The Price of Scandal

by Score, Lucy

  “Agh!”

  He grinned and stepped inside. He dropped the earrings on the vanity and zipped my dress. “You know I’m not going to think about anything but you being commando under that dress all night,” he teased.

  “Derek, unless you’re a secret hairstylist, I need you to get the hell out of my bathroom right now,” I screeched over the hum of the hairdryer.

  “It would seem that once again, I’m exactly what you need.” He plucked the dryer out of my hand and grabbed a brush from the drawer.

  “Chair me, Jane,” he called.

  Jane appeared a moment later with one of the turquoise ottomans from my bedroom, a slab of cheese hanging out of her mouth.

  “Cheese and cracker the boss, Jane,” Derek said, pushing me down on the stool and going to work on my hair.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered as he deftly dried and volumized and smoothed.

  “Product?” he asked, switching the dryer off.

  I pointed to the slim closet next to the sink. While he rummaged, I put on the earrings.

  “Lovely,” he announced.

  Jane returned with a plate of cheese and crackers and a tall glass of water.

  “How was your day?” I asked, stuffing the first cracker in my mouth.

  “Productive,” he said. He placed a comb between his teeth while he buried his hands in my hair. “Yours?”

  “Same,” I said, trying not to close my eyes as his fingers massaged my scalp. I wondered what it would feel like if he washed my hair.

  “I think we’ll do something that makes a bit of a statement,” he said, swooping my hair this way and that. “Something that says badass.”

  Involuntarily, my lips responded in a smug smile.

  I relaxed and snacked as he twisted and tucked, fingers working quickly and competently.

  “How did you learn to do this?” I asked as the style began to take shape.

  “After my stepfather made me give up thievery, I had to earn a living somehow. My mother was keen to keep a close eye on me. She made me work at her salon after school. I picked up a few things in the years I was there.”

  “A few things meaning women?” I asked.

  He gave me a cat that ate the canary look in the mirror. “Perhaps. You have to admit, I’m excellent with my hands.”

  “I’ve seen you steal wallets and style hair. That is the extent of my experience with your hands.”

  Was I flirting with him? This was not a smart move, no matter how I played it. Encouraging Derek would only get one of us hurt.

  “Perhaps you’ll experience something a little more hands-on tonight?”

  “For the cameras, of course,” I said.

  He fluffed the hair at my crown and sprayed it.

  “Not only for the cameras, love.” His eyes were a hypnotic blue in the mirror. I wanted him to press those lips to the back of my neck. To bite the skin where my neck and shoulder met. To trail his tongue over me.

  I felt a rush of something delicious between my legs. “Are you this flirtatious with all your clients?”

  He tucked another stray pin into place at the nape of my neck then leaned in so I could feel his breath on my shoulder. “Only you, darling Emily,” he whispered. “What do you think?”

  “I think us having sex would be a huge mistake.”

  Amused, he laughed. “Some mistakes are worth making. But I meant your hair.”

  He’d styled it in a teased pompadour on top and sleek bun in the back. It was edgy, interesting. My mother would hate it.

  I loved it.

  “Not bad, Price.”

  “You’ll want a smokey eye and a more subtle lip,” he told me. “Unfortunately, I’m only good at kissing away makeup so you’re on your own there.”

  “I’ll do my face in the car,” I told him, giving my reflection another pleased glance.

  “Do it now. I’ll get us there in time,” he promised.

  And for some reason, I believed him.

  24

  Derek

  Emily looked decidedly unamused when we pulled up to Bluewater’s private airfield.

  The helicopter was ready and waiting. An attendant passed us each a headset, and we were ushered onboard, heads ducking low beneath the twirling blades.

  “A helicopter, Derek?” Emily groused, her voice crackling in my ears, as she removed the scarf from her head.

  “Darling, what’s the fun of being a billionaire if you can’t take a helicopter to a gala?”

