“My fans do love my club pics,” he said. “But that’s not why I’m here. I heard somebody broke into your house.”
A hint of alarm flashed across Cameron’s face, replaced quickly by her calm and cool CEO expression. “Where did you hear that?”
He pulled out his phone. “It’s on a couple of blogs. You’d think it would have had better coverage by now. That’s a bold move, getting into Bluewater and breaking into your house like that. Guy must have some balls.”
Brandy was already typing and by the way her eyes widened, I could tell she’d found something. She met Cameron’s gaze and nodded.
“Is this an issue?” Cameron asked.
“The spin isn’t great,” Brandy said.
“If you need help with this, Cami, say the word. Or if you need a distraction, I can do that too.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her.
This guy was such a joke, I didn’t even bother growling at him.
“Get Derek Price on the phone.” Cameron turned and went back into her office.
Bobby cast a nervous glance at me, then put on his sunglasses. “I’ll just text her later.”
Through narrowed eyes, I watched him go.
Brandy was already in Cameron’s office. I googled, wincing at the headlines. The media could be a fucking circus. There wasn’t much I could to do protect Cameron from this kind of problem. She had a good PR team and Derek Price was the best at what he did. He’d help her sort this out.
I didn’t like feeling helpless, especially when it came to her. But maybe there were other ways I could take care of the boss lady.
24
Cameron
My schedule, at least until tonight, had gone out the window. Brandy had scrambled to rearrange my afternoon while I’d met with Derek Price and Spencer’s PR team to talk damage control.
The problem wasn’t that the media had reported the break-in. That might have caused a little drama at the next Bluewater Town Hall—if enough of the residents decided it meant we had a security problem in the enclave. But that would have been easy to address, and certainly not a reason to bring in a corporate fixer.
The problem was the spin. Apparently a story about a home invasion wasn’t salacious enough. The media was glossing over the fact that I’d been the victim, and was portraying me as a power-hungry backstabber who’d made enemies on her rise to the top. The break-in was being touted as a revenge move.
Speculation as to what I’d done to cause this—the blame-shifting made me furious—ranged from sleeping with Spencer executives to get my job, to stealing ideas from fellow engineers early in my career and refusing to give them credit.
The worst was a lengthy article by gossip blogger Sydney Phillips. She’d dug into my past enough to know Milton Spencer had paid my private school tuition. She claimed I’d turned on my benefactor and bullied him into retiring. Her article also referred to my numerous enemies in the aerospace industry—without actually naming any—and painted Spencer Aeronautics as a company on the brink of revolt against its CEO.
It almost sounded too outlandish to do real PR damage, but there was just enough truth woven among the wild speculation to give Sydney’s article an air of credibility. As did the one Spencer executive she did have on record. Noelle Olson.
She’d quoted Noelle as saying, “Cameron Whitbury is reckless, taking unnecessary risks with Spencer’s resources in order to indulge her personal ambitions.”
It was a shitty thing for Noelle to say, especially to a gossip blogger, but not surprising. She’d said similar things to my face, although cloaked in more diplomatic language. But Sydney had run with it. I’d wanted to march down to Noelle’s office and confront her, but Jude had stopped me. If she was behind the other incidents, this was probably part of her larger plan to discredit me. An angry confrontation wouldn’t help.
The worst part was how much time and attention this was going to take. I already had enough on my plate without trying to counteract crappy news coverage. I had a fucking company to run. Thousands of jobs fell under my responsibility and this was a distraction I didn’t need.
I picked up my phone to check the group chat that Daisy had named Vagillionaires.
Daisy: I’m so fucking angry right now. That article is bullshit.
Luna: It’s very troubling. How can this woman get away with lying about Cam?
Emily: Spin. We all know it can happen. Sensationalism sells.
Luna: Cam, check in when you can.
Daisy: Where are we drinking tonight? I have a bottle of Luna’s favorite organic vodka ready.
Luna: I love your generous heart.
Daisy: Let’s just gather at my place. Cam needs a dip in the D.
Despite everything, I couldn’t help but laugh. Daisy’s pool was shaped like a dick and balls. Because of course it was. This was Daisy.
Emily: To be fair, she’s probably getting the D.
Luna: Meditative sexual experiences can be very cleansing and good for stress. Cam, I have a book you can borrow if you want it.
Daisy: Speaking of the D, I need to know if Jude is proportionate. Because if he is, Cam’s a lucky bitch.
Me: I’m a lucky bitch.
I grinned while the three of them sent me a series of emojis—shock face, happy face, and heart eyes, interspersed with eggplants.
Me: Serious note. Derek and my PR team are on it. I’m pissed but we’ll handle it. Not sure about drinking in the dick pool tonight. I’ll get back to you. Love you guys.
Jude pushed my office door open. He’d been somewhat on the sidelines today. There wasn’t a lot he could do against this kind of attack. But his presence here had made such a difference. Knowing he was nearby had kept me from completely losing my mind.
“Hey,” he said.
That little smile of his made me feel melty inside. “Hey.”
