Public Relations

by Tibby Armstrong

  Georgia’s lips thinned, but she nodded.

  “I have a strategy meeting with an underperforming subsidiary today. Have lunch for six brought into Wells Energy’s midtown offices. You’ll need to be there to take notes. I’ll have IT set up a laptop for you. In the future I expect you to make the necessary arrangements.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ll leave in two hours. You’ll go home and change, then meet me back here.”

  “Are we done?” she asked when he paused to reply to an urgent e-mail from his legal counsel.

  “No.” He tapped at his keyboard and ignored her annoyed expression. “You said you were good at research. So, first thing Friday morning, you’ll have a report ready for me on the cost-benefit of combining the paper’s resources and business plan with Wells Communications’ radio and television interests.” Brows raised, he pinned her with his gaze. “I don’t expect anything MBA level, but I do expect you to interview experts and put some thought into your analysis.”

  The skin across Georgia’s knuckles turned white, and the wood under her fingers squeaked. Peter bit back a smile and focused on his computer screen.

  “Also, get Gigi Montrose on the telephone and put her through in here.”

  Georgia stood, thinking him finished or very possibly not caring if he was done.

  As she reached the doorway, he said, “And Ms. Whitcomb?”

  She paused and glanced back.

  “Suits from now on. Skirts to your knees.” He looked pointedly at her bare throat before meeting her eyes. “And collars as well as buttons on your blouses.”

  Red spread from her neckline to her face before she stalked from his office, snatched her handbag off her desk, and strode to the elevator. She punched the call button with enough force to rattle the canvas print of the Flatiron Building hanging nearby.

  Peter tore his eyes away from how her jeans cupped her bottom, and adjusted the seam of his trousers. What kind of person wore jeans to a place of business? He let his gaze drift over the rest of the employees in the office. All of them, every last one, wore denim and casual shirts, making Georgia the best dressed of the lot. He sighed and made a note to compose a dress-code memo.

  Two minutes later his cell rang. Partially engrossed in a financial statement, he answered, “Wells.”

  “Do the nouveau riche always shun manners? Or is that your particular specialty?” Gigi Montrose’s clipped English tones showcased her annoyance with him and possibly the entire working class in general.

  “Good morning, Ms. Montrose.”

  “It’s…never mind. Good morning.”

  “What were you going to say?” Peter stood and closed his office door.

  “About what subject did you wish to speak, Mr. Wells?” Muffled sounds of car horns and truck engines formed the backdrop to Gigi’s question.

  “It seems we have a mutual acquaintance,” Peter said.

  Gigi’s breath puffed through his receiver in a rhythm that said she walked somewhere. “Yes. Georgia’s a good friend.”

  Unsettled at hearing his temporary PA’s name from this woman, Peter shook his head and sat. He was rushing things. An ordinary request wouldn’t do. Whomever she protected would be a part of her social circle. He needed to finesse the information from her.

  “Do you know her through the paper?” He fished as closely to the real question he wanted to ask as he dared.

  A siren blared, momentarily cutting off their ability to converse. Peter waited until it passed, then stood as he heard the Doppler effect of the fire engine nearby. Gigi was somewhere close? He stood and peered as far down the avenue as possible. A sea of people and vehicles prevented his picking her out.

  The sound of a car door shutting preceded directions Gigi gave to the taxi driver. To his building? Peter burst from his office chair, ran past astonished employees to the fire exit doors, and raced down three flights of stairs.

  “I’m sorry, what was that?” He pretended distraction to cover his inattention.

  “I’ve known Georgia my entire life,” Gigi repeated. “Now what can I do for you, Mr. Wells?”

  “Please, call me Peter.” He pushed open the door to the street. Stepping out, he hailed a cab. “Can I interest you in dinner tonight?”

  He covered the microphone with his thumb and gave the driver directions to his building.

  “That depends,” Gigi said, “on what you have to offer me in return for my time.”

