Public Relations

by Tibby Armstrong

  “Do you want me to punch him?”

  Georgia barked a laugh and glanced at Sid. The dark look on his face—clenched jaw and flared nostrils—said he’d do it too. Attempt to lay the bastard out flat. And damn, but given how much time Sid spent at the gym, he might win. Sitting upright, she pushed her hair from her forehead.

  “No. Thanks.” A slow smile spread over her face. “I paid him back. Literally.”

  This morning, handing him a wad of cash similar to the one she’d seen him pay the prostitute had gone a long way toward retribution. His shock and anger were priceless. Served him right for being an arrogant, narcissistic prick. With his experience, of course he was good in the sack.

  “I’m going to avoid him until Monday,” she decided. “He’s away all weekend, so I won’t have to see him.”

  “Didn’t you owe him a report?” Sid reached for the remote and flicked on the television. This time of day on a Friday the only thing on was Price is Right. A woman waved her hands wildly as she ran down the aisle toward Drew Carey after her name was called.

  “Don’t bloody remind me. I gave it to him. I stayed awake all night finishing that thing.” She scrubbed her face with both hands, not worrying about her already ruined makeup. Thank God she rarely wore mascara. “I need this weekend to recuperate from his royal highness’s demands.”

  Sid flicked channels until he landed on Let’s Make a Deal. A woman in a little Dutch girl costume chewed her pinkie nail over whether to look behind door number one or go home with eight hundred dollars.

  “Screw the cash. Always go for the door,” Sid said.

  “Really?” Georgia sat up straighter. “You’d go for the door?”

  “Always.” Sid’s nod didn’t dislodge his eyes from the telly. “Otherwise how do you know what you might’ve missed?”

  “Eight hundred dollars? That’s what you’d miss.”

  Sid snorted. “Like you need eight hundred bucks?”

  Georgia stood and went to the tiny kitchen to grab a cola from the fridge. The pop fizz accompanied the sliding back of the door on the television program. Where a goat chewed hay.

  “That”—she pointed at the television and paused to take a swallow of the cold soda—“is precisely why I don’t look behind mystery doors.”

  “Too many goats?” Sid finally looked at her.

  She nodded. “And way too few cars. At least I know what I’m getting with cold, hard cash.”

  Blink, blink, blink. Sid shook his head slowly. Blinked some more.

  “What?” Georgia plopped down on the sofa. A spring squeaked.

  “I bet he thinks just like you.”

  Snatching the remote from Sid, she asked, “Who?”

  “Peter.”

  She lowered the remote. “What?”

  “You heard me.” Sid took the remote back and flicked to an unexpected marathon of America’s Next Top Model. “I bet he likes the cash too. When you pay for what you want, you know exactly what you’re getting. No surprises.”

  Well, didn’t that little observation just run a cheese grater over her mood. “I am not like Peter Wells.”

  The door buzzer rang. Long. Loud. Like someone had leaned into it.

  “Speak of the devil,” Sid muttered.

  “What? Good God. No.” Georgia stood so quickly the cola sloshed over her knuckles and dripped onto the brown carpet. “I am not here. Not one molecule of me. You haven’t seen me in a week. You’re fearing I might’ve been abducted by aliens. I don’t care what you say, but I am not here.” She whirled around, looking for a place to hide. “Do you hear me?”

  Sid glanced from his front door to his single bedroom door and back before narrowing his gaze on Georgia and shaking his head. “Nope. You’re on your own this time.”

  “Some friend you are!”

  A pounding started on the door at street level. Georgia eyed a heavy vase by the window. Sid moved between her and the pottery.

  “Don’t go wrecking my stuff just because you’re the one who told him you’re my roommate.”

  What remained unspoken constituted the real issue. If Peter came in and saw the single bedroom door, he’d get a whole other idea. Worst case, she’d lied and Sid had covered for her. Or best worst case, she and Sid were lovers. Which was so obviously untrue.