  Primly, she arranged the skirt of her dress over her legs. “Tell me we’re not landing on the rooftop of the hotel.”

  I chuckled. “We’re landing ten minutes away from the event and a car is waiting for us. No one will know it was Emily Stanton bypassing the traffic tonight.”

  We took off, lifting from the ground in a defiance of gravity and within seconds were swooping over the bay.

  Emily was glued to her window. Even billionaires could take a moment to appreciate the cerulean waters as the sun sunk lower on the horizon.

  “Thank you for this, Derek,” she said quietly in my ear.

  I reached out and took her hand. She didn’t turn away from the window, didn’t snatch her hand back. Nor did she bite my head off. It was a very small, satisfying win.

  * * *

  The Forsythe-Lowenstein Children’s Memorial Hospital Gala was hosted by the very posh Club Indigo Hotel. The entrance to the hotel was set up like a Hollywood red carpet because if Miami’s wealthy set were going to show up and open their checkbooks, they damn well wanted to be photographed doing it.

  It made my fingers itch to lift a wallet or sparkly bauble. Just for fun. Just to remind myself that I could.

  Emily leaned in to my side in the back seat of the limo. “Don’t even think about picking anyone’s pockets, Price.”

  Mind reader. She knew me so well.

  “I’m astonished and devastated that you would think that,” I teased.

  “Um-hmm.” It sounded like a purr.

  The limo eased forward another car length.

  “Are you ready to be romantically ambiguous?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “You’re not going to use this as an excuse to grab my ass, are you?”

  I didn’t need an excuse. I needed a clear, direct opening from her. Until I received such a message, loud and clear, my flirtation would be entirely in words and long, smoldering glances.

  “No, but you grabbing one of my perfect cheeks wouldn’t hurt. Remember the power dynamics, love. You’re the boss. You’re in charge. You’re the one being adored.”

  “And the one doing the groping.” She sounded downright cheerful about it. “Are you sure sparking rumors that we’re involved is the best strategy?”

  “Positive.”

  The limo made it to the front of the line, and we were expelled onto a rich, gold carpet lined with society photographers and gossip bloggers. Emily stunned in the sleek, black dress.

  I kept my hand at the small of her back longer than necessary. Long enough for a few of the more canny press to ask if we were here together professionally or personally. Emily locked eyes with me, allowing a secretive smile to light up her face. “Mr. Price and I are good friends. We enjoy spending time together,” she said, her fingers landing lightly on my lapel. The camera flashes exploded in a show of fireworks.

  It wasn’t an ass grab. It was a classier kind of possession.

  I offered her my arm, and together we climbed the steps, leaving the questions behind us.

  Inside, we were guided by white-gloved attendants to the ballroom. Restrained South Beach was the flavor of the room. Pillars and arches flanked a dozen sets of French doors. The white stucco walls were bathed in nightclub purple lighting. Gold damask tablecloths were draped over tables topped with elaborate candle and flower displays. Heavy gilt chandeliers dripped crystals from the mission-style ceiling above.

  I was in the wealth tier that preferred to write a check and avoid $2
0,000-a-plate dinners. But this level of financial responsibility required appearances, gowns, jewels, and an entire evening for the money to be best spent.

  “There you are, Emily.” Venice Stanton entered behind us, lovely in Hollywood creamy silk. Byron Stanton’s mob-boss broad shoulders fought against the restraint of Hugo Boss. The tone was lightly disapproving.

  “Hello. We must have beat you here. We managed to make it in record time,” Emily said, leaning in to kiss her mother on the cheek. It was a greeting designed for cameras.

  “Don’t be silly, darling. Arriving too early makes one look desperate,” Venice trilled.

  Emily looked as though she were about to break her mother’s nose.

  As a precaution, I took her hand and squeezed.

  She bared her teeth in what might have passed for a smile. If the individual were stupid. And inebriated. Or face blind.

  I understood women like Venice Stanton. They could both fiercely love their daughters and still feel as though they were in direct competition.

