Public Relations

by Tibby Armstrong

  Georgia crossed the room and sat in the wooden swivel chair. A power tool ripped through flooring in the room behind her, vibrating the boards under her feet. She closed her eyes and begged for patience. Or better yet, a freak meteor to hurtle down and strike her new boss. The man had to be new money. No way old money would behave so pretentiously, replacing things five minutes into a position.

  “What do we know about his past?” she asked.

  Perching a hip on the corner of her temporary desk, Sid eyed her suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

  “Where did he come from? Who are his people?”

  “You’re the expert, Georgie.” Sid shrugged and stood. “I take it that means you’re not quitting?”

  “What? No!” Maybe some of the articles in the magazines she’d brought in would provide a clue about his background and help her find a way out of this mess. Georgia searched the surface of the desk but found only her handbag and pencil cup. “Where’re my magazines?”

  Pointing to her desk drawers, Sid answered her question. “I wouldn’t let him see those if I were you.”

  “Don’t know ’bout that. Apoplexy might suit.”

  Sid jammed his hands in his pockets and blew out a breath that puffed his cheeks. He was worried, and she couldn’t say she blamed him. After all, he’d lied to Peter when he’d covered for her this morning. All their jobs, ultimately, were on the line. Not just hers.

  Georgia sighed. No reason to get herself or anyone else fired before she figured out whether they all fought a losing battle. Ringing phones and the sound of clacking keyboards filled the room, making the space buzz with energy. This was the place she loved—vibrant and full of news in the making. With a part of her soul imbedded in this paper, she didn’t know if she could quit. Or should quit. These people were the only real family she’d known. One thing was certain. If she went down, somehow she’d take that horrid man with her.

  “When you get that look, it scares me,” Sid said.

  Georgia glanced up at him. Blond hair flopping in his eyes, he frowned down at her.

  “What look?” she asked.

  “The one that says you’re going to take out the enemy no matter the collateral damage or the cost of the ammunition.”

  “I hope the enemy happens to be the maître d’ at Le Bernardin.” The quiet resonance of Peter’s words made Georgia’s heart leap out of the starting gate and bolt past the lure.

  Sid took a swift step away from the desk. On his way past, his hand knocked over her pencil cup, sending the contents every which way.

  Needing to collect her scattered composure, Georgia swiveled swiftly in her chair and spoke at her computer log-in screen. “I’ve never made a reservation for a place like that.”

  “True. She’s pretty much addicted to Chinese food,” Sid offered by way of support as he plunked several pens into her cup.

  Both she and Peter glared at him.

  “I’ll just…” Sid jerked a thumb toward his office.

  “Want me to show you how it’s done?” Peter asked when they were alone.

  “I think I can manage.” She lifted the receiver on her telephone. “Thanks.”

  Not waiting for him to leave, she dialed information and had them connect her with the restaurant. When the maître d’ answered, she rattled off Peter’s request in fluent French, dropping the name of his contact as she might use a garnish. When she finished, Peter sat in the side chair by her desk, both brows raised. Whether in shock or admiration, she couldn’t tell.

  A smug smile flitted about her lips, and she squelched it before meeting his gaze. Unable to keep the merriment from her eyes, she asked innocently, “Is that how it’s done?”

  “Yes.” His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth. “That’s how it’s done.”

  Was he one of those men who found foreign languages and accents titillating? He had been turned on by Gigi when they’d met. Georgia’s cheeks heated, and she looked away. She was never at a loss for words except around this man.

  Chapter Five

  Peter stared into eyes the color of a storm-tossed north Irish Sea and prayed for strength. When Georgia looked away, his blood cooled a fraction, and he pulled back. Though she didn’t have lush lashes or a sophisticated hairstyle, she had a fresh-faced beauty that captivated his mind and ratcheted up his libido.

  He’d never seen such natural loveliness. With her high cheekbones and creamy skin all but devoid of makeup, her blush became a tell. Wine-red highlights streaked thick waves of shoulder-length auburn hair, making him think of Maureen O’Hara and sirens of the deep.

