The Price Of Scandal(13)

“Please,” he scoffed. “This will slide off you like tanning oil on a Brazilian bikini model’s ass. You always come out fresh as a daisy.”

“Here’s hoping,” I said, taking a swig of water.

“Anyway, next time you try dating one of my frenemies, tell me, and I’ll spill the tea. Can’t have my big sister edging me out of the family fuckup role.”

“You’re not the family fuckup,” I lied.

“Sure I am. That’s why I need to stay with you when I get back.”

I did not need my brother as a roommate. The last time he stayed with me, I had to give the cleaning staff a bonus and make a generous donation to the HOA to make up for the noise complaints.

“Does this mean you can come back for the gala?” Surely my mother wouldn’t want me to show my disgraced face there now.

“Ha. Hilarious. That’s all you. I’m working on developing a music festival in Malta.”

“Since when are you into the music scene?”

“Don’t you follow me on the ’gram?” he scoffed “Catch up, sis. I’m a high-end event coordinator now. Me and my partners are signing the biggest names in rock, pop, and rap for this thing.”

“Good for you, Trey.” He’d been a DJ in Rio. A model in Italy. A club promoter in Vegas. Now a music festival organizer.

“Let me know if you want me to save you a luxury beach condo,” he said. “I’ll get you VIP tickets.”

“Thanks.”

“Listen, I could use some backing for this gig,” he began.

And there it was. The ask. There was always an ask.

“Listen, send me an email about it, okay?” I said.

“Yeah, sure. No prob. But you’ll look at it right away, right?”

Valerie knocked on my door and pointed to the phone.

“I gotta go, Trey. I have a call.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a big deal. I get it. Try not to get arrested two nights in a row.”

“It’s not funny, Trey.”

“You sound just like Dad,” my brother complained.

“You talked to him?” Obediently, a slick layer of anxiety coated my stomach.

“Yeah, he was getting on a plane. Heading your way,” Trey said. “And he was not happy.”





7





Emily





My sneakers squeaked on the Italian marble of the entryway. My home. My sanctuary. Everything in the enclave had been thoughtfully designed with privacy and personality in mind.

This house was no different. It was three separate white stone structures joined by thatched-roof walkways. The main living space was in the center. Kitchen, bedrooms, great room, all under one roof. My home office and gym were in separate, distinct “wings.” It was a necessity for someone like me who didn’t know how to separate work from home.

“I’m gonna do a quick sweep before I head out,” Jane said, closing the front door behind us.

I was too tired to argue. It had been a long-ass day that not even an hour of private kickboxing training was able to erase.

I needed a bath and a glass of wine. No, a scotch. A gigantic one. Perhaps I’d drink straight from the bottle.

“I’m gonna go take a bath,” I told her over my shoulder.

Groveling was exhausting. And the plan Flawless’s publicity firm had laid out involved a lot of it. While I was busy apologizing and laying low, they planned to raise Lita’s profile, painting her as the responsible leadership within Flawless. I understood the tactic. I just didn’t love it.

My position with the board was shaky, to say the least. One wrong move, and they could remove me from my own company thanks to that stupid ethics contract. When I’d signed it years ago, the idea that I’d do something “unethical” had been laughable. Now, there wasn’t a damn thing I could find funny about the situation.

I headed down the hallway, past the two-story living room and its spectacular ocean views, beyond the kitchen and its pristine-ness.

My bedroom was the only one on the main floor. I’d gone for clean neutrals in here because the color came from the water and sky through the long wall of accordion glass doors. Usually, it was like stepping into a high-end spa. Relaxation was instantaneous.

However, the high-alert adrenaline I’d been running on had rendered me one giant ball of pressure. If someone were to hug me too hard, I was fairly certain my head would pop off.

I made a beeline for the bar cart I kept inside the doorway to the master bath. There was nothing like a hot bath and a few fingers of scotch. I stripped my sweaty tank off and let it hit the floor.

Reaching for the decanter, the smell of smoke hit me. Too late, I realized that the terrace doors in my bedroom were open. I wasn’t alone. I opened the vanity drawer and came up with a curling iron. Not ideal, but if an intruder picked today to tangle with me, they would live to regret that very unlucky choice.

The slosh of water had me whirling around.

Framed in a large bay window was the copper pedestal tub I’d had custom made. It was one of my very favorite spots in this entire house.

And it was currently occupied by a very naked man.

“Hello, Emily.”

A very naked man with the slightest British accent. My brain was scrambling to keep up to assess and hypothesize. Was I about to be murdered by a nude serial killer?