  “Hey there, slugger,” Byron said, grazing a kiss on his daughter’s cheek. “Price,” he said with a brisk nod.

  “Derek.” Venice smoothed the sharp edges from her tone and looked me up and down. “How lovely to finally meet a man who understands just how important perception is.” It was a compliment directed at me and a jab at the rest of her family.

  She offered her hand, knuckles up. Dutifully, I kissed it, aware of the flash of a photographer’s camera.

  “This is ridiculous,” I heard Emily growl next to me.

  “Oh, there’s Bethenny,” Venice said, patting her perfect coif as she side-eyed her husband’s ex-wife from several yards away.

  Bethenny Stanton—she’d kept the last name in what I could only assume was a solid “fuck you” to Venice who had tempted Byron out of his wedding vows and into her bed—had made shrewd investments with her prenup money and now headed the board of two charities. Where Venice was tanned and blonde, Bethenny was a lovely mix of Vietnamese and Welsh backgrounds.

  She approached in a shimmery, simple column of gray. Her dark hair was cut with razor-like precision to her shoulders. Her hands were ringless. The only adornment she wore was a pair of chandelier earrings that glistened like her dress.

  “Is that one of those new designers?” Venice said the word “new” as if it were lemon juice on her tongue.

  “Of course,” Bethenny said, leaning in for a more sincere hug from Emily. “I enjoy supporting new artists wherever I find them.”

  Venice pursed her lips and scrambled for her next match point.

  “Emily, you look stunning as always. What is your secret?” Bethenny asked, giving her an affectionate squeeze.

  “Why, she uses her own products religiously,” Venice said, steering the conversation back toward something winnable. “Of course, it’s unfortunate poor Emily didn’t inherit my side’s genes.”

  “Bethenny, it’s wonderful to see you. Derek, how about a drink?” Emily offered suddenly. She squeezed my hand in an S-O-S.

  “You read my mind.”

  “Oh, darling, first we need a picture,” Venice insisted.

  She waved a photographer over and positioned herself between her husband and me. Emily and Bethenny were pushed to the outskirts.

  “Mrs. Stanton, look this way,” the photographer coaxed.

  “I am, darling,” Venice trilled.

  “I meant the other Mrs. Stanton,” he said.

  If looks could kill, the photographer would have been impaled on one of the skewers of shrimp that were being passed around.

  “There’s always plenty of room for more Mrs. Stantons in the world,” Bethenny said lightly.

  Emily coughed to cover a laugh, and we all smiled big, phony smiles for the camera.

  “How about that drink, Price,” Emily said when it was over.

  “How about several?”

  We abandoned what could be dubbed as the sinking ship that was Venice Stanton’s plans for an evening of event domination and headed in the direction of the bar.

  “Or your plastic surgeon’s phone number on speed dial,” Emily seethed under her breath.

  “What was that?”

  “Only the perfect comeback for my mother.”

  “She seems to be a bit… competitive,” I offered.

  “My entire life, she’s demanded that I be successful in whatever I do while still cutting me down for not being exactly like her.” Emily ordered a champagne. I stuck with beer.

  “That’s quite the mixed message.”

  “And don’t even get me started on how my father wishes I were the son he never had or rather a better version of the useless son he was saddled with. I keep hoping that they’ll move to New York or Paris or anywhere but here. It would be nice to have some breathing room.”

  “Have you tried hypnosis?”

  “What? Bring a hypnotherapist to family dinner to implant suggestions?” Emily laughed.

  “Please pass the potatoes. Seattle is nice this time of year,” I teased.

  “If I get desperate, I’ll consider it.”

  We took our drinks and found our table front and center, of course, near the stage.

  Emily eyed the stage and shuddered.

  “What was that for?”

  “Oh, just remembering how I met Cam, Daisy, and Luna.”