  She was a spitfire, this one, and maybe a little too hot to handle. Despite years of pursuing only the most predictable and uncomplicated of relationships, he felt compelled to rise to the challenge she presented. At least until she opened a drawer to toss in her purse. She froze, hand hovering over the contents. He spied the stack of magazines at the same time she attempted to shove the swollen wood back into its housing.

  Fingers gently gripping her wrist, he stayed her hand. “Give them to me.”

  She shrugged, the gesture a little too nonchalant, and lifted the stack from its resting place. His temper spiked, tightening his skin, making his movements jerky as he hefted the weight of the periodicals from her hands. He fanned through the first and noted cryptic scribbles in its margins. Shorthand? Her chair squeaked as she rolled it back from him, ostensibly gaining a safer distance.

  Pausing in his perusal, he glanced at her. “Are these yours?”

  “I told you. I do research-type stuff. Fact-checking.” Her gaze remained steady, though she stumbled over her words.

  “On me? For an already published piece?” He perched a hip on her desk and thumbed through more pages. “How interesting.”

  Damn, but he’d bought the paper in the nick of time. Had they been planning another piece on him? God only knew what they’d have dredged up and flung at his reputation this time around.

  Several minutes went by during which he flipped through the magazines. With each cavalierly worded lampoon of his character, all of which he’d assumed Carl would’ve shown him but hadn’t, embarrassment that this woman—and hell, the whole first world and probably select parts of the second and third—knew very intimate details of his private life churned his temper.

  He dropped the magazines on her desk with a thump. The stack slithered into an untidy pile to cover a bare stretch of weathered blond oak. Georgia lifted her chin, its delicately rounded point tapering to the twin blades of her regal jaw. Faint blue veins ran like lacework up her neck, branching to pulse points below her ear. One of those points fluttered. “Look, Peter…”

  He narrowed his eyes at her use of his name. “Mr. Wells.”

  She pressed her lips together, flattening the peaks and valleys into a straight line. He practically heard her think Whatever. Oddly, the word registered in his mind in an English accent. He frowned and barely managed to shake Gigi Montrose’s dulcet tones out of his head as Georgia continued.

  “Try not to let your paranoia run rampant.” Her sarcasm registered as a verbal slap.

  The expression he leveled at her was deliberately bored. “Careful. Insubordination isn’t the way to my good graces.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have anything more tempting to offer.”

  Without conscious thought, he swept her with his gaze, saying wordlessly, Oh, but you do…

  Really? You just went there? her narrowed stare asked.

  He blinked and erased any sign of interest so completely from his face that he knew she wondered if it had ever been there. Across the room, all eyes were on them. Sounds of work had stopped entirely. No keyboards clacked. A phone rang but went unheeded. Peter shifted his attention over his shoulder to his employees, and everyone scattered like he’d pulled a pin on a grenade and thrown it into their midst. As they went back to their foxholes, he returned his focus to Georgia.

  “That’s two.” He held up two fingers. “Three’s my limit
.”

  She opened her mouth, and he dared to lean in and press his upheld fingers against the moist heat of her mouth. Big mistake.

  Regions south of his belt jumped up and took notice, but he repressed a flinch. “Do yourself a favor and be quiet.”

  When he withdrew his fingers, she gaped at him. He stood and walked away before she found her voice. After all, nothing good could come of him firing her. He’d put money on her knowing more than she let on, and at the very least she had access to people he needed to meet. One way or another, either she would put him in touch with Gigi Montrose or she’d feed him the name of his nemesis. Regardless, he planned to win every skirmish along with the whole damned battle. Even if he had to load the cannons himself.

  * * * *

  Peter pressed the chrome weight bar above his chest and focused on the burn. One week later and he couldn’t get Georgia Whitcomb or Gigi Montrose out of his head. A pair of jade-green, then gray-green, eyes flashed in memory. His arms began to shake too soon. Racking the weight, he cursed, then grabbed his sweat towel to press to his face. Immediately visions of both women rolled over him once more.

