The Price Of Scandal(70)

“The baddies have a good run for these dates. And then—”

“Along comes Derek Price in a tux with his hand just coasting into inappropriate ass grab territory,” Rowena observed.

The image I’d posted to Emily’s Instagram from last night appeared on the screen.

“Daaaaaaaaamn,” Lance said, pretending his glasses had steamed up.

We did make an eye-catching couple, I thought smugly. Emily with her polished platinum looks. And I was certainly no slouch either.

“Don’t keep us in suspense,” I said.

The next slide twirled onto the screen with a digital “woo hoo.”

The smiley faces were the clear victors as of about 7 p.m. last night. Leaving the barf faces meekly descending toward the bottom.

“Derek, I’d like you to consider dating all future clients,” Rowena quipped.

“All in favor,” Roger rumbled.

“Aye.”

“The ayes have it. Sir Derek will prostitute himself for the good of the company henceforth.” Roger was also really into Renaissance fairs.

I sighed.

“I dunno. What if this turns out to be the real thing?” Ancarla asked, reaching for another stick of licorice.

“It’s fake. You can’t build real off of fake,” Lance argued.

“Yeah, but look at D’s face,” Rowena said. “He’s all like glowy and happy.”

“Maybe he just got a facial?” Roger suggested.

One of my team’s favorite hobbies was talking about me as if I weren’t there.

“Maybe he got lucky.”

“With a client?”

“Maybe she’s more than a client.”

“Maybe he’s having a mid-life crisis?”

“Isn’t he too old for that?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and wondered if I could get away with murdering them all. “Don’t make me start locking everyone out on the weekends,” I threatened.

“I don’t know. I think it was all for show and that, once Stanton’s back on top, D will be back to his old ‘I love the single life’ boogie,” Lance guessed.

“What if he likes being in this fake relationship and decides he’s missing out?” Ancarla said.

“Who wouldn’t want to be in a fake relationship with a billionaire?” Roger chimed in.

“Nah, dude’s got happily ever after written all over his face,” Rowena decided. “I think this could be the real deal. From the dossier, Stanton’s pretty great.”

“Thank you. I agree.”

We all swiveled in our chairs toward the conference room door.

Emily leaned against the door frame smiling politely. She’d left the house this morning dressed for brunch with her friends. Now she was back in black cropped pants and a simple tank. She’d swapped out the usual stilettos for black trainers.

“Whoa. Great hair!” Rowena said, reaching for her phone. “Did you post a pic yet?”

“Get her with the windows at her back,” Roger suggested. “Arms crossed like ‘I’m a bad billionaire. You got a problem with that?’”

I scrubbed my hands over my face in irritation. “Take five, kids. Or, better yet, go home.”

Clients were never privy to the behind-the-scenes sausage-making of Alpha Group. And I was especially not thrilled with Emily strolling into a conversation about whether or not I was in love with her.

Unruffled, my team packed up their food and electronics and introduced themselves to Emily on their way out.

Emily closed the door after the last one out.

“The single life boogie?” she asked me, taking the seat Rowena had vacated and crossing her arms. She looked more amused than annoyed. Maybe I wouldn’t have to murder my team.

I peered over her shoulder, making sure the team was at least pretending to not eavesdrop.

“That’s not an appropriate conversation to have with a—”

“A what?” she pressed. “A client? A lover?”

Whatever spell she’d cast on me was in full effect. Just looking at her smugly taking up space at the head of my conference table and I was hard for her.

“What can I do for you, love?” I asked, not finding an adequate answer to her question.

“I thought you might like to take a field trip with me,” she said, drumming her fingers on her upper arms. “Unless you’re busy manipulating the world.”

“My time is all yours,” I promised her.

“Great.” She held up a set of keys and dangled them. “Want to drive?”





33





Derek





At my behest, the Porsche accelerated like a damn dream. Emily was directing me north through the city.

She sat next to me, sunglasses on and a smile hovering on those lovely lips as we cruised. A near perfect Sunday in my estimation.

“Take the next left,” she said, nodding toward the traffic light.

The color of South Beach and the bustle of downtown Miami were behind us. Buildings here were less concerned with aesthetics and more concerned with function and durability. Mom and pop convenience stores edged into working-class neighborhoods. Commercial buildings squatted on skinny canals.