  “Name your price.” He smiled, thrilling to the chase. Finally he was going to discover something about this woman. And about his quarry, he reminded himself. The entire point of this exercise, after all, focused on discovering the author of the gossip column.

  “I want you to call off your search for the author of that unfortunate column.”

  Peter laughed. The woman was clever but not clever enough. “Do you have a special interest in protecting her?”

  “Who says the author is a woman?”

  Jealousy spiked, hot and unexpected, along his midsection. “Are you protecting a lover?”

  “That is entirely too rich coming from you, Mr. Wells.” Though her words were acid, they carried more humor than bite. “But no, I’m not seeing anyone at present.”

  “So have dinner with me.” He swore silently when her door opened, and he heard the sound of traffic before silence descended again. Caught at a light three blocks from his building, he knew he’d miss her ascent in the elevator.

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Wells.” He heard the elevator ding. “You would have done better to keep to paid escorts. I don’t betray my friends for a little thing like dinner at Le Bernardin.”

  “How…” Peter clenched the phone tighter. “Has Georgia been talking to you?”

  “You’ll find, I think, that Georgia and I share a great many things.” The sound of an apartment door opening said Gigi had arrived at her place. “I must go. Thank you for your kind invitation. Good-bye.”

  The call disconnected before the cab pulled to the curb in front of his building. Peter didn’t wait for the doorman, paying the driver before exiting the cab to stand on the sidewalk. Looking up, he gauged the height of the building and possible number of tenants. While he didn’t have time to knock on every door, he did have other avenues to explore.

  A uniformed doorman, whose name he hadn’t bothered to learn, opened the door for him, and Peter entered the lobby. Pausing, he turned and asked, “Who was the woman who entered just before I did?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the man answered with a jerk of his head. “I was using the, um…”

  Peter swore and searched the lobby corners with his gaze. No cameras? He frowned at the shoddy security. “Does a Ms. Montrose live here?”

  “You mean Lady Montrose?”

  A slow smile spread over Peter’s face, bringing with it a sense of triumph. Now at least he had a bone to throw his PI. After all, how many lords and ladies could there be in England? Eventually they’d learn the names of her friends and could whittle down the list until they uncovered the columnist.

  Peter pulled out his wallet and handed the man a hundred dollar bill. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The man wadded the bill and stuffed it into his pocket.

  Returning outside, Peter decided to walk to his morning meeting. After the rain, the day felt new and clean. Like a fresh start. Or winning. And he always liked to win.

  Chapter Six

  Georgia stepped off the penthouse elevator into Peter’s private lobby. While she knew he owned the building she lived in, she hadn’t realized he made his home here. Between his private nature and his vast real estate holdings, she’d been unable to discover his primary residence. Yesterday afternoon, when he’d given her this address—her address—after a meeting and asked her to meet him here first thing this morning, she’d actually squeaked in horror.

  “Is there anything wrong, Ms. Whitcomb?” He’d intoned the question with the bored sarcasm he affected so well, and she’d scrambled to recover.<
br />
  “I just— It’s so expensive.”

  “Where do you live?” he’d asked.

  She’d given him the first answer that came to mind. “With Sid.”

  His left nostril had lifted, and she’d bristled. Sure, Sid had his idiosyncrasies, but he’d proven to be a loyal friend. Who else would listen to her rattle on and on about her life and dreams until two a.m. on a work night after she woke with a panic attack?

  This morning, taking out one of the two keys Peter had given her, she let herself into his quiet and cavernous main living space. A giant living room with a cathedral ceiling looked out over the city, much higher up than her own view. From this level, today fog obscured the trees of the park, creating a sort of second sky below. Grays and silvers abounded throughout the room, mimicking the weather outside.

  “Hello?” Georgia called.

  When no one answered, she wandered down the hall. No lights on in the kitchen. An abundance of sparsely framed modernist paintings on the living room walls. Probably an original Mondrian…or two. A sculpture of an apocalyptic-looking horse—more metallic planes and charred holes than flesh—greeted her at the end of the hall where light shone from an open doorway.

