Public Relations (30 page)

“It’s only a matter of time.” Peter approached the paper as if it might leap up and bite him. Lip curled, he lifted the thing with two fingers and quickly scanned the text. “But we’re good for now.”

“Peter?” Georgia placed tentative fingers on his sleeve, drawing his attention away from the article.

He leaned in and gave her a lingering kiss. Probably the last she’d ever receive from him. A lump formed in her throat, choking off her ability to breathe, and she pulled away with a sniff. She cleared her throat.

“We need to talk,” she said with a glance at Carl.

“I know you’re worried. But don’t be.” His smile was brilliant as he cupped her cheek and brushed a threatening tear from her lashes with his thumb. “I have the plane waiting for me on the runway already. I need to go. We can talk on Friday on the way to my parents’.”

“But—”

He shushed her with another kiss. “Have fun shopping.”

Before she could think of what to say to hold him there, she was staring at the empty space he’d occupied while Carl stared out the door.

“Well, that went well,” Carl mumbled darkly, then turned to her. “You do realize I have to tell him sooner rather than later?”

“How did you find out?” Unable to look at him, she stared into her coffee’s murky depths.

“You gave it away with the accent switch several weeks back.”

Startled, she jerked her head up. Remembering the slip, she said, “You couldn’t have known just from that.”

“No.” He gave her a wan smile. “But it did tell me to focus on your background instead of that of the elusive and nonexistent Gigi Montrose.”

Georgia turned the information over in her mind. It couldn’t have been long after that he’d found out. It wasn’t as if her own identity were as easily concealed as that of her alter ego. All it would’ve taken was a look at her birth records, and he could’ve guessed the rest when he saw her father was George Whitcomb, Earl Montrose.

She moved tiredly to the table and folded into a chair. “Did you unearth the truth yourself? Or did you have someone else do it?”

“I fired Peter’s investigator once I figured out the truth.” Carl sat across from her and took off his glasses to rub his eyes. “It seemed safest.”

“Safest?” She frowned at him. “Why would you want to protect me?”

He dropped his hand and stared out the window for a long minute.

“Because I was pretty sure he was falling in love with you, and Peter needs someone to love.” He shrugged and met her eyes with a look of longing so intense it stopped her breath. Understanding of something important hovered just out of reach as Carl continued, “He has for as long as I’ve known him.”

How was she supposed to reply to that? Turned out she didn’t have to, at least not right away, because Carl kept talking.

“I hoped you’d tell him and that it’d work out.” Again with the eye rubbing, after which he popped his glasses on and obscured the handsome crests of his cheekbones. “He can be…understanding, you know.”

She shook her head slowly. “Not about this, he won’t be.”

“You’re probably right.” Carl sighed. “But he deserves to hear the truth from you. If he hears it from anyone else, it’ll wreck him for relationships for good.”

Georgia cocked her head to study Carl more closely. The man didn’t just seem sad about the fact that she was about to stomp on Peter’s heart with the news of her betrayal. He seemed…bereft. And she’d never known one man to take care of another in the way Carl took care of Peter. He looked out for him like an older brother, except he wasn’t protective quite in the same way. He was attentive. Caring. Like a…like a…

“You’re in love with him,” Georgia said as all the gears tumbled into place.

Color rushed into Carl’s face. His cheeks burned bright as if he’d been slapped.

“Except you’re in a relationship with a woman.” She leaned in, wanting to be of some comfort but not knowing how. “Why?”

“It’d look bad for Peter.” Carl cleared his throat and looked anywhere but at her. “I’m his PR guy. I need to be above reproach.”

“Christ on a crutch, Carl.” Georgia shook her head, horrified. “I doubt anyone would care. Even if they did, he’d never want that for you. You have to tell him.”

Carl’s answering laugh was at once bitter and a little unhinged. “If you think you can blackmail me into withholding your secrets—”

“What? No!” Georgia shot to her feet. “I’m going to tell him about the column. I’d resolved on it days ago. I was going to do it this morning, but I overslept and then you were here.”

Puffing out her cheeks with a frustrated exhale, Georgia ran both hands through her hair. Her fingers caught in the sex snarls at the back, and she had to jerk free.

