She gave his arm a quick squeeze. “Be right back.”
“I’ll be outside,” he called, and she casually flipped her hand up in acknowledgment.
The rapid clip of his dress shoes echoed down the dimly lit corridor as he headed for the exit. He fumbled with the brass tension bar before the door gave way. The air outside was more damp than truly cold. City lights reflected off the low cloud ceiling, making the night feel insular and hushed, wrapped in atmosphere and a bit of old-fashioned mystery. If he had to guess, it would snow soon.
Peter shoved his hands in his pockets and looked up at the sky, his frozen breath lost to the artificially bright cloud cover. He found himself puffing out several more breaths and twisting around trying to see them before they completely dissipated. A small smile escaped, chilling his teeth at the same time the sharp click of stilettos punched through the air.
He straightened at the sight of a red dress. A cab passed, its duty light dark. The woman waved her hand, the gesture a little wild given her social circle. The cab raced by, and she swore a blue streak as she gave the driver the finger. Peter’s brows shot up. His little socialite not only didn’t have a car and driver, but she knew words he’d only heard in a locker room.
“Can I help you?” He stepped toward her.
The blonde whirled to face him, her hand to her chest. “Good Lord! What a fright.”
He blinked as shock drifted in an erotic curl, tightening muscles in its wake. Only years of boardroom experience kept the surprise from his face. She was even more beautiful up close, the exquisite pout of her mouth a vivid contrast to her pale features. He doubted she knew tanning booths existed, much less used one.
“I’m sorry I startled you.” He held out a hand. “Peter Wells.”
Pushing an errant strand behind her ear, she ignored his hand and looked up the street—no doubt for more poor, unsuspecting, off-duty cabbies to verbally assault—before turning her back.
Unused to rebuff, Peter shoved his hand in his pocket and tried again. “And you are…”
“Not remotely interested,” she answered.
He blinked twice in rapid succession. “Excuse me?”
The indignation in his voice seemed to work like a gear, turning her around one sprocket at a time until she squared off with him. Tilted up at the corners, her eyes glittered with green fire. At six foot one, he was tall but not extraordinarily so. Judging from how she had to tilt her head to look up at him, this woman couldn’t be more than five and a half feet in heels, yet he felt as if she towered over him. That cat-eyed gaze swept up his chest with excruciating deliberation. She lingered on his tie and shirt collar, her stare shifting back and forth. One delicate nostril lifted as if she smelled something bad. A well-tended brow arched before she met his eyes.
He looked down at his shirt and saw his second button undone and a smear of lipstick staining his collar. It was the first nonverbal conversation he’d had with a woman in years where money didn’t change hands and his zipper remained up. Consequently, it was also the first conversation that left him fighting the urge to explain himself.
Thick snowflakes began to drift between them, catching him in a story the Brothers Grimm might have written, one with his very own Red Riding Hood who stared at him like he was her personal big bad wolf. He had a sneaking suspicion that this contemporary version of the distressed maiden wouldn’t need a guy with an ax to save her ass. She’d wield it herself.
He took a step back. “Allow me to hail you a taxi?”
She folded her arms over the drape of her fur stole and cocked her head. A chill breeze chose that moment to sweep down the street. No matter how low the thermometer read, Peter knew the frigid weather couldn’t compare to the ice storm brewing in this woman’s stare. He wanted to rub his hands up and down her bare skin to save them both from frostbite.
“Look, Red, I’ve been nothing but courteous to you.” He shoved his hands deeper in his pockets. “Do you have a problem with gentlemen?”
Both brows arched, high and graceful, before she presented her back to him once more. The line of her neck swooped upward from the delicate wings of her shoulders.
“I wouldn’t know.” She whipped up her hand to hail an oncoming cab. “I do so rarely meet them.”
The blur of yellow slowed and jerked to the curb. Despite, or maybe because of, her comment, Peter stepped forward and opened the door. She got in, and he’d nearly shut the door before she looked up at him through the glass to say, “And my name isn’t Red.”
