The Price Of Scandal(6)

Back in my office, I stripped out of my workwear and yanked the dress Jane brought for me over my head.

I’d have my picture taken. Grab a bite to eat. And put in another hour or two of work in my home office.

Glancing in the mirror, I frowned at the sedate updo I’d styled that morning.

“Dammit,” I breathed. Snatching my discarded dress from the floor, my bag from my table, I bulleted from the office.

The salon lights were still on. Maxim, the head stylist, lifted his head from the beachy waves he was styling for a woman I recognized from our payroll department.

“Damn, girl,” Maxim said, giving me the once over. “You looking to make someone fall in love tonight?”

I glanced down.

Jane had gone overboard with the damn dress. It was short and black with very unsubtle sparkle. Speaking of lack of subtlety, the deep V between my breasts skirted the line of classy and “hunting for a prenup.” I should have a necklace. Give people something to look at besides my small but mighty cleavage.

It was a dress I’d bought years ago thinking about special occasions with a special someone. And here I was wasting it on a stranger’s publicity because there was no special someone in my life.

Sacrifices.

“Do you have ten minutes for face and hair?” I asked Maxim.

“For you?” He gave me a slow wink while still wielding the clampless curling iron and producing perfect waves. “I’ve got all the time you need. Sheila, my beauty, you’re done. Give it a good shake and then go make What’s His Name speechless.”

Payroll Sheila gave me a nervous wave and scurried out of the salon, beaming in the glory of new hair.

“Thank you,” I said, collapsing into a chair and relishing having ten whole minutes during which nothing was required of me. “I’ve been running late since I got here today.”

“You’re pushing too hard,” he said, his fingers already working their way into my shoulder-length blonde hair. “When are you going to do something fun with this?” he demanded.

I thought of my mother’s comment at lunch.

“Soon,” I promised. Maybe after the IPO. Who knew what effect a haircut could have on an initial public offering?

He sighed, his skinny mustache perched over the flat line of his lips, and went to work with hair clips.

I’d hired him out of a salon in South Beach, doubling his salary and giving him a voice in product development. Our professional relationship consisted of me popping in once every few weeks when I worked too late to properly prepare for my evening responsibilities and Maxim grumbling over my conservative style. To be honest, it wasn’t even my style. My closet was a replica of my mother’s.

It was just easier that way.

True to his word, ten minutes later, my hair was big and bouncy. And I had smokey taupe eyes and red lips. I looked nothing like the prim and proper Emily Stanton who kicked ass all day.

“You’re a miracle worker, Maxy.”

“My canvas was especially stunning. Now go have a little fun before you forget how,” he called after me as I hit the door at a jog.

Jane was waiting in the garage for me, the Range Rover’s air conditioning on full blast.

“Did you have to pick a dress that my boobs are going to fall out of?” I asked.

“Your fault for sending me on wardrobe errands,” she smirked. Jane’s fashion knowledge began and ended with whatever showed up in the LL Bean catalog. “If you don’t like it, you shouldn’t have it in your closet.”

“Fair point,” I nodded. “What’s the game plan?”

“We’re meeting Prince Charming two blocks from the restaurant. We transfer you to his car so you can be photographed driving up together. I’ll hang back and wait for you to call when you’re ready to go home.”

I nodded, scrolling through my phone. Still no word from Esther at the lab. I wondered if I could squeeze in an in-person visit tomorrow. Checking my calendar, I winced. I’d be lucky to get a pee break tomorrow.

“I hope this guy drives a normal car,” I sighed. My intestines did a slow kinking twist. I hated that my anxiety manifested itself in such an uncouth way. It wasn’t irritable bowel, but it was in the neighborhood. I’d always been thankful that my career aspirations had earned me my own private washroom, especially before big meetings that determined the future of thousands of people.

Jane laughed. “I did some digging for funsies. Let’s just say it’s a safe bet he’s got some $500,000 spaceship with undercarriage neons.”

“Lita so owes me,” I groaned. Someday, my debt to her would be paid.

“I’m following you to the restaurant,” Jane reminded me, consulting her mirrors as she veered around a huge Cadillac that was weaving across the lanes. “Text in case you need to make an emergency escape.”

“You’re a good friend,” I told her.

“Yup.”





Merritt Van Winston did not drive a normal vehicle.

I didn’t know my luxury sports cars, but I was pretty sure this bumble bee yellow lump of aerodynamic metal and plastic was a Ferrari.

A stupidly expensive car for a man who didn’t actually work for a living. Wonderful.

The Emily-Lita scales were definitely tipping in my favor.