“Look, Carl, you can’t go around pretending to be someone you’re not”—she trailed off as she ran headlong into a brick wall made of irony, then finished with—“any more than I can.”

She headed for the door, needing her phone and craving a conversation with Sid.

“What are you going to do?” Carl asked.

“What I have to,” she answered, pausing to face him. “And so are you.”

* * * *

Georgia plunked the pile of Christmas packages on Sid’s kitchen table and flopped into one of his rickety vinyl chairs while he gave her the hairy eyeball.

“He’s going to dump you, and you just spent at least five bills on him?”

Mopping her brow with her scarf, she pursed her lips and glared up at him. “Some of it’s for you. Unless you’d rather I…”

“No.” He held up both hands in mock surrender. “It’s fine. As long as you didn’t leave out yours truly.”

“I thought you might see it that way.” She shrugged out of her coat as Sid opened the fridge.

“Cola?” He held up a can and tossed it in her direction before she replied.

She caught the cold beverage one-handed, then popped it open and took a long swallow. Fizzy sweetness bathed her tonsils as she chugged most of the can. Sid’s newly bleached brows popped up at the display. What? So she was thirsty.

“Did you bleach your eyebrows?” she asked, lowering the can and cocking her head.

Sid grinned and cracked open his own soda.

“Yeah.” He waggled his brows. “You like?”

“Um? Its…different?”

“I’ll have you know it’s totally hip.” Sliding into the chair opposite hers, he toyed with one of the bag handles, pretending to peek inside.

“That one’s not yours.”

Sid dropped his hand and sat back. He took another sip of his drink, then licked his lips.

“Oh!” He gestured to her with the red-and-white can. “I forgot. Your father’s solicitor called the office today. Said he’s been trying to get in touch with you.”

“Oh shit.” Georgia remembered the call from London and weeded through her handbag for her phone. Taking it out, she dialed her voice mail while giving Sid a rueful look. “I hate checking these stupid messages.”

“I know.” The look Sid gave her reminded her that she’d failed to respond to some urgent calls from him once or twice.

As the cheerful woman’s voice told her she had six messages, Sid’s cell buzzed. He stood to answer and walked out of the room while she continued weeding out her voice mail messages. Five calls were from a telemarketer trying to sell her a cruise. She deleted each one of them with a growl and muttered, “As if I’d purchase something from a company who wants to torture me with ads.”

The last call was from her father’s lawyer.

“
Lady Montrose, we’re so sorry to leave this message over voice mail, but your father has suffered a stroke. We will need to speak with you as soon as possible about arrangements
.”

If she hadn’t already been sitting, she would’ve found the nearest chair and collapsed. Memories of the stilted holiday conversations and rare occasions when she’d seen the earl over the past ten years bubbled to the surface. They’d never been close. So she shouldn’t feel this sense of doom and loss, but she did. Though the accompanying sadness was for everything she would never have, not what she had a sixth sense she was about to lose.

Sid returned to the kitchen, his cell clutched in one hand, frowning. He opened his mouth to say something, then caught a glimpse of Georgia’s face. She supposed she appeared pale, probably a little shell-shocked.

“What’s wrong?”

She cleared her throat and forced her spine straighter. “My father’s ill. His solicitor needs direction from me.”

Sid blinked, and Georgia saw him quickly process everything he knew about her relationship with her male parent. Like her, he was unsure exactly how to feel about this information.

“Are you okay?” His tone was tentative.

“Yeah.” Perhaps a little more emphatically than necessary, she nodded. “Yes.” She glanced at the pile of packages, her mind already turning toward the arrangements she’d have to make. “Though probably I’m going to have to ask you to wrap these and give them to Peter to take to his parents.”

“Sure, yeah, whatever you need, Georgie.” Sid reached over to squeeze her shoulder. “But do you think you can come to the office first? There’s an all-staff meeting.”

“I suppose I can book my flight on my cell on the way.” Georgia started, breaking from her reverie to frown up at him. “But an all-staff meeting on such short notice?”

“Yeah. That was Peter’s PA.” He held up his phone in explanation.

“Oh.” She paused, considered the implications, then amended her original statement with “Crap.”

“It might be nothing,” Sid offered.

Georgia gave a wry laugh. “They say it comes in threes.”