  Juggling coffees, a bag of muffins, and her laptop bag, she peered into a weight room, beyond which lay an indoor pool. “Holy crap.”

  Sure, she knew wealth. Her father’s country estate had an indoor pool larger than this one and a set of stables rivaling the ones she’d personally seen at Balmoral one summer. Still, Manhattan real estate didn’t come cheap, and that pool probably cost more than the GDP of some third-world countries.

  “Hello?” she called again, looking around with interest.

  Though she had spent close to every waking minute of the last three days with Peter, there was so much she didn’t know about him. Making her way to the hall’s opposite end, she passed a library with an enormous slate fireplace. What she wouldn’t do to spend an evening in there writing and reading. Georgia sighed at the fantasy. Sometimes she really did miss home. Or at least the childhood home she remembered from behind some rather thick rose-colored glasses.

  “It’s not your home any longer,” she reminded herself. And it hadn’t been in at least eleven years, ever since she’d chosen to go to a Manhattan boarding school rather than live with her father and his orgiastic lifestyle after her mother ran off to New Zealand without leaving a forwarding address.

  A wood-paneled study, the warmest space she’d encountered, and a billiards room, as well as three guest bedroom suites lay between her and the opposite end of a second hall that stretched the width of the building. Warm light cut across the ebony wood floors, beckoning her forward. Shoes tapping against the polished surface, she approached, making as much noise as possible.

  “Hello? It’s me,” she said.

  Silence answered her call. She pushed the door open fully and encountered the master bedroom suite, also done in smoky grays and silver. Throw pillows lay scattered across the floor, tumbled haphazardly, as if the occupant had pushed them off as he fell into bed the night before. Rumpled sheets and an indented pillow made her belly tighten.

  Meaning to flee to the kitchen to wait, she whirled and came a hair from mashing the coffees into Peter’s bare chest. Face freshly shaven, hair damp from his shower, heat and moisture rolled off his skin in spicily scented waves. Her lips parted in the heartbeat she stared up at him, and she wondered again what it’d be like to taste the fullness of his mouth. To feel those muscled arms wrap tight around her, lifting her from the floor as she slid along his erection.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” she whispered.

  The observation slammed the door on the moment. Ice formed, flash freezing Peter’s features into something distant. Impassive. He stepped away and strode past her as if the electric moment had never happened.

  “Well, you found me.”

  “I can…” She gestured to the door she’d entered through. Clearly she shouldn’t have gone in search of him.

  “It’s fine. I’ll be out in a minute.” He partially closed the door to his dressing area.

  A photograph—the only evidence he, and not some other generic mogul, lived here—called to her from an occasional table. Georgia lifted the frame to examine the picture more closely. Three boys and Peter, dressed in identical white T-shirts that emphasized their dark hair and tan skin, sat on a beach. On a driftwood bench behind them sat a man and woman who looked to each other with so much love it made Georgia’s heart ache.

  She traced a finger over Peter’s face. He looked amazing when he laughed, his eyes dancing with light and energy. A sound from the dressing area made her settle the frame on the table and step to the window. Hands folded in front of her, she tried to appear as if she hadn’t been snooping.

  “You have a really nice place,” she said when she caught his reflection in the window.

  He examined her from several feet away. At a loss to reconcile the man in the photo with the cavalier playboy and arrogant boss she knew, she didn’t turn immediately.

  As she studied his reflection, he approached the window. At first she thought he moved toward his dresser. Then she felt his body heat behind her and saw his gaze lingering at her nape.

  She stiffened, breaking the quiet moment, when he lifted his fingers toward the back of her neck. “If you asked me here to make me one of your conquests, Mr. Wells, I’m afraid you’ll be sadly disappointed.”

  “Your tag is showing.” He turned away. “Tuck it in; then let’s get to work.”