  Sid pushed at Georgia’s back, propelling her toward the door and scooping up her coat at the same time. “Go. Don’t get me fired. Unlike you, I need this job.”

  She tried to argue, but Sid yanked open the door and pointed toward the dim hallway. Repressing the urge to tell him he looked like his mother, minus the hair rollers, Georgia tilted her nose in the air and swept over the threshold. The door slammed behind her, and the lock and chain clinked with finality.

  Sod a dog. So much for a peaceful Friday.

  * * * *

  Peter’s hands fisted around the leather steering wheel with all the finesse of a farmer wringing a chicken’s neck. Everything about his demeanor shut Georgia out, from the jutted angle of his jaw to the way he single-mindedly flicked his gaze from the road to the car’s instrumentation and back.

  When she’d approached him on the street in front of Sid’s, he’d jerked the passenger-side door open and walked away. She’d hesitated on the curb. Was it really a good idea to be alone with him? He’d given her a pointed stare over the top of the sports car and said, “Get in.”

  Even if he’d been a known ax murderer, she probably wouldn’t have been able to resist the demand. All sleek lines and growling ferocity, the vehicle he’d invited her to ride with him in spelled sex. Headboard-shaking, toe-curling, mind-blowing sex. The kind where she had to stop midway through for a snack and brought the chocolate sauce back to bed after. If she made it that far. Visions of a Peter sundae slapped Georgia hard, and she tore her eyes away from the curve of his lower lip.

  Running her hands over buttery leather beside her thighs, she asked, “Is this a Maserati?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Really? You’re giving me the silent treatment?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s juvenile. Even for you.”

  “And running off in the middle of a workday isn’t?” Whipping his head to the right, he shot her a death glare. “You’re lucky you’re still employed, you know that?”

  The implied threat made her nostrils flare. He looked back to the road, and she turned away to stare fixedly out the window. Brick apartment buildings had given way to three-family homes and mid-twentieth-century architecture. Peter slowed the vehicle at a green light and veered to the right. Signs for the Hutchinson River Parkway flashed past in green and white.

  The highway stretched ahead. Apparently detecting an opening, Peter accelerated and squeezed them into traffic. Confusion and adrenaline made Georgia gape. She straightened and craned her head to peer behind them. They were on the throughway.

  “Where are we going?” She hadn’t thought to ask the question before, but she sure as hell asked now.

  Peter rolled his shoulders, popping his neck. “Home.”

  Visions of verdant, rolling hills and little wildernesses dotting the landscape popped to mind. She shook her head as she realized he meant his home, not hers. Not some weekend place in the Hamptons either, but his parents’ house. He was taking her with him for the weekend with his family.

  She rested her hand on the door lever, fully prepared to leap out at the first opportunity. “Turn around.”

  He kept driving.

  “Turn around.” She raised her voice. “I am not going with you.”

  “You’ll do what I pay you to do.” The statement sounded so matter-of-fact, she knew he actually believed it. And of course he did. They’d already established that he’d all but paid her last night for sex.

  It took her a moment to find her voice. “Where do you get off treating me this way?”

  “Where do you get off treating me this way?” He mimicked her, then added a growl at the end. “I am not your fairy godmother
. I sign your paycheck.”

  The road claimed his attention once more, but not before she shot back, “That doesn’t mean you own me.”

  “No?” The steering wheel squeaked under his palms. “Last I checked, ‘other duties as assigned’ was part of your job description.”

  Oh no. No way. She would not be his bitch. There were services for that, as he well knew. Folding her arms over her chest, Georgia gave him a frosty glare. Red crept from Peter’s collar to his hairline as he apparently replayed his words in his head. He opened his mouth, closed it, and pressed his lips together.

  “Have a problem admitting when you’ve just made a complete arse of yourself?” The Britishism sprang from Georgia’s mouth before she could stop it. Horrified, she barreled into her next statement without consideration. “I can’t believe your board lets you off the chain. But maybe you’re into bondage? Tell me, Mr. Wells, do your call girls spank?”