“Well, let’s hope if this is what you think it is, that it counts as two
and
three.”

She closed her eyes, said a little prayer, and stood, though she didn’t know how, given the crushing weight on her heart. Why was it that just when she’d found the family she’d always dreamed of, the world seemed determined to take everything away?

Chapter Twenty-Two

The look on Carl’s face couldn’t bode anything good. Standing at the head of the conference table, behind and just out of view of Peter, he met Georgia’s eyes as she entered with Sid. The slight shake of Carl’s head when she met his gaze might’ve meant anything, except the almost imperceptible motion was delivered with a gravity she implicitly understood.

She was screwed. They all were.

Peter didn’t look up from his handheld as she and Sid made their way to the back of the room. It was standing-room only, with most of the rest of the staff already gathered at the table and along the wall by the door. A stack of manila folders occupied the chair to Peter’s right. From this distance she couldn’t tell what was written on the protruding tabs, but suspected they were names.

“Does anyone have anything to say?” Peter swept the room with his gaze, conveniently skipping Georgia at the back.

Shit. Her stomach plummeted. He knew. He definitely knew. How had he found out? Had Carl told him? No one spoke, and her fear built to panic. Someone here had to give her up right this minute. If they did, he’d only fire her and nobody else.

She elbowed Sid and hissed, “Tell him.”

Are you sure?
Sid mouthed.

Swallowing hard, Georgia nodded once.

Sid stepped forward, and Peter held up a hand. “Not you, Mr. Deloitte.”

Georgia closed her eyes. Clearly, he wanted her to say it. Wanted her to make the admission. If she did, would it save their jobs? Not hers, of course, but everyone else’s?

Fabric rustled, and chairs squeaked with their occupants’ restless motions. When she opened her eyes, everyone’s gazes were locked on her. Some appeared sympathetic, others fearful. One journalist shook his head. She didn’t have to do this, he seemed to be saying.

But she did. Even if she didn’t owe the truth to Peter, she owed it to her coworkers to save their livelihoods if she could. Though, knowing the man as she now did, she was certain only hers and Sid’s jobs were on the line. He wouldn’t shut down the paper and fire everyone two days before Christmas just because of her.

“Peter…”

He slammed his fist on the table, and everyone, including herself, jumped.

“It’s Mr. Wells, Lady Montrose.” He spat her name like an invective, and her heart fractured from the center outward.

Oh God, he was angry. Angrier than she could’ve envisioned. His eyes had gone stone-cold—hard and dead—as if he’d already walled himself off from her for good. Which, of course, he must have.

“Mr. Wells.” She tried again, walking toward him as she spoke, attempting not to notice the way his jaw muscles bunched. “I don’t have any justification, not anymore. If I ever did.” She reached his side, and he stood to face her, fists balled and gaze unwavering. “But I wrote the column.” His right eye gave a little tic, the only sign her words had any effect on him. Had he hoped she might deny it? Come up with some improbable truth that would save her? Save them? She lifted her chin to bolster her courage. “I was never an assistant to anyone before you. I’m…so sorry.” The rest of her confession stuck in her throat, and she closed her eyes to force out, “As you discovered, I’m Gigi Montrose.”

When she opened her eyes, he’d already moved. Away from her and toward the folders on the chair.

“When I call your name, please come forward,” he said, his back to her. “Albertson.”

Josh Albertson, the paper’s sportswriter, stepped forward and took the folder with a mumbled “Thanks.”

“Please,” she said, knowing what had to be inside that folder. “Don’t do this to them. It’s not their fault.”

He ignored her and kept reading names, pausing as he got to D.

“Donner,” he said quietly.

Carl’s chin snapped up, shock written on his face. He seemed to hold Peter’s gaze a moment, then nodded in acceptance.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” he said quietly and took his folder.

“Me too, Carl.” The term
bitter disappointment
found new definition in Peter’s reply.

Peter continued on without calling Sid’s name. Someone had apparently misalphabetized the files. He looked around and said, “Fumonti.”

“Stop it!” Georgia hollered. No longer able to stand that these people—so many innocent, good people—were suffering the demise of a career and the loss of a paper they truly loved all because of her. Hysteria welled, and tears soon followed. “Don’t do this to them!”