“Why don’t we get out of here?” he asked. “Let me take you out. Get your mind off everything. It’ll still be here in the morning.”
“Like a date?” I asked.
“Exactly like a date. In fact, I was thinking an actual date.”
“Yeah?”
“Why do you seem surprised?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. We’re not really following the pattern. You already moved in.”
“Extenuating circumstances. And it doesn’t mean I’m skipping the part where I date you, Cameron.”
Those heart eyes emojis danced in front of my face. “I’d love to. Where are we going? Do I need to change?”
“No. It’s a little hole in the wall not far from my place. But trust me, the food’s amazing.”
“Sounds perfect.”
I sent my friends a quick text telling them I had a date. They replied with more emojis. I really loved those weirdos.
We left the mostly empty office and Jude drove us to a little restaurant housed in a building with chipping paint and a pink flamingo painted on the outside wall.
Inside the restaurant looked worn, but in a way that made it look well-loved rather than neglected. Rectangular tables were surrounded by mismatched painted wood chairs, and an eclectic mix of colorful art decorated the walls. Several of the tables had small groups enjoying their meals and a few servers bustled around the dining room.
We seated ourselves and a server brought us menus.
“Their specialty is seafood,” Jude said. “But I’ve never had anything here that isn’t amazing.”
I browsed the menu, but everything sounded good. I felt a little sheepish for how long it had been since I’d been to a little family-run restaurant like this. Usually my meals out were for business. This was the kind of neighborhood favorite that reminded me of a place my grandparents had taken me as a kid. We hadn’t eaten out often, so when we had, it had been a treat.
“What do you suggest?” I asked.
“I always get the ceviche.”
I closed my menu. “Sounds good to me.”
The server came back and took our orders. I
asked for a glass of Salishan Cellars white wine and she brought it a few minutes later.
I leaned back in my chair and took a sip. My shoulders were knotted with tension, but for the first time today, I felt myself begin to relax.
“How are you holding up?” he asked.
“I’m all right. I think. Today was a shit show.”
“It was. But Derek is the best at what he does.”
I nodded and set my glass down. “In the long run, this will probably be fine. It’s just hard to remember that when you’re in the thick of a crisis.”
Something crossed his expression so fast, I almost didn’t see it. Was it sadness? It was hard to be sure.
“This is perfect, though,” I continued. “I didn’t realize how much I needed to get out of the office.”
“A good meal always helps. Oh, this was supposed to be a surprise, but Nicholas texted me something earlier.” He held up his phone. Two perfectly beautiful key lime tarts sitting on my kitchen counter.
“That’s the best news I’ve had all day.”
Our food came out remarkably fast—the ceviche was indeed delicious—and Jude and I fell into easy conversation. We didn’t talk about anything serious. Not the media shitstorm. Not Noelle or Aldrich or corporate espionage or whether we were going to find something creepy on my bed again.
We talked about motorcycles and the merits of various makes and models. About the challenge of restoring old cars and the satisfying way a motor rumbled when it was in good condition. We talked about beaches and swimming. About animals we were afraid of—sharks for me, raccoons for him, although it wasn’t so much fear as vague distrust.
By the time we’d finished most of our meal, I felt considerably better. My problems hadn’t gone anywhere, but at least I’d set them aside for a little while.
A group of three men came in and took the table next to us. They were dressed casually in dark shirts and jeans. They leaned close to each other, speaking in low voices. It sounded like Russian.
I could see Jude’s awareness of not just them, but everything in the room. He was constantly vigilant, his eyes taking in every detail. It wouldn’t have surprised me to find out he’d mentally mapped out several different ways to get to an exit in case of an emergency.
“Finished?” Jude asked.
I put my napkin on the table. “Yes. That was amazing.”
“Did you save room for key lime tart?”
“I always have room for key lime tart.”
Jude leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Good. Because I was thinking about ways I could eat it off you.”
I bit my lip at the rush of heat between my legs. My pleasant evening was about to get even better.
One of the men looked over at me and said something to his friend. The second man chuckled and replied, his eyes tracing me up and down. Although I couldn’t understand what they were saying, I had a pretty good idea.
I was about to say that just because I didn’t speak their language didn’t mean they could be assholes, but Jude’s face went stony. He slowly turned to face their table. When he spoke, his voice was dangerously low and he said something I couldn’t understand.
In Russian.
All three men went pale. They cast each other worried glances. Jude said something else, then turned back toward me.
The first man rose from his seat and nodded at me. “So sorry. Have a nice evening.”
The other two followed suit, rising from their table and mumbling apologies. They put their heads down and walked out the front door.
I gaped at Jude. “What was that?”
“They were being rude.”
“You speak Russian?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say to them?”
He shrugged. “I told them not to talk like that in front of a lady, especially when she’s my lady.”
“Is that all?”
“And I told them to apologize.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. He must have said something else to intimidate them so easily. “Did you threaten them?”
He smirked, all cool casual confidence. “I wasn’t serious.”
“Is that why they left?”
Another shrug.
