The Price Of Scandal(52)

“You’ll want a smokey eye and a more subtle lip,” he told me. “Unfortunately, I’m only good at kissing away makeup so you’re on your own there.”

“I’ll do my face in the car,” I told him, giving my reflection another pleased glance.

“Do it now. I’ll get us there in time,” he promised.

And for some reason, I believed him.





24





Derek





Emily looked decidedly unamused when we pulled up to Bluewater’s private airfield.

The helicopter was ready and waiting. An attendant passed us each a headset, and we were ushered onboard, heads ducking low beneath the twirling blades.

“A helicopter, Derek?” Emily groused, her voice crackling in my ears, as she removed the scarf from her head.

“Darling, what’s the fun of being a billionaire if you can’t take a helicopter to a gala?”

Primly, she arranged the skirt of her dress over her legs. “Tell me we’re not landing on the rooftop of the hotel.”

I chuckled. “We’re landing ten minutes away from the event and a car is waiting for us. No one will know it was Emily Stanton bypassing the traffic tonight.”

We took off, lifting from the ground in a defiance of gravity and within seconds were swooping over the bay.

Emily was glued to her window. Even billionaires could take a moment to appreciate the cerulean waters as the sun sunk lower on the horizon.

“Thank you for this, Derek,” she said quietly in my ear.

I reached out and took her hand. She didn’t turn away from the window, didn’t snatch her hand back. Nor did she bite my head off. It was a very small, satisfying win.





The Forsythe-Lowenstein Children’s Memorial Hospital Gala was hosted by the very posh Club Indigo Hotel. The entrance to the hotel was set up like a Hollywood red carpet because if Miami’s wealthy set were going to show up and open their checkbooks, they damn well wanted to be photographed doing it.

It made my fingers itch to lift a wallet or sparkly bauble. Just for fun. Just to remind myself that I could.

Emily leaned in to my side in the back seat of the limo. “Don’t even think about picking anyone’s pockets, Price.”

Mind reader. She knew me so well.

“I’m astonished and devastated that you would think that,” I teased.

“Um-hmm.” It sounded like a purr.

The limo eased forward another car length.

“Are you ready to be romantically ambiguous?” I asked, changing the subject.

“You’re not going to use this as an excuse to grab my ass, are you?”

I didn’t need an excuse. I needed a clear, direct opening from her. Until I received such a message, loud and clear, my flirtation would be entirely in words and long, smoldering glances.

“No, but you grabbing one of my perfect cheeks wouldn’t hurt. Remember the power dynamics, love. You’re the boss. You’re in charge. You’re the one being adored.”

“And the one doing the groping.” She sounded downright cheerful about it. “Are you sure sparking rumors that we’re involved is the best strategy?”

“Positive.”

The limo made it to the front of the line, and we were expelled onto a rich, gold carpet lined with society photographers and gossip bloggers. Emily stunned in the sleek, black dress.

I kept my hand at the small of her back longer than necessary. Long enough for a few of the more canny press to ask if we were here together professionally or personally. Emily locked eyes with me, allowing a secretive smile to light up her face. “Mr. Price and I are good friends. We enjoy spending time together,” she said, her fingers landing lightly on my lapel. The camera flashes exploded in a show of fireworks.

It wasn’t an ass grab. It was a classier kind of possession.

I offered her my arm, and together we climbed the steps, leaving the questions behind us.

Inside, we were guided by white-gloved attendants to the ballroom. Restrained South Beach was the flavor of the room. Pillars and arches flanked a dozen sets of French doors. The white stucco walls were bathed in nightclub purple lighting. Gold damask tablecloths were draped over tables topped with elaborate candle and flower displays. Heavy gilt chandeliers dripped crystals from the mission-style ceiling above.

I was in the wealth tier that preferred to write a check and avoid $20,000-a-plate dinners. But this level of financial responsibility required appearances, gowns, jewels, and an entire evening for the money to be best spent.

“There you are, Emily.” Venice Stanton entered behind us, lovely in Hollywood creamy silk. Byron Stanton’s mob-boss broad shoulders fought against the restraint of Hugo Boss. The tone was lightly disapproving.

“Hello. We must have beat you here. We managed to make it in record time,” Emily said, leaning in to kiss her mother on the cheek. It was a greeting designed for cameras.

“Don’t be silly, darling. Arriving too early makes one look desperate,” Venice trilled.

Emily looked as though she were about to break her mother’s nose.

As a precaution, I took her hand and squeezed.

She bared her teeth in what might have passed for a smile. If the individual were stupid. And inebriated. Or face blind.