Struck speechless, he closed the door and watched the taxi race away in a swirl of snow and wondered where and when he’d gone wrong. How he could’ve changed the course of the conversation and convinced that saucy English rose to shed her thorns and remain by his side. Blanching at the purple prose of his internal monologue, he did a quick ball check through his trousers pocket and breathed a relieved sigh when he counted two.
“Give it up, my friend, because she never will—give it up, that is.” A man whose name he should’ve remembered from the event followed his gaze.
“Who is she?” The cab slowed in a snarl of traffic, and the inexplicable urge to make like a hound and chase the woman down compelled him to stubbornly plant his feet on the pavement.
“That’s Gigi Montrose.” He emphasized the name as if it signified something important beyond four measured syllables.
Traffic moved in a great forward lurch. Peter continued to stare after the cab until it was swallowed up in the sea of vehicles on Fifth Avenue.
Unable to believe his libido had latched onto the one thing he despised more than a bear market—a self-important blue blood with tits as expensive as her prewar co-op—he recited the alphabet backward. Finished, he looked around, annoyed as Chastity glided down the side entrance steps with a bottle of Remy, two glasses, and his coat.
Speaking of expensive…
Tomorrow they’d have what he was coming to think of as the ritual talk about limits. Particularly those involving his bank account and her access to it. Just because he was wealthier than 99 percent of the 1 percent didn’t mean he gave everyone around him a match and said, Hey, burn some if the mood strikes you.
Taking his coat from Chastity’s outstretched hand and putting it on, he stared down at her and contemplated bringing her home with him. Instead, a picture of Gigi swam to the forefront of his mind. His body roused, taking interest in the wrong woman.
Perfect. Just great.
He felt for his billfold in his coat pocket and hailed a cab with his free hand. Chastity knew better than to protest when he placed her in the backseat without him and plucked the fine cognac from her fingers before shutting the door. He let her keep the glasses.
Red taillights retreated in a swirl of snow. Peter examined the decanter and its aged amber liquid. He briefly thought of going inside to return the thing to the high-end bartender, then shrugged. What the hell? Might as well enjoy himself. It had been far too long since he’d let loose, consequences be damned.
He removed the crystal stopper from the heavy bottle. The first drop hit his tongue, depositing nutty richness before shifting to more subtle honey and vanilla undertones. Taste buds sighed throughout his mouth. The heavy bottle swung by his side, dangling from one fist, while he held the top in the other.
“Top-shelf cognac.” Wry laughter accompanied his statement as he began his walk home. “Twenty-three thousand dollars.”
$23,000. Ma and Da’s first down payment on a house.
The memory launched the next line of his soliloquy. “A penthouse on the Upper East Side. Thirty-three million dollars.”
Christ. Was his place really worth that much? Wells Industries’ real-estate-investment arm owned the whole damned building, so he should know the penthouse’s market value. Even after years of dealing in sums with three more zeroes, the figure seemed unimaginable. He hadn’t thought about money, really thought about it, in so long he’d forgotten how surreal those sums could be. He’d b
ecome inured to their day-to-day meaning.
He took another sip of cognac to soften the rough edges of memory and the sting of guilt. The earthy aroma made even the damp city streets smell good, particularly the deeper into the bottle he got. Traffic whizzed past, tires making wet sounds against the mirrorlike pavement. People milled about, umbrellas perched jauntily over their heads, discussing the show they’d seen or the dinner they’d shared. Melting into the anonymity New York afforded, he took a heartier nip as he waited for the crosswalk light and found his punch line.
“The privilege of getting stinking drunk and jacking yourself to sleep without having to sign a prenup?” Saluting Times Square with a bottle he knew from personal experience could feed and clothe a family of six for more than a year, he finished with, “Totally. Fucking. Priceless.”
Chapter Two
Damn Peter Wells straight to hell.
Just thinking his name ground the vertebrae in Georgia’s neck together. If the cab weren’t jouncing over potholes the size of her great-grandmother’s silver tea service, springs shrieking in protest, the cabbie might’ve heard the sound of bone against bone. She twisted her neck and released the tension with an unladylike crack.