  She faced him, one hand going to the label as she fought a surge of disappointment and embarrassment. Goddamn him for making her want him despite everything she knew. Despite knowing he’d probably rather sleep with Gigi than with her. If only to get the name of that stupid columnist. Her name, in fact.

  “Are you trying to kill me?” he asked, his voice strangled.

  One arm raised, fingers at her tag, she followed his gaze to where her low-cut, though fully buttoned, wide-collared blouse gaped, exposing the curve of one breast. She moved her hand slowly to her side. “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing. Let’s go into the kitchen. You can meet me in there from now on.” He didn’t wait to see if she followed when he made his way down the hall.

  They went over his schedule for the day as he drank his coffee. Determined to follow the letter of his law if not the spirit, she’d gotten him decaf and a bran muffin for breakfast.

  He took another sip of his coffee and grimaced. “Where did you get this?”

  “I’d think the label on the cup would’ve given that away.”

  “It’s weaker than they usually make it.”

  She shrugged and opened his briefing notes for an eleven a.m. conference call.

  The door chime rang, and Peter stood. “I’ll get it.”

  “I should hope so,” she muttered.

  “Heard that,” he shot back.

  When Peter returned, a man whom she might’ve called handsome if it weren’t for his shaggy hair and owlish glasses bustled in with him, heading straight for the coffeepot.

  The man stopped, hand hovering over the cold device, and looked back to Peter. “Where’s Mrs. Simms?”

  Georgia studied the new arrival with a bemused frown. “Who’s Mrs. Simms?”

  “My cook.” Peter lifted his morning paper and sat at the table again. “Georgia’s bringing my breakfast this week. Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge.”

  He had a cook, and he made her pick up breakfast? Well, bugger that. She vowed to get him a zucchini-and-flaxseed muffin tomorrow.

  “Thanks. Annie’s on strike again.” The man stuck his head in the fridge.

  “I keep telling you to break up with her,” Peter said. “Georgia, this is Carl. Carl, Georgia.”

  “Some people believe in commitment,” Georgia quipped.

  In her peripheral vision, Peter slowly put down his paper coffee cup. It was his turn to say, “Excuse me?”

>   Georgia rolled her eyes without looking directly at him. “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Not that you know Carl or me, but I have no problem with commitment.”

  She focused on some papers without really seeing them. “If you say so.”

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Peter sat back and cast Carl a look that asked Can you believe this?

  His friend rubbed a hand along the back of his neck and looked away.

  Peter straightened, his arms falling to his sides. “Et tu, Brute?”

  “Well, it has been a long time since—”

  Peter narrowed his gaze at Carl.

  “Since you focused on anything other than money,” Carl finished in a rush, then turned away to pour some orange juice.

  Finally! Someone who stood up to the man. Georgia chuckled, looking between Peter and Carl. “He completely pegged you.”

  Carl’s shaggy bangs came down over the bridge of his nose as he raised his brows. He returned to the table with a plate of fruit and some leftover, cold hash browns, mumbling something about being pretty sure Peter wasn’t into that sort of thing. Georgia gave him a confused look, and Carl cleared his throat.

  “I’m saying he should date someone he doesn’t have to pay,” he said more audibly as he sat. “Spend time on something besides growing a fortune that practically grows itself.”

  Seizing the opportunity to distance herself from any suspicions Peter might or might not harbor about her identity, Georgia gaped at Peter, and pretended not to know anything about the facts behind the story he didn’t know she’d written. “You mean the column was true?”

  “I don’t believe I gave you permission to examine my personal life, Ms. Whitcomb.” Peter’s glare should’ve frozen her bottom to the chair.

  Georgia wiggled to situate herself more comfortably. “What are you going to do when you catch the columnist?”

  He gave her a look she read as saying he’d like to ruin her life. Make certain she never wrote again. He’d like to discredit her, then sue her. Maybe even entertained, then discarded thoughts of hiring a hit man.

  Georgia tried not to blanch as she broke Peter’s stare.