The Price Of Scandal(37)

Me: I can’t wait for the sushi.





Emily: I hope my “situation” will be resolved by then.





Me: Then perhaps I’ll be there in another capacity.





I was flirting with her. Shamelessly. It kept her off-center and me entertained.

There was another long pause, during which I felt like a teenager waiting for his crush to respond.

Emily: We do have a bongo player position opening up. I’ll let you know where to send your resume.





A joke from Ms. Stanton. And a victory for me.

Me: Good night, Emily.





Emily: Good night, Derek.





Still smiling, I grabbed a beer from the mini fridge in the bedroom wet bar and took it with me into the shower. Steam billowed around me, blotting out the rest of the world.

The kiss had been a mistake. I didn’t mix business with pleasure. It made things… sticky. However, I also didn’t rigidly adhere to rules. What was the fun in that?

My cock stirred.

It had a habit of doing so when I thought of Emily. Her watchful eyes, the slivers of humor and pride she did her best to hide under the surface. Keeping the real Emily locked away. Was it a protection? Or was it simply the result of pressure?

I fisted my shaft, gliding my hand over it.

So tempting. To think about her desperate for me. Unbuttoning that very proper blouse while I watched hungrily.

No.

As much as Emily Stanton dazzled me, stirred me, stole into my thoughts like a thief in the night, she needed me to perform a professional service for her.

And until she gave me permission for a more personal service, my hand would stay off my cock.

I took a long swig from the bottle and lowered the temperature of the water.





18





Derek





“Flawless IPO faces SEC scrutiny after CEO’s near-arrest”

“Emily Stanton not fooling anyone with goodwill tour”

“Five things you need to know about Derek Price starting with what he looks like in a Speedo”





“Why the hell not?” I demanded into my phone.

“Ms. Stanton declined your invitation to attend the gallery opening,” Valerie said politely.

“Does she have something better to do than clean up her reputation?” This was the third Wednesday the woman had refused to participate in anything, and it was starting to grate on my nerves. That and the fact that she’d remained coolly professional toward me.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask her yourself, Mr. Price.”

“Put me through to her,” I insisted. “Please.”

“She’s gone for the night,” Valerie said, and I thought I heard a hint of amusement in her tone. “I believe she has a standing date on Wednesdays.”

I swore colorfully, then apologized with a modicum of sincerity. A date?

“Have a good night, Mr. Price,” Valerie sang before hanging up cheerfully.

Despite the fact that it was only Wednesday, it had already been a long week.

Even I was tired. But the days immediately after a scandal were the most important. We were making headway. It was just slow going. And calling it a day at 7 p.m. on a weeknight when there were places to be seen wasn’t helping Emily.

I dialed my office. “Rowena,” I said when my head research nerd picked up.

“What’s up, D?” she asked, her mouth full.

Conveniently enough, my head researcher and my media liaison had crushes on each other and “worked late” flirting over Thai takeout several nights a week. I could give a flying fuck if my employees dated. As long as no one let a breakup damage the teamwork, they could do what they liked.

I was a firm believer that relationships and their ensuing breakups didn’t need to be messy. People complicated relationships with ridiculous expectations. If you were honest about who you were and what you wanted, no one could sanely accuse you of misrepresenting yourself, could they?

“How are we trending?”

“Mmm, lemme check.” She chewed. “I was just plotting a few data points that Lance gave me.”

Rowena was an Ivy League dropout who, under my tutelage, had developed a program for digesting and weighting media reports, then spitting out complex probabilities of public opinion.

She made presidential approval ratings look like an elementary school vote by raised hand.

“We’re looking at a solid twenty-six percent positive,” she said. “Up four points from last week.”

Four points. Good. But not good enough. A smiling appearance at a gallery could have nudged her up another point. Ms. Stanton and I were going to have a discussion about priorities. A loud one. In front of her date.





Half an hour later, I pulled up to the security gate at Bluewater.

“Would you like me to announce you to Ms. Stanton, man?” the guard at the gate asked.

“She’s expecting me,” I lied. “I’m on the list.”

“Have a nice visit,” he said, buzzing me through.

Indeed.

She was home, I noted, pulling into the circular driveway. Lights were on, and I could distantly hear music. Was she entertaining? Was I about to walk in on her and some mystery man?