The Price Of Scandal(38)

The thought irked me more than it should have. This was the type of thing I needed to know about my clients. A secret boyfriend? That was definitely something I should know.

And I was going to explain that very clearly to her.

Avoiding the security cameras on the front of the house, I skirted the building. It was a series of white stucco boxes, connected by arched walkways. I crossed between the garage and the master bedroom and came up on the beach side. If the front of the property was luxurious, the back of it was positively decadent. Emily had two hundred feet of pristine, private beach. Chaise lounges under palapas dotted the white sand. Her white coral stone terrace included a kidney-shaped pool with a sunning shelf and hot tub, a professional grade barbecue, and enough seating for the better part of a senior class on spring break.

None of it looked like it was used.

I crossed the terrace, sticking close to the house. The glass accordion doors off the kitchen were open, and music poured out.

So Emily was having a little party.

Wasn’t that nice, I thought grimly.

I stepped inside, ready to shock her, annoy her. Ready to impress upon her boyfriend the importance of doing exactly what I tell him. Namely, get lost.

But there was no boyfriend. There wasn’t even a party.

The commercial grade refrigerator door was open. Beneath it, I caught a peek of bare feet and long legs.

The music—Abba, if I wasn’t mistaken—blared through hidden speakers.

And then the door closed, and there was Emily Stanton, billionaire, CEO, society princess in men’s boxer shorts and a tank top performing a truly terrible rendition of “Dancing Queen” while jiggling a cocktail shaker.

There was a martini glass—only one—with two skewered olives on the blue Brazilian stone countertop next to her open laptop and neat piles of paperwork.

Emily shook and sang, whirling in a tight circle. Her blonde hair whipped out behind her.

“Ha! Stuck the landing,” she said with a little shoulder boogie.

“You certainly did,” I agreed.

She shrieked and, on instinct, hurled the cocktail shaker at me. I caught it, but the lid came off.

It wasn’t a fearful scream, I noted as cold vodka soaked its way through my shirt and pants. It was a battle cry.

She lunged for the kitchen shears on the counter. I wasn’t sure if it was a reflex or if she actually intended to kill me.

“Relax. It’s me,” I bellowed over Abba.

Emily was wielding the shears at me even though recognition lit her eyes.

“I know it’s you!”

“Now, Emily,” I began calmly, putting the shaker down on the countertop.

“Don’t you ‘now, Emily’ me,” she yelled. “You do not get to come and go as you please in my home!”

She had a point. So I went on the offensive.

“What are you doing at home on a Wednesday night in men’s boxers that is so much more important than repairing the damage you’ve done to your reputation?” My voice raised to carry over the music.

She threw a dish towel at me. Judging from the material, it cost more than most people’s bed linens.

“What makes you think me paying you gives you the right to enter my house whenever you feel like it?” she shouted.

“Turn the music down!”

“Get out of my house!”

“Not until you stop willfully endangering the IPO you say you want!”

She snatched her phone off the counter and punched in a code. The music cut off abruptly, leaving more space for our angry silence to fill.

“Listen up, Price. I can take a night off. One night. That’s all I get. I don’t take vacations. I work weekends. I rarely leave the office or the lab before nine every night. I deserve one uninterrupted night alone.”

The flashing anger in her eyes was Morse coding D-A-N-G-E-R at me.

“Valerie told me you left early for a date,” I said.

“Yes, with myself. You’re interrupting. And you owe me a martini.”

I glanced down at my wet Oxford. The alcohol fumes were strong.

“Then I’ll make you another,” I said, unbuttoning my shirt.

“Stop it!” she said, still pointing the shears at me.

I dropped the shirt on the counter and unhooked my belt.

“Why do you keep taking your clothes off in my house?”

“You’re just so welcoming, Emily. Such a lovely hostess. I feel so comfortable here.”

“Bite me.”

I dropped my pants and dared her to look.

She didn’t disappoint. I could feel the heat from her gaze as it trailed over my chest and torso before it paused on my Dolce & Gabbana briefs. “Where’s your vodka?” I asked.

“In a puddle on the floor. What are you doing here, Price?” she asked, suddenly weary.

I felt it, too, as I toed off my shoes and left the pants on the floor. It had been a long couple of weeks, and my desire to fight was gone as quickly as it had come. “Ah, here it is,” I said, finding a stash of high-end liquors in one of the cabinets. “How dirty do you like it?”

“Don’t be an ass,” she said, slumping onto a barstool.

I helped myself to ice from the dispenser and went to work on the martini.

“Aren’t you the least bit embarrassed?” she asked me, watching me as I worked.