  The Hutch, as locals called the parkway, didn’t have a breakdown lane. Without one, Peter couldn’t pull over and demand she get out. Of that much Georgia was certain. Whether or not he’d push her from the moving car, however, she couldn’t be sure. Gripping the “oh shit” strap above the door, she made a careful study of the pulse point leaping in his right temple.

  “Are you finished?” He ground the question to powder between clenched teeth.

  She nodded, unable to speak. Tense silence reigned for a half hour of stop-and-go traffic. A dashboard gauge showed the outside temperature as a chilly thirty-one degrees, but the winter climate had nothing on the frigid air inside the vehicle.

  When Peter finally spoke, the ice cracked, booming like a Mississippi thaw. “This weekend, you’re my girlfriend.”

  Understanding dawned along with a sense of horror. He’d brought her with him to serve as a human shield against his family’s questions about his dating habits. Possibly he’d even lie to his parents and claim he’d been seeing her all along, forcing her to lie too.

  If she counted the charity gala, she’d known him for a month at the outside. They’d be tripped up for certain. Even if she wanted to lie for him, which she emphatically did not, they’d never get away with it. Was he pathological?

  “Have you gone m—” She swallowed the word mad and replaced it with the much less elegant Americanism, “Out of your mind?”

  A light snow fell outside, creating fat, wet splashes on the windshield. The wipers’ rhythmic thumping made the vehicle’s hushed interior feel all the more insular as they sped along Route 95.

  Peter rubbed one palm along his cheek and sighed. “I don’t know, Georgia. Have I?”

  His use of her given name sent an unwanted frisson of delight up her spine to the base of her skull. She cleared her throat. “I don’t have any clothes. Don’t you think that’ll appear rather odd?”

  His eyes widened before he closed them briefly. “Shit. You’re right. I’ve lost my mind.”

  Georgia started in surprise. Had the great Peter Wells just admitted he was wrong? Was such a thing even possible? As she gawped at him, Peter’s shoulders slumped, and he seemed to melt into his seat. A flick of his hand turned on the directionals, and he slowed the vehicle.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m taking you home.” They approached an exit.

  An entire weekend with Peter in his private world? It was an intriguing prospect. If she got to know him better, maybe he’d see her as something more than a PA or a pain in his backside. If she were playing his girlfriend, he’d have to touch her. Kiss her. The idea of his lips against hers, firm and soft, the moist insistence of his tongue probing her mouth, made her thighs clench.

  Georgia sat up straighter and shook her head to dispel the vision. No. She’d been down that road. Last night, in fact. If she went with him, it would only be to get to know who had created the man behind the multibillion-dollar company. If all went well, she could sell an article to one of the trades when this was over and she lost her job. This weekend could actually be the start of her real career.

  “Stop,” she said as he drifted toward the exit, a secret little voice inside whispering that her decision had very little to do with her career, no matter what she told herself at present. “I’ll do it. I’ll go with you.”

  Brows lifted, he glanced at her. In the waning light, his lips appeared more cruelly sensual than she’d ever seen them. A shadow formed at the dip, highlighting his pronounced Cupid’s bow.

  “You’re sure?”

  Unable to tear her gaze from his mouth, Georgia nodded. “But I’ll need some clothes.”

  He continued off the exit and onto I-91 without comment. Stomach giddy with adventure’s unfamiliar thrum, she wondered at where they went but relaxed into the ride. From 91 he left the interstate completely. City lights brushed the vehicle, making the interior gleam, as he navigated them through a construction zone to a warren of roads. A sign for Yale University proclaimed them to be in New Haven.

  Closer to the Yale campus, quaint brownstones and brick buildings lined narrow streets. Some had black shutters and white trim, but all struck Georgia as a combination of chic and quintessentially New England. They parked on a little side street before Peter reached into the backseat for his coat. Georgia eyed the shop lights as she did up the zipper on her parka and opened the door. He intended for her to buy new clothes, of course.