“How do you know Russian?”
“Mostly YouTube.”
I stared at him for a long moment. “Who are you?”
“No one of consequence.”
Shaking my head, I smiled. This man.
I wondered if I’d ever discover everything there was to know about the mysterious Jude Ellis. Probably not.
But for now, we had key lime tarts to get home to.
25
Cameron
Derek and my PR team had come up with a comprehensive plan to counter the bad press. Our small board of directors made a public statement indicating their support, and several of our executives did the same. I released a brief statement noting the glaring inaccuracies and lack of fact-checking.
My PR team was still trying to reach Milton—he was on his yacht somewhere in the Caribbean—but I hoped a statement from the founder would help discredit Sydney’s article. Noelle was conveniently out of the office, so I hadn’t been able to confront her about her part in all this. For all I knew, she was behind everything.
Part two of the plan was very similar to what we’d done when I’d first hired Jude. I needed to be seen in public as if nothing was amiss. Business as usual.
Which meant tonight, I was attending the Southeast Aerospace Association dinner at the Intercontinental Hotel.
I’d gotten a saucy look from Valentina when I’d told her that as much as I loved the long evening gown she’d chosen for me to wear tonight, I was going with something a little less predictable. A pale peach dress with silver mermaid-scale accents that was just long enough to be appropriate on my tall frame—and only just.
We’d agreed on a pair of glittery Louboutins. Their shimmer was understated, yet sexy. The whole outfit—along with Valentina’s expert hair and makeup treatment—made me feel confident despite the media debacle.
Jude looked utterly charming in his tux. I didn’t bother asking why he had a custom-tailored tux on hand. I had a feeling he wouldn’t give me a straight answer if I did. So I simply enjoyed how delicious he looked and hoped we’d be able to manage an early exit. As good as his clothes looked, I wanted to slowly strip him out of them.
The dinner was uneventful. Good food. Industry chat with other aerospace executives. No one mentioned my bad press. Most of the attendees were either high-level executives—many of whom had faced something similar in their careers—or engineers who either didn’t pay attention or didn’t care about that sort of gossip.
Three attendees, however, were not industry people. They were journalists.
And they were here for me. I could tell by the way they watched me.
I’d noticed them just after the keynote speech. I stood with Jude near the bar, feeling like a gazelle being circled by a pack of hyenas. None of them had come close yet, but I knew as soon as one did, the rest would dart in to attack.
“How did they get in here?” I asked. It was mostly a rhetorical question. But typically these regional industry events didn’t draw much in the way of mainstream media. Representatives from Aviation Week or Aerospace Manufacturing Magazine, perhaps. But those publications were interested in industry news, not in stirring up fabricated CEO scandals.
Those three weren’t industry reporters. And by the predatory looks on their faces, they were out for blood.
“I’d say they aren’t here for you, but they’re obviously here for you,” he said.
“I should have worn sassier shoes.”
“We can go,” Jude said.
I took a casual sip of my champagne, pretending I hadn’t noticed them. “They’ll follow us out.”
“I’ll have Joe meet us out back.”
“Yeah, but they’ll still follow us. And I really don’t want to talk to them tonight.”
&n
bsp; “They won’t follow.”
“Why?”
He took my drink and set it on the bar, then grabbed my hand. “Because we’re going to lose them.”
How he could appear so casual and still hurry us toward the hotel ballroom entrance, I had no idea. He was slick like ice, people’s gazes sliding right over him. He led me toward the lobby and sure enough, the three reporters followed.
“See?” I whispered.
“Just don’t trip.”
“I wear heels almost every day, I won’t trip.”
He squeezed my hand and we took a sharp turn down an adjacent hallway.
“Excuse me, Ms. Whitbury?”
“You can’t hear them,” Jude whispered.
I kept walking, eyes straight ahead.
“Ms. Whitbury, is it true you essentially staged a hostile takeover of Spencer Aeronautics?” she asked, raising her voice.
“She’s getting closer,” I hissed. “And where are the others?”
“Trust me,” he said.
The hallway came to a T up ahead. Jude turned us left, but one of the other journalists was closing in from that direction.
“Shit,” he muttered.
We spun around and quick-walked in the other direction, passing a bank of elevators. Without warning, he pushed open the door to a stairwell.
Thankful for every leg day I’d endured with Inda, I charged up the stairs with Jude’s huge hand still engulfing mine. He pushed open the door to the second floor, took one quick look up and down the hallway, and chose a direction.
The hall was lined with room doors and for a second I wondered if he knew how to hack an electronic lock. My heart raced—both from the trip up the stairs and the odd excitement of fleeing—and I almost laughed out loud. At least no one was trying to run over me. They just wanted to ask awkward questions and possibly take anything I said out of context. Running from them was so silly, and yet Jude hadn’t hesitated to get me out of there.
My heart went from racing to fluttering.
I was afraid to look back. One of the reporters had to be about to burst onto the second floor. The elevator dinged behind us. Had one of them taken it? And where had the third gone?
The Mogul and the Muscle: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy Page 18