

“I’ll have Joe meet us out back.”

“Yeah, but they’ll still follow us. And I really don’t want to talk to them tonight.”

“They won’t follow.”

“Why?”

He took my drink and set it on the bar, then grabbed my hand. “Because we’re going to lose them.”

How he could appear so casual and still hurry us toward the hotel ballroom entrance, I had no idea. He was slick like ice, people’s gazes sliding right over him. He led me toward the lobby and sure enough, the three reporters followed.

“See?” I whispered.