Ten minutes. She’d wanted ten minutes alone with the man to ask about the Wells Foundation, the charity Wells Industries funded and Peter chaired. All night he’d had one woman or another on his arm. Though she’d put herself in his path more than once, he’d completely ignored her. It was as if she’d been transparent, for heaven’s sake. She’d gone to use the loo, and when she’d returned, he’d disappeared. Up and vanished in the midst of the annual benefit speech. Chalking the night up as a total loss, she’d downed two glasses of champagne in quick succession and gone for her coat.
Thirty minutes later, stuck in Saturday night traffic just outside Times Square, she berated herself for going out last night instead of taking the time to research a back-burner story. She’d been so cocksure. Thoroughly convinced Peter’d find her irresistible and talk with her. Maybe even dance with her. By the time he’d bothered acknowledging her existence, his notice had been too little much too late.
The uncharacteristic fantasy she’d harbored all week—she a vision in red velvet, he in his crisp tux, twirling about the dance floor as the symphony played a waltz of Peter’s choosing—reared and was quickly superimposed with one of him in a tango clutch with that blonde. A blonde he’d paid. Not just to accompany him, but to…to…
She closed her eyes and immediately opened them when a vision of the woman’s spread legs—Peter Wells’s fingers playing her like a virtuoso with his chosen instrument—flashed in her memory like a pay-per-view porno. Not that she had any familiarity with what those movies were like—not really—and she certainly hadn’t needed any up-close and personal lessons from Mr. Wells. She’d had enough of those walking in on her own father in flagrante delicto with London’s answer to the Las Vegas showgirl more than once, thank you very much.
Foot tapping, thigh bouncing, she gritted her teeth and willed the ride to be over, the night to be over. She had no decent story for Monday’s column and no time to research something new. It was his fault that she was going to have six inches of dead space to fill with something moronic and meaningless.
Unless…
A tight smile tugged the corners of her mouth, and she sat up straighter. She needed a story, and it seemed it just might be about Peter Wells after all. The beginning of the social gossip piece began to unfurl in her mind. It would be a tad vitriolic. He’d earned it, and that made it difficult for her to feel sorry for him. She’d envisioned him as a gracious, kindhearted, and genuine man—the exact type his PR firm had cultivated in the media. Her uncharacteristically naive imagination had missed the mark so badly she was firing it.
The evening had proved the chairman of Wells Industries to be entirely egocentric, his charitable works done to cultivate a shallow social persona. And his personal life? Less than shallow. Like every part of his urbane personality, it was purchased in cold, hard cash. For God’s sake, she’d seen the money change hands with the escort at his side.
Lap. She’d originally been in his lap.
As if that image wasn’t burned into her frontal lobe. Forever.
She crossed and uncrossed her legs, trying in vain to assuage an ache that had reared when he’d offered to find her a cab. As if she needed his assistance. Having him so close, she’d had to call in every reserve she possessed to give him the proper set down he deserved.
Close up she’d been able to see how the shade of his five o’clock shadow highlighted the sensual cruelty of his upper lip. It had taken every iota of her restraint not to stare at his mouth as his nearness crashed through her defenses. If she’d responded in any other way, she had a good idea she’d be enjoying a very different end to her evening. A shiver of anticipation traveled down her spine. Huffing in disgust, she flopped back against the seat and lolled her head so she faced the far window.
Her disappointment in Peter was more than righteous indignation. Loathing scored her heart. Only a fool would have believed he was different, special. He was like every other moneyed lothario, whether they were gauche Americans or Brits who hid behind their lofty titles and feigned superiority. They were liars. One and all. Just like her father.
