The Price of Scandal

by Score, Lucy

  Dammit. I was already an hour behind in my day. Though it was hard to have regrets when my body felt so damn rested. But still. There were schedules to adhere to. Tasks to complete.

  Derek put the tray down on the table with a flourish. “I made friends with Cristoff. He was so delighted that you ate everything he’d cooked for you earlier this week that he made us eggs Benedict and fruit salads.”

  My stomach let out a shameless whine. But not of its usual bowel distress variety. This was raw, primal hunger. Derek pushed the handle down on the French press, and the scent of fresh coffee invaded my nostrils.

  It was hard to be angry when a man who looked like Derek was feeding me breakfast outside on a perfect Miami spring morning. But I’d still give it my best shot.

  He set a plate in front of me and unfurled a denim blue cloth napkin, tucking it neatly onto my lap.

  “I can take care of myself, thank you very much,” I complained, reaching for a knife and fork.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, pretending my thanks were sincere. “But I believe you proved yesterday that you are, in fact, incapable of such a task.”

  “Someone’s grumpy in the mornings,” I said, shoveling the perfect bite of egg, meat, and English muffin into my face. “Oh my God, Cristoff’s hollandaise!”

  “To restate my point from last night, which you are probably too exhausted to recall, you need to stop trying to prove to the world that you can do everything. You’re going to micromanage yourself into an early grave.”

  I chewed in silence and stared at him. Obviously, the man had a point. Perhaps even a marginally valid one. But that didn’t mean I could just snap my fingers and rid myself of responsibilities.

  “Derek,” I sighed, gratefully accepting the delicate glass mug of coffee he handed me. “Even if you have the slimmest point, I don’t have the time to start the offloading process. Training. Follow-up.”

  “I’m hearing problems, not solutions,” he said, cutting into his breakfast.

  I threw a grape at him. Smugly, he popped it into his mouth.

  “Emily, love. It takes a visionary to run a company like yours. And you can’t have visions when you’re too busy sweating over the details. If you run yourself into the ground, Flawless will flounder, I’ll have an ugly little imperfection in my track record of unblemished successes, and everyone who ever said that you can’t will win.”

  “You forgot to mention that in that particular instance, I’ll also own half of your company,” I pointed out.

  “So you can understand why I’m motivated.”

  I squinted out at the turquoise waters of the bay and sighed. “You are exceptional at pushing my buttons,” I mused.

  He preened. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me.”

  I snickered and sipped my coffee. I could hear Cristoff destroying my kitchen. The man cooked to Metallica and threatened anyone who interrupted him with physical violence. Jane was half in love with him.

  Unhurried mornings were nice. I wondered if it was because of the sleep or Derek.

  I felt downright cheerful.

  “I say this with all the love, lust, and adoration that I feel for you,” my platonic bed buddy began. “You need to pick a lane. This stock offering is going to set you and the next three generations of your family up for life. Maybe it’s time to revisit the question: What do you really want?”

  “Look,” I said, biting into the most perfect strawberry in the history of strawberries. “Nothing’s changed. I want to grow Flawless. I want to see this IPO through because, not only is it the next step, but now it’s a matter of pride. I also want to show every single naysayer out there that they were so wrong they owe me public apologies.”

  Derek took a sip of freshly squeezed orange juice. Cristoff had freakishly strong hands.

  He was quiet for a long moment, watching me as if weighing my answer. “If that’s what you want, then that is what I’ll help you get,” he said simply. “Money. Power. A legacy.”

  It sounded a little empty, a little unimaginative when he said it. “Why am I sensing disapproval?”

  “Money, power, and legacies are fine for some people. Most people. I think you’re not being honest with yourself. Perhaps you’re throwing yourself headfirst into work so you don’t have to think about how unfulfilled you feel.”

  He dabbed his smug mouth with a napkin, and I contemplated tossing him in the lagoon and leaving him for Steve to deal with.

  “Perhaps you’re wrong about me, and I’m just another power-hungry executive clawing her way to the top.”