  He tossed the towel aside and reached for his phone as he stalked toward the bath. On the way he told Miles to call his car service. He’d have to go in to the newspaper today. Though he’d avoided the place for the past week, loath to spend energy on a business that would ultimately give him the least return on his investment, he couldn’t stay away forever. Not if he intended to discover the name of Gigi Montrose’s gossipy friend.

  A lush mouth, cherry red in its glossy fullness, joined the gray-green eyes, tempting him to curse again. Flicking on the television in his bathroom, he focused on the morning financial reports and finished getting ready. On the way down to the car, he dialed Carl.

  “Donner,” Carl answered, clearly distracted by something or someone.

  Peter eyed the waterfall cascading off the lobby awning. “Shit, it’s raining.”

  A male voice said something unintelligible in the background, and Carl covered the receiver, momentarily muffling his conversation.

  “Sorry,” he said, returning after a moment. “And good morning to you too.”

  “I forgot my umbrella,” Peter explained. “Miles is slipping.”

  “So I gathered.” A slurp of coffee, then he said, “Do you want me to drive there to get it for you?”

  Peter chuckled. “That’s why I call you.”

  “Comedic relief?”

  “To remind me not to be such a prima donna.”

  “If that’s all you want, I’ll try harder to take you down a peg or two when we talk.”

  Peter snorted. “Thanks. At least it’s not slushing.”

  The car pulled up to the entrance, gleaming black against the gray of the December day. The driver came around to open Peter’s door, an umbrella covering the vehicle entry. Clutching his cell to his ear, Peter dashed out of the lobby. Water ran in a river along the gutter, gurgling and rushing toward a sewer drain. In the chill air, the city smelled clean in a way it rarely did. Peter breathed deep. Car door shut, he became separate from the world again.

  “Do you ever wish you could just go outside and get soaking wet?” He lifted his hips, drawing his coat upward to relieve the pull at his shoulders. “Let the rain do its worst?”

  A pause preceded Carl’s “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Yeah. I’m…” Peter eyed the water blurring the view of the yellow cab that had pulled up alongside them at a light. “Right as rain.”

  “Cute.”

  “So, I know it’s not your job, but I’m wondering if you can help me some more with this Gigi Montrose thing?” Cell clamped between his cheek and shoulder, Peter opened his briefcase and withdrew a folder.

  “Still no luck with your PI?”

  “The woman is a complete mystery.” The traffic lurched forward, and he tried to ignore the motion sickness that reared whenever he read in a moving vehicle.

  “Most are.”

  “Yes, well this one is more mysterious than most.” Peter flipped through the folder’s meager contents. So far he had a possible range of birth years and a photo from a Manhattan society event. “I have a lead on a London solicitor, but they won’t talk to me or my team. Any ideas?”

  “You said that girl— What’s her name? Arizona?”

  Peter laughed. “Georgia. Her name is Georgia.”

  “Yeah. Well, you said they know each other.” A microwave beeped in the background as Carl probably heated his coffee. “Why not ask her to make a dinner date with the Montrose woman for you?”

  Why hadn’t he thought of that? He’d been so close to the problem he’d completely missed the obvious. “You know, Carl, that’s why I pay you the big bucks.”

  “I could use a raise,” Carl joked.

  “Then increase your fees when we re-up your contract next month.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I reward good work from my employees. You should know that by now.”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Peter.” Carl sounded wistful, maybe even a little hurt.

  Peter started to ask what was up, but the driver pulled the car to the curb outside the brick newspaper building and Peter tabled his worries. If there was a problem, Carl would tell him.

  “Have to go.” Peter disconnected the call and let the driver escort him inside under the umbrella.

  Three stories up, the elevator doors opened and the buzz on the floor momentarily lulled, then increased twofold as employees scurried back to their desks. If he’d been in a less agitated mood, he might’ve found the scene amusing. Instead it irritated him to watch Sid and three other employees trip over themselves fleeing Georgia’s desk for the safety of their own.