Flashes of memory—her mother’s suitcase by the front door, the way she’d walked out without looking back; then her father’s string of mistresses and one-night stands parading around the London manse as if they thought they were already the next Countess Montrose—seared her brain as if the images were brand-new. She blew out a breath to abate the unexpected prick of tears in her eyes and nostrils. No matter how many decades went by, she doubted she’d ever forget the amused look on her father’s face each time she’d walked in on his ill-timed sexcapades. Seeing Peter Wells tonight, like that, had brought it all back and proven what she’d always known. She wanted absolutely nothing to do with the jet set. Aristocratic or otherwise.
Thank God she’d ducked the society scene when she’d insisted her father send her to boarding school in the States. It wasn’t as if she’d had to fight all that hard. Though he’d wanted her out of the way, he would’ve preferred a finishing school in Switzerland to the rigorous school she’d selected. Other than a monthly stipend and very occasional visits home, her ties with high society had been severed so completely that only her father’s solicitor knew who and what she really was on either side of the pond. And he knew only because he sent her monthly allowance checks and got her the invitations she needed to do her job.
The cabbie pulled the vehicle to the curb and glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “That’ll be $24.70.”
The building’s night doorman rushed forward to open her door and offered her a hand out. He paid her fare with a credit card the building kept on hand for this purpose. Snow frosted the sidewalk, and flakes fell thickly. The promise of more, maybe a lot more, was on the air.
Shivering, she hurried inside to where the elevator waited. She entered the already opened doors and absentmindedly punched the button. Across the way, the brass doors of the building’s penthouse car reflected her image in waves of rosy distortion. The closing lift cut off her artificially constructed image. Reaching up, she pulled off her platinum wig and dismantled the first piece of her Gigi persona.
Cool air hit her scalp, and she sighed. The pins came out next. By the time the elevator opened at the ninth floor, she’d deposited a fistful of hairpins in the wig’s shell and shaken her hair around her shoulders. She hooked her finger in the back straps of her heels and slid them off in the hall. Visions of the escort’s high heels, their stiletto tips gleaming on her dangling feet, brought a rush of heat to Georgia’s cheeks. She fisted her shoes and wig as every stocking-footed step she took toward her door fueled her sense of justice and the need to deliver a little of the stuff on her own.
Entering her apartment, she stalked across the marble-floored foyer, through the formal
living room, and headed to the master bedroom. The flip of a switch sent heavy Roman shades descending uniformly over all six windows, obliterating her snow-frosted view of Central Park. She dialed her managing editor and put him on speaker as she began to wriggle out of a dress she couldn’t be seen in again.
“Huh, Georgie.” Sid’s greeting was warped, likely because his face was mashed into his pillow. “Er early ’night.”
“English, Sid.” Next came the dreaded shape wear. God, this stuff made her feel like a walrus wrestling with a damned fifty-five-gallon drum. She wasn’t sure which she was, and that was the irksome point. Sure, she fell in the “normal” weight range for her height and bone structure, but high society would shave twenty pounds off her frame before she’d be considered a beauty of any measure.
Covers rustled as Sid moved around. A heavy flop said he’d crashed back to the mattress.
“You usually don’t call for another…damn, it’s eleven. You’re early. What happened?” His jaw cracked as he yawned with gusto. “Was it a bust?”
She couldn’t stop the bark of laughter. The only bust to her evening had been an easy 36C, none of it real.
“On the contrary. We have our story.” Tossing the shape wear across the settee at the foot of her bed, she started with the garters. “Look, Sid, I want to bang this thing out and get you to kill that ridiculous piece I did on the senator’s wife. No one cares that she spent two hundred thousand dollars on a tea service. But this? This is gold.”
At Sid’s immediate protest, she interrupted. “It’ll only take me thirty minutes, forty-five tops. I know what it needs to say, composed most of it on my way home. We have a moneymaker, Sid. Give me a chance.”
“Is it worth having me haul Kenny in for a new page layout?” His skepticism stung.
“Want the whole story or the highlights?” She normally loved this game, playing out the evening with him. Sid was the best friend she’d ever had, would ever have, and she cherished him. Tonight, though, there was a desperation in her, a compulsion to get this truth published and feed her need to report news, however trivial this truly was.
Public Relations Page 2