  “Now, let’s not get testy,” he teased.

  I wanted to stab him with my fork, but I didn’t want to ruin my eggs with blood splatter. I had priorities, after all.

  “Since you’ve made it abundantly clear that you’ll stay the course, that is where we’ll focus our efforts,” he said.

  “So pleased that’s settled,” I snarked.

  “I can tell from your vivacious conversational efforts that you’re already feeling better. Let’s try not to drop into a dead faint again today.”

  I flipped him off in an immature yet satisfying gesture of disdain.

  He grinned at me, and I found myself beaming right back. Sleeping next to the man had done nothing to lessen his effect on me. I doubted spending fifty years married to the man would dilute his sex appeal.

  That would be one lucky, perpetually infuriated wife, I predicted.

  “So what’s the diabolical plan of public manipulation today?” I asked.

  A string of expletives exploded from the kitchen behind me.

  “Isn’t it interesting how Cristoff doesn’t feel the need to tone down his badassery,” Derek mused. “Yet he is still wildly successful.”

  “Enough with the life lessons today, Price. Get it through your thick head. I’m going to continue to work very, very hard. We Stantons don’t half-ass anything. My father and I are workaholics. My mother is a master manipulator. And my brother is fully committed to partying his life away. There is no sailing off into the sunset for a private island with a tiny house and taking up knitting for me. So let’s focus on getting me where I need to go.”

  “As you wish,” he said pleasantly.

  * * *

  After breakfast, Derek helped himself to my shower… leaving the bathroom door wide open should I decide to wander in and catch another eyeful of his nudity.

  An internal struggle ensued, and in the end, decorum won out. I ducked into my closet to find something powerful that didn’t say “collapsed from exhaustion yesterday.”

  It needed to be slimming since pregnancy rumors would be spewing forth from the rumor mill. And I’d need to be photographed with alcohol—responsibly, of course—as soon as possible.

  I felt a twinge of annoyance.

  Why? Why did I have to use up so much of my energy, my time, trying to stay a step ahead of public opinion? I was the head of my own company. I was the one calling the shots. Why did I have to work so hard to make other people more comfortable?

  “Dammit,” I whispered. The naked man in my shower had gotten to me… again.

  I chose a pair of skinny black cropped pants and a fitted black sleeveless top. When in doubt, dress in head-to-toe black. I was working my way through my jewelry drawers looking for just the right bracelets when I heard Derek yelp from the bathroom.

  A manly, slightly British yelp, of course.

  I hurried out of the closet and into the bathroom and promptly doubled over.

  The shower was polished stone on three sides with a tall glass wall separating it from the rest of the bathroom. Derek was standing under one of the shower heads, hands clutched in front of his family jewels. At the entrance of the shower was Brutus, the gigantic free-range Saint Bernard.

  “I’m so glad you find this amusing,” Derek said, mustering a dry tone.

  I couldn’t stop laughing.

  “What the hell’s so funny?” Jane strolled into the b
athroom, eating one of Cristoff’s special peach tarts and immediately choked.

  I slapped her on the back, and we clung to each other in hysterics.

  “Does someone want to remove this hulking beast before he makes me a eunuch?” Derek demanded.

  “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this, Crumpets,” Jane quipped. “C’mere, Bruty.”

  She held out a tiny bite of tart. Brutus shambled out of the shower and shook off, raining shower water in a ten-foot radius. I dabbed at the corners of my eyes with a washcloth.

  Derek turned off the water and reached for a towel but not before Jane and I both got another appreciative eyeful of his full-frontal nudity.

  “Don’t be scared. Brutus is just looking for someone to snuggle with,” Jane crooned.

  Brutus delicately put the hand that held the remains of the tart in his mouth.

  “Harmless? He just bit your hand off,” Derek said, cinching the towel low on his hips.

  I was still laughing. My face hurt from it.

  Jane pulled her tart-less hand free. “He’s a baked goods whore. He always knows when Cristoff is here and comes to mooch.”

