The Price Of Scandal(16)

Serious Jane’s lips quirked as if they were considering a smile.

“We’re getting ready to leave for the office,” she said.

I stepped around her, rubbing my palms together. “Perfect timing. I’m here to drive you.”

“Oh, she’s really not going to like that,” Jane sang under her breath.

She followed me into the two-story foyer. Staircases on either side wound their way up to the second floor and a mezzanine that overlooked both the foyer and the living room or whatever the exorbitantly wealthy called it.

My bank accounts were by no means anemic. But this was another level… Yet I didn’t find it cold or over-the-top luxurious. There was a pair of running shoes next to the door, papers and a candy wrapper on the entry table. They were next to an exquisite orchid arrangement. But the details suggested there was a human somewhere underneath Emily Stanton’s layers of polish.

“Boss? Ride’s here,” she called.

“All I can say is if this day is as bad as yesterday was, I’m selling everything and buying a tiny house on an island.” Emily jogged into view, stilettos clutched in one hand. She was dressed like she was headed to the club for a girlfriends’ lunch. A pale pink linen skirt and jacket. A lady who lunched.

Her bare feet skidded to a stop on the cool marble. “No!” She pointed at me like one would a bad dog.

I grinned. “You need to change,” I insisted, giving her a once-over.

“Absolutely not,” she snapped. “I refuse to pretend to be someone else just to distract from one stupid misstep that should have no bearing on—”

“Your outfit, love. Change your outfit,” I clarified.

Emily sputtered and glanced down. “My outfit?”

“You do look a little ‘Easter church dinner,’” Jane observed.

I was really starting to like this woman who hadn’t stun gunned me.

“I’m respectable.”

“What else is in your closet?” I asked, taking Emily’s hand and pulling her down the hallway toward the master suite I’d snooped through last night.

She tried to dig in, but her heels couldn’t find traction on the smooth marble.

“Let go of me!”

Releasing her, I pushed through the double doors of her closet.

“You need to be human,” I instructed, pawing through the meticulously organized racks. “Showing up as Boardroom Barbie isn’t helping your case. Here,” I tossed a pair of cropped jeans at her.

She caught them on reflex. “Jeans? Are you insane?”

Her horror was laughable. I turned to face her. “You’ve never worn jeans to the office?”

“On Sundays, when no one else is there. I have an image—”

“That’s precisely the problem. Your image is frosty corporate princess. Who wouldn’t love to see cracks in that armor? We need to humanize you and take advantage of the attention.”

“Take advantage? I want it to go away,” she said, still clutching the jeans to her chest.

“What would you wear if you were going out with friends?” I asked.

“What?”

“Shirt. Fun. Casual.” I snapped my fingers.

Still smoldering with anger, she pointed to the far end of the closet. I rifled through a handful of t-shirts and neatly folded sweaters. “Here.” I tossed her a sleeveless peplum sweater in black.

“We’re going to be late,” she complained, glaring down the length of the dressing room at me.

Her anger was… entertaining. And a little arousing. I’d expected a prim and proper, polite hostess. Finding a temperamental woman instead was a bonus.

“I rescheduled your morning,” I told her, perusing her shoe selection.

“You did what?”

I looped my fingers through a pair of strappy magenta heels. “Emily, love, I understand your desire to remain in control. However, while revolutionizing skin care might be your area of expertise, polishing images and managing crises is mine. This would go more efficiently if you’d just trust me.”

“Trust you? You broke into my house and took a bath!”

“We can argue in the car. Go change.”

“I will never trust you of all people. Not if you were the last human being on the face of the planet.”

I would have bet money that she was going to stomp her bare foot, but she restrained herself. Another point in her favor. Restraint meant she was capable of being reasoned with.

She disappeared from the dressing room, muttering a string of four-letter words.

“Wear your hair down,” I called after her.

I heard a distinct “Kiss my ass” before she closed the bathroom door and locked it with a snick.

I took a quick look inside a few drawers in the large custom island and found many of them empty. I pulled out a belt, then chose a pair of aviator sunglasses from her rather paltry collection. Obviously, Emily Stanton had other interests in life besides clothes and accessories.

I sensed her in the doorway before she spoke.

“Well?” she said, annoyance dripping.

The jeans were fitted and ended a few inches shy of her ankles. The top accentuated her waistline, and the cut made it fun yet stylish.

“Exactly right,” I said, handing her the shoes.