  “Good morning, Ms. Whitcomb,” he said on the way past.

  Hair pulled away from her face with an airily tied silk scarf, the ends of the material teasing the middle of her back, she looked thoroughly bohemian chic and nothing like a buttoned-up executive assistant.

  “Morning.” She replied without looking up from her computer screen.

  He switched on his own computer and frowned when Georgia remained at her desk as if her phone were her sole responsibility. How Brenna Templeton ran her business with such a shoddy assistant, he couldn’t fathom, until he remembered she hadn’t run it at all—unless he counted its headlong crash into the ground.

  “Ms. Whitcomb.” Peter leaned out his door. “My office.”

  Underneath her desk, the blue jeans Georgia wore hadn’t caught his attention. As she sashayed into his office, the curve of her thighs and sleek line of her calves in the skintight pants made his jaw tighten. He settled into his leather chair and faced her across his desk, in a position of power and control.

  “Sit,” he said, more terse than he’d intended.

  Georgia sat and crossed her legs. Slim fingers lightly gripped the chair arms as she stared up at him, wide-eyed and anything but innocent. More like calculating and dangerous. Something about the juxtaposition of expression and intent called to him, challenging him in ways he hadn’t been in a long, long time.

  He let his gaze sweep her from head to toe. Pink. Everything about her was pink today. From the frosted lipstick she wore to the polish on her toes in a pair of open-toed heels. He tried to keep his perusal of her outfit terse and professional, but parts other than his brain took a keener interest in her fashion sense.

  He cleared his throat. “Your outfit is entirely inappropriate.”

  Georgia’s chin dipped as she looked down at her blouse, bringing Peter’s attention to the section of her body he’d thus far managed to avoid examining. He bit back a groan when she shifted so her chest became more prominent.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not accustomed to dressing for my employer,” she said, shrugging one slim shoulder.

  Peter clenched his chair arms a little harder. “You deliberately misunderstand me.”

  Georgia only raised her brows.

&nb
sp; “I hope you have a good memory,” he said, noting her lack of a paper and pen before he began a litany of instructions Emma would’ve automatically written down. Not wanting to butt heads with his temporary PA, he’d done without her services all week, but his life was rapidly spiraling out of control.

  “When I come in, I expect my computer and lights on, messages waiting for me. You’ll follow me into my office to deliver them as I situate myself.” She gaped at him, but he continued to rattle off instructions as if he hadn’t noticed her incensed expression and ended with, “Until Emma returns, you’ll follow my schedule, working in the offices I go to each day. I’ll give you access to my calendar so you know where I expect you.”

  “Exactly how many offices do you have?” The curiosity in her tone was edged with steel.

  “One at each subsidiary, plus a main office in Wells Tower.”

  The Wells Industries stock value flashed in the upper right corner of Peter’s computer window, absorbing him momentarily. It’d been down ever since he purchased the newspaper, but today it started climbing immediately at the opening bell. Looked like investors had moved on to other worries. The whole financial community, as far as he was concerned, had a bad case of attention deficit disorder.

  “That’s one hundred forty-four offices,” Georgia observed.

  “One hundred forty-five and only thirty-one of those are in Manhattan.” She’d forgotten about the newspaper, but he was impressed nonetheless. “But you’ve been doing your homework.”

  “I’m not stupid,” she said with a toss of her head that made her hair sway and catch the light.

  “No. Only undermotivated.” He held up a hand when she bristled. “Save it. I’m not interested in cultivating your feelings. Just your work ethic.”

  If looks could shrivel a man’s testicles, his would be the size of raisins. He made a mental note to check for sharp objects and dark alleys when alone with Georgia in the future.

  “At six thirty tomorrow and every morning after, you’ll be at my place with coffee and breakfast. I dictate correspondence while I eat and dress. Then you’ll go to the office before I do.”