  “I’d like to hear that story.” How did four female billionaires find their way to each other? Was it luck? Money? Had they bonded over their bank accounts, or did it run deeper?

  “Maybe someday,” Emily mused. “For now, let me catch you up to speed on the wealth in the room.”

  While I emptied my beer, she began a rundown, light on background, heavier on current gossip, keeping me entertained.

  I knew most of them. Miami was a smaller town than most realized. I’d worked with several people in the room. Some discreetly on—shall we say—sensitive issues. Those clients gave me a subtle nod before disappearing back into the crowd.

  It was fascinating, really. I ran a successful business. I had money in the bank. Perhaps not with the same number of zeroes but still respectable.

  Yet to some of them, I was a mere servant. They paid me to meet their needs. It was an unsettling thought. One that had me offering a more personal thank you to the woman in the checkered vest who buzzed by and took my empty beer bottle.

  She smiled at me.

  “Someone is a fan,” Emily mused, watching the waitress disappear into the crowd of the wealthy and the well-dressed.

  “Believe it or not, I have some concept of how it feels when other people set rather ridiculous expectations for you,” I said, itching for another beer. I settled for Emily’s champagne flute.

  “That’s mine,” she said when I took it and sipped. “Get your own.”

  “I’d rather have yours.”

  “We can’t always have what we want,” she reminded me.

  “But we can certainly try.”

  “Everyone’s looking at us,” she said, doing a subtle scan of the room.

  “It’s because they’re trying to decide if we’re sleeping together,” I told her.

  “We just got here. Word hasn’t had time to spread.”

  I pulled out my phone and called up a gossip blog at random.

  Billionaire Emily Stanton mixes business and pleasure with date Derek Price.

  “Never underestimate how quickly salaciousness travels,” I advised, showing her the screen.

  “You better be right about this, Price. Otherwise, my father might try to beat you to death with a centerpiece tonight.”

  25

  Emily

  The gala was a typical fundraising event. The same attendees—the wealthy and the notable. The same divine wardrobe choices. The same conversations about politics and gossip and celebrity trainers and bottom lines. The same pricey yet still disappointing food. And, of course, the murmurs of “such a good cause” as Miami’s wealthiest residents competed for
the title of most generous.

  Derek was pulled away by a former client, a beautiful young woman who had once been accused of breaking up the marriage of a beloved celebrity couple. He shook her fiancé’s hand heartily and listened to the happy couple’s Parisian wedding plans.

  Blissfully unencumbered for a moment, I returned to the bar and took another flute of champagne. It was for show, not sipping. With age and responsibility came the wherewithal to not get spectacularly drunk in public.

  I ducked into a corner behind a heavy velvet curtain to check my phone. My mother would have a conniption if she saw me with it in hand. It wasn’t that she required my undivided attention. It was more that she abhorred the physical reminder of my attachment to work. How could I meet an eligible bachelor if I was too busy responding to my chief financial officer? What man would want me if I couldn’t be bothered to put down my SEC filings and smile prettily while he told amusing anecdotes to an appreciative crowd?

  I had the usual dozen texts. And one that actually excited me.

  Esther: Got some results you might be interested in. Swing by the lab Sunday?

  Me: How interesting will I find them? Sunday’s good.

  She responded immediately, and I could picture her in the lab, her Converse-clad feet propped up on a work table while data scrolled by on her computer monitors. She was probably eating cold Chinese takeout. And I’d have given anything to be there with her.

  Esther: I’m rerunning a few things to verify, but I think I’m going to owe you $5.

  I hugged my phone to my chest. Feeling that old, familiar excitement that used to sweep over me every time I crossed the threshold to my college lab. It was ironic that being successful in science could take me so far away from the lab. But I had skills that went beyond peering into microscopes and analyzing reams of data.

  I gave in to the excitement and danced a little boogie.

  “Oops. I try to hide from the party and walk in on another one,” said a woman poured into a gown the color of the midnight sky hugging her voluptuous curves.