  Such a hardship.

  Her lips quirked, and he caught her smile. “You enjoy shopping, I take it?”

  The question and the teasing light in his eyes caught her off guard. Was this a trick question? As Gigi she could purchase anything she liked. As his underpaid PA, stepping into a high-end boutique and buying out the place was out of the question. She jammed her hands in her pockets as disappointment bottomed out her mood.

  “Sure.” Spotting a lower-end trendy chain, she steered them in that direction. “When I get the chance.”

  Ten yards down the sidewalk, she realized he hadn’t followed her. She stopped and looked over her shoulder, intending to ask if he was coming. Snowflakes swirled on the air between them, creating a minidervish. Elbows out, he relaxed his hands in his bomber jacket pockets and regarded her.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  Georgia glanced from him to her destination and back, then hooked her thumb in the direction of the store.

  He eyed the window where a display showcased belly-baring sweaters and short skirts. She knew from experience, however, she could find something suitable among the other sweaters, jeans, and slacks inside. Perhaps nothing up to Connecticut country weekend standards, but he was the one who’d dragged her here without notice. He’d have to make do.

  “Come on.” He jerked his head toward a building to his right. An expensive boutique specializing in one-of-a-kind fashions, the place smelled like money even from a hundred paces. “I’m buying.”

  Pulling her lip between her teeth, Georgia worried the flesh as she glanced between her choice and his. She started toward him. Then stopped. He frowned.

  “Thank you, but no. I can take care of this.” She pivoted and walked determinedly toward the other store.

  Peter caught up to her in time to hold open the door. Glancing at him, she saw his scowl. Unable to help it, she let out a chuckle that only deepened his frown.

  “What?” He bit out the word.

  “You’re so used to getting your own way.” Wandering among tables bursting with denim and thick cardigans, Georgia grew serious. “Can you trust that I knew how to take care of myself before you came along?”

  Peter pushed a hand through his hair, disheveling the once-tame locks into a riot of waves. “You shouldn’t have to pay for the clothes. Not on your salary, especially.”

  Though she had far more money in her accounts than he dreamed, his statement rankled. No matter the outcome of the weekend, she didn’t want to feel like a kept woman.

  Remembering Peter had seen the tenement in which Sid lived, Georgia looked down at her jeans
and casual coat. These were her most comfortable clothes. She hadn’t been expecting to see Peter again today so she was especially dressed down, but she’d also always been careful not to dress up around him. Wearing a glitzy label in his presence would cause questions. He might even suspect her of being on the take, as evidenced by his comment about Gigi and her sweater this morning. She lifted a wool-blend cardigan from the table and heard him move behind her.

  A funny noise, part groan, part snort, escaped his throat.

  As if burned, she dropped the garment in a heap on the table and walked toward a pile of pajamas with flirty tops and smiley faces stamped on the bottoms. Then again, if she were to take him up on his offer, he’d see her. The real her, who knew how to dress and act in any social situation. Sure, she preferred casual and comfortable, but she didn’t want to embarrass the man.

  Give it up. You want him to think you’re as pretty as he does when you’re Gigi.

  She spun to find him standing less than six inches behind her. Tipping her chin up, she stared into the deep blue of his eyes. And drowned.

  “Okay. Fine.” She lifted her arms and dropped them, slapping her hands against her thighs. “Dress me.”

  The warmth of his smile did nothing to calm her infatuation. Fine lines crinkled his eyes and called attention to the thick brown fringe of his lashes. A dusting of freckles along his nose and cheekbones would darken with exposure to the sun. She’d seen them dotting his skin in a magazine photo of him sculling in the summer sunshine on the Charles River near Harvard.

  His hand slipped into hers, breaking her from a staring contest that was about to prove embarrassing. Breathing out a half laugh, she let him lead her from the store and across the street to the boutique he’d originally settled upon. A soft bell chimed above the door as they entered, welcoming her into the hushed atmosphere.