  “Hey, buddy,” I said, ruffling the fur on Brutus’s giant head. “Did you make a new friend?”

  “He stuck his very cold nose against my very unprepared ass,” Derek complained.

  I smushed the dog’s face in my hands. “Did you scare the bossy man, Brutus? Did you? That’s such a good boy!”

  “How did something this size sneak into your house?” Derek asked, taking another towel and moving to the wall mounted body dryer.

  “If there’s a terrace door open in Bluewater, Brutus here will find it and make himself at home,” I explained over the soft whoosh of dryer air. “His parents live across the bridge in one of the houses on Tequila Lane. They rescued him when he was two years old and tried everything they could to keep him contained. But he’s a Houdini. He’s kind of a mascot for the enclave,” I said, reaching for another towel and scrubbing the dog down.

  “He showed up for bridge at Mai Ling’s condo last year. There’s security footage of him pushing buttons in the elevator,” Jane said.

  Reluctantly, Derek came closer.

  “You’re not afraid of dogs, are you?” I asked, surprised.

  “I’m afraid of gigantic things that trespass in my shower.”

  “Gee, now you know how I feel,” I said, batting my lashes.

  “Solid dick joke,” Jane snorted. “Come on, Bruty. Let’s see if Mean Cristoff has any of those organic doggie quesadillas for you.”

  With a salute directed at Derek’s groin, Jane ambled out of the bathroom followed by the one-hundred-and-seventy-pound Brutus, leaving me alone with nearly naked Derek.

  “And here we are again,” he said, hooking his finger in the drapey neck of my shirt.

  “Put some pants on, Price. I’ve got work to do now that I’m done laughing hysterically at you.” I mimicked his manly yelp.

  “Darling, someday we’ll tell this story at our fiftieth wedding anniversary as the exact moment you realized you were head over heels for me,” he quipped.

  “Did you hit your head in the shower?” I asked sweetly.

  * * *

  Daisy: WTF, Stanton? You collapse at work and don’t bother letting your posse know?

  Luna: Are you alright? Do you need an appointment with my aromatherapist?

  Cam: Relax guys. Mr. Naked Dreamy took good care of her. And if my trusty surveillance skills are accurate, his car is still in her driveway.

  Daisy: Ooooooooooh! Dick pics or it didn’t happen!

  Luna: Sending you my aromatherapist’s contact and a 30-pack of organic, latex-free condoms.

  23

  Emily

  Jane plowed through Bluewater ten miles over the speed limit. Traffic today was even worse than usual. It was as if every unlicensed driver in the city had gassed up their unregistered rust buckets and taken to the roads, double-parking and cutting off law-abiding drivers with abandon.

  My mother was going to kill me. She’d called me four times today, each time extracting my promise that I would be at the gala, beautiful, and on time.

  The traffic insanity had apparently infiltrated the enclave. We careened through the security gate only to come to a screeching halt when Mrs. Montecito’s golf cart swerved out in front of us. She had a long-standing habit of starting happy hour early, and it looked like today had been two-for-one margarita day at Bluewater’s beach bar.

  “Okay, I can shower, dress in two minutes, sit for hair, and do half my makeup in the car,” I decided, recalculating my list.

  “You almost lost an eye last time you did your makeup in the car,” Jane said. “Hang on, boss.”

  I grabbed the handle above the door and squeezed my eyes shut while Jane jumped the curb and sped down the golf cart trail. Palm fronds and fragrant flowers whipped at the side of the Range Rover.

  We were going to get arrested, and I didn’t know who’d be angrier. My mother or Derek.

  Jane swerved again, flattening a saw palmetto as she plowed back onto the road, leaving Mrs. Montecito’s golf cart weaving behind us.

  “Jane!”

  “I’m just driving like everyone else in Miami.”

  “You’ll get us thrown out of Bluewater.” I released my grip on the handle and tried to massage blood back into my fingers.

  She snorted. “You own the place. You can throw everyone else out if they whine too much.”

  I dreaded the next town hall.

