Public Relations (7 page)

“Most are.”

“Yes, well this one is more mysterious than most.” Peter flipped through the folder’s meager contents. So far he had a possible range of birth years and a photo from a Manhattan society event. “I have a lead on a London solicitor, but they won’t talk to me or my team. Any ideas?”

“You said that girl— What’s her name? Arizona?”

Peter laughed. “Georgia. Her name is Georgia.”

“Yeah. Well, you said they know each other.” A microwave beeped in the background as Carl probably heated his coffee. “Why not ask her to make a dinner date with the Montrose woman for you?”

Why hadn’t he thought of that? He’d been so close to the problem he’d completely missed the obvious. “You know, Carl, that’s why I pay you the big bucks.”

“I could use a raise,” Carl joked.

“Then increase your fees when we re-up your contract next month.”

“Are you serious?”

“I reward good work from my employees. You should know that by now.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Peter.” Carl sounded wistful, maybe even a little hurt.

Peter started to ask what was up, but the driver pulled the car to the curb outside the brick newspaper building and Peter tabled his worries. If there was a problem, Carl would tell him.

“Have to go.” Peter disconnected the call and let the driver escort him inside under the umbrella.

Three stories up, the elevator doors opened and the buzz on the floor momentarily lulled, then increased twofold as employees scurried back to their desks. If he’d been in a less agitated mood, he might’ve found the scene amusing. Instead it irritated him to watch Sid and three other employees trip over themselves fleeing Georgia’s desk for the safety of their own.

“Good morning, Ms. Whitcomb,” he said on the way past.

Hair pulled away from her face with an airily tied silk scarf, the ends of the material teasing the middle of her back, she looked thoroughly bohemian chic and nothing like a buttoned-up executive assistant.

“Morning.” She replied without looking up from her computer screen.

He switched on his own computer and frowned when Georgia remained at her desk as if her phone were her sole responsibility. How Brenna Templeton ran her business with such a shoddy assistant, he couldn’t fathom, until he remembered she hadn’t run it at all—unless he counted its headlong crash into the ground.

“Ms. Whitcomb.” Peter leaned out his door. “My office.”

Underneath her desk, the blue jeans Georgia wore hadn’t caught his attention. As she sashayed into his office, the curve of her thighs and sleek line of her calves in the skintight pants made his jaw tighten. He settled into his leather chair and faced her across his desk, in a position of power and control.

“Sit,” he said, more terse than he’d intended.

Georgia sat and crossed her legs. Slim fingers lightly gripped the chair arms as she stared up at him, wide-eyed and anything but innocent. More like calculating and dangerous. Something about the juxtaposition of expression and intent called to him, challenging him in ways he hadn’t been in a long, long time.

He let his gaze sweep her from head to toe. Pink. Everything about her was pink today. From the frosted lipstick she wore to the polish on her toes in a pair of open-toed heels. He tried to keep his perusal of her outfit terse and professional, but parts other than his brain took a keener interest in her fashion sense.

He cleared his throat. “Your outfit is entirely inappropriate.”

Georgia’s chin dipped as she looked down at her blouse, bringing Peter’s attention to the section of her body he’d thus far managed to avoid examining. He bit back a groan when she shifted so her chest became more prominent.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not accustomed to dressing for my employer,” she said, shrugging one slim shoulder.

Peter clenched his chair arms a little harder. “You deliberately misunderstand me.”

Georgia only raised her brows.

“I hope you have a good memory,” he said, noting her lack of a paper and pen before he began a litany of instructions Emma would’ve automatically written down. Not wanting to butt heads with his temporary PA, he’d done without her services all week, but his life was rapidly spiraling out of control.

“When I come in, I expect my computer and lights on, messages waiting for me. You’ll follow me into my office to deliver them as I situate myself.” She gaped at him, but he continued to rattle off instructions as if he hadn’t noticed her incensed expression and ended with, “Until Emma returns, you’ll follow my schedule, working in the offices I go to each day. I’ll give you access to my calendar so you know where I expect you.”

“Exactly how many offices do you have?” The curiosity in her tone was edged with steel.

“One at each subsidiary, plus a main office in Wells Tower.”

The Wells Industries stock value flashed in the upper right corner of Peter’s computer window, absorbing him momentarily. It’d been down ever since he purchased the newspaper, but today it started climbing immediately at the opening bell. Looked like investors had moved on to other worries. The whole financial community, as far as he was concerned, had a bad case of attention deficit disorder.

“That’s one hundred forty-four offices,” Georgia observed.

“One hundred forty-five and only thirty-one of those are in Manhattan.” She’d forgotten about the newspaper, but he was impressed nonetheless. “But you’ve been doing your homework.”

“I’m not stupid,” she said with a toss of her head that made her hair sway and catch the light.

“No. Only undermotivated.” He held up a hand when she bristled. “Save it. I’m not interested in cultivating your feelings. Just your work ethic.”

If looks could shrivel a man’s testicles, his would be the size of raisins. He made a mental note to check for sharp objects and dark alleys when alone with Georgia in the future.

“At six thirty tomorrow and every morning after, you’ll be at my place with coffee and breakfast. I dictate correspondence while I eat and dress. Then you’ll go to the office before I do.”

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.

“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?