  Jane slammed on the brakes in the driveway, sending a cloud of crushed seashells up into the stratosphere. I hopped out and sprinted for the door. It had been a busy day of reassuring everyone that I felt just fine and following up on all the tasks Derek dumped on other staff members.

  After plying me with lunch at my desk, he’d left to take care of things at his own offices with the promise that he’d pick me up promptly at… Oh, hell. Now.

  “Tea and Crumpets will be here any second,” Jane yelled after me as I shouldered through the front door.

  “Stall him!” I called over my shoulder and bolted for my bathroom.

  My phone rang. It was my mother.

  “Mom, I can’t talk right now,” I said, turning the water in the shower on. I kicked my heels off across the bathroom. One landed on the tufted ottoman shaped like a daisy. The other landed between the vanities. Thank God I had very nice, organized people who cleaned up after me, otherwise I’d never find both shoes again.

  “Are you ready yet? I want to see a picture of your dress.”

  “I’m not ready yet,” I growled, yanking my shirt off over my head and kicking it in the direction of my shoes.

  Shit. I was out of body wash. It had been on my shopping list.

  “What do you mean you’re not ready yet? You’re supposed to be there in an hour!” She made it sound like I was running late for a life-saving surgery.

  I grabbed a short robe from the bathroom closet and dashed out of the room.

  “Traffic was bad. I’m home now and getting ready, which would go a lot faster if you’d stop calling me.”

  “Don’t you dare be late, Emily. I’m not posing with your father’s ex-wife with both of my children conspicuously absent. What will everyone say?”

  My mother’s motto in life.

  I found Jane and Luna in my kitchen snacking on cheese and crackers. I snagged one out of Luna’s hand and stuffed it in my mouth.

  “Maybe they’ll say it’s nice that you get along with your husband’s ex-wife?” I guessed.

  “Emily, don’t speak with your mouth full!”

  I mimed scrubbing down my entire body.

  Jane pointed at the tote bags on the kitchen counter. At least one thing had gone my way. My personal shopper had left her bounty like a magical fairy.

  “Gotta go, Mom,” I said, digging into the first bag and hanging up on my mother.

  “Well, it’s an unorthodox look. But you’ll certainl
y have people talking,” Derek announced behind me.

  “Traffic,” I yelled, finding the body wash and taking off down the hall in a barefoot sprint. “Hi, Luna!”

  I jumped in the shower and did the fastest wash of hair and body in human history.

  Toweling off, I realized I still didn’t know what I was wearing.

  Back to the kitchen I went. “Dress?” I asked expectantly.

  Derek had joined the girls for snacks and what looked like a nice white wine. “In the garment bag on your bed,” he said.

  I snatched his glass of wine from his hand, cursed his perfectly tailored tux, and hauled ass back to my bedroom.

  I shimmied into the dress, forgetting both bra and underwear. Neither would be good for the lines of the dress anyway. It wasn’t one that I’d had in my closet. I would have recognized it. This was a sleek, black, off-the-shoulder gown that clung very nicely to my breasts.

  “You decent, boss?” Jane called.

  I had wet hair, a bare face, and an unzipped dress. “Enough.”

  She appeared in the bathroom doorway. “Bad news. Hair can’t make it. They got stuck in traffic downtown and got rear-ended by—get this—a $250,000 Bentley.”

  “Shit.” My hair hung, damp and limp in my face. My mother was going to murder me. “Okay, it’s fine. I’ll just do some kind of bun thing,” I decided.

  Maybe a chignon or a simple knot.

  “Find me some big jewelry that will take attention away from my hair,” I instructed her, turning my hair dryer on full blast.

  “Derek’s already on it,” she yelled over the sound.

  I rolled my eyes. I was beginning to think the man had a fetish about pawing through my closet.

  Derek poked his head into the bathroom, holding up sapphire drop earrings to his own lobes. “Yes?”

  “You’re ridiculous. Yes.”

  My phone buzzed. It was a text from my mother.

  Mom: We’re leaving now. You’d better be on your way!