Public Relations (9 page)

“I’ll need you there too.” Peter tossed the directive over his shoulder as he left the kitchen.

“What the hell does he need me there for?” Georgia muttered as implications of having to be in two places at once laid waste to her idea of a date with Peter. Not that she really wanted to have a date with him. She just wanted to keep a finger on the pulse of his search for the gossip columnist.

Carl lowered his paper and glanced to the door. Then back to her. “His PA always attends the events he hosts.”

“You mean I’ll be there to run out for more beer and chips?”

The paper came up again, forming an effective Berlin Wall between them. “Essentially, yes.”

“But I can’t write the report he wants me to write by tomorrow morning and play June Cleaver to a bunch of New York art scene snobs.”

She resisted the urge, barely, to bang her head against her keyboard. Running on four hours of sleep, and none of it good, she didn’t have the wherewithal to hide her whine. Or apparently the remnants of her English accent, she realized, when Carl looked at her strangely.

“I pick it up from hanging around Gigi too much,” she hastily explained and stood to clear the table of her things.

Without looking at Carl again, she shoved everything into her bag and left the kitchen. It was already eight, and she needed to beat Peter to the office to turn on his damned computer. If the man relied on her any more heavily, she’d need to start carrying a roll of bathroom tissue for him.

On the way down in the elevator, she called Sid.

“’s my day off, Georgie,” he mumbled.

“Sorry. I forgot.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh. Nothing. Just stressed over this whole PA thing. He wants Gigi to attend a gallery opening as his date tonight while I play hostess.” Visions of caper-like moments with her running in and out of the bathroom to change her attire, hair, and makeup suddenly struck her as funny, and she laughed. “Can you imagine if I could pull it off?”

Fabric rustled as Sid rolled over. “Are you sure you can’t?”

Twisting one side of her face, she shook her head at the idea. Too much went into making her look like someone other than who she was for her to execute a successful transition between the two personas in a public restroom.

“Honestly? I doubt it.”

“So what are you going to do?”

Unlocking her apartment, she paused, key in the door as she went over her options. “I could refuse his offer to Gigi, but I’m curious to see what angle he wants to take to find the woman who wrote the column.”

“Do you realize how bizarre that sounds?”

She pushed the door open and dropped her bag on an occasional chair before making her way into the kitchen where she’d left her coffee.

“Yeah. It’s messing with my head. I actually grew horns today when he sort of said he has the hots for Gigi.”

“Oh my God. You’re out of your freaking mind.” A thud that sounded suspiciously like Sid banging his skull against the wooden headboard made Georgia wince. “Are you seriously interested in dating the guy who wants to surgically remove your fingernails without anesthesia? Or will when he finds out what you did to him?”

The slam of the microwave door and beep of the controls punctuated Georgia’s reply. “I didn’t do anything to him he didn’t deserve.”

Trouble was, for the first time since she’d written the column, something told her that he actually might not have deserved what she’d done to him. Yet the fact that he’d date someone like her alter ego and not her said he’d really not learned any lessons at all. The more she thought about his shunning of the real her, the angrier she became, until only the scalding coffee hitting her tongue brought her attention back to Sid.

“…more trouble than even you know how to handle,” he finished.

“I’m going to bail on him tonight. Call in sick and let Gigi go to the gallery opening.”

Or maybe not. Maybe there was a way she could go as herself but as his date. Have her cake and eat it too. He’d think he was going on a date with Gigi, but at the last minute he’d end up with her.

“Shit. I bet you have that look on your face.”

“The one that would make Attila the Hun think twice about crossing me?”

“Yeah. That one.” Sid apparently took a deep breath and let it out in a puff that rushed over the receiver. “Just be careful, Georgie. You’re playing with the kind of fire that doesn’t just burn. It can turn you to ash.”

Taking her coffee and laptop bag in hand, Georgia left her apartment for the second time that morning. Already planning her wardrobe for that evening’s date with Peter, she forgot she was on the phone until Sid asked, “Just promise me you’ll be careful?”

“See you Monday,” Georgia answered by way of not answering at all.

As she hung up with Sid and stepped onto the elevator, her world closed in. She fought the urge to bolt and take the stairs. Strange how the rapid descent to the ground floor never seemed to register before today. But then again, neither had the way the light danced in Peter’s eyes when he laughed.

She’d made him smile today. The thought brought her fingers to her lips. Remembering the hunger in his gaze the night they’d first met—that awful night she’d seen him with his expensive bit of fluff—built longing that tightened her breath and heightened her curiosity. What would his skin taste like? Fingers feel like?

The elevator bell dinged. She opened her eyes and straightened her spine. Just one night couldn’t hurt. Could it?

Chapter Seven

Georgia spritzed her perfume into the air. Fine particles formed a cloud she walked through, bathing her skin in pinpricks of moisture. The delicate scent of gardenias with an undertone of Tahitian vanilla still hung in the air when her bell rang. She frowned and placed the crystal vial on her vanity. If that was Peter, he was early.

Stepping into her shoes, she flexed her toes and peered one last time in the mirror. Hair upswept, white sheath hugging her hips, she looked the picture of seduction. False lashes emphasized the uptilt of her eyes. Diamond earrings she’d “borrowed” from Gigi’s wardrobe gave the impression of an ice queen. A beauty to be breached and conquered.

She crossed the marble foyer, her heels bringing her eye level with the peephole. One palm flat against the wall, she peered into the hall. Peter stood there dressed in haute couture straight out of Milan. He wore a high-collared affair, pulled together with a black-on-black silk houndstooth cravat. She’d never seen him look so…aristocratic.

“Are you going to let me in, Gigi, or stand there and stare?” One corner of his mouth quirked, underscoring his wry tone.

Showtime.

Stepping back, she opened the door with trembling fingers. Despite all her planning, she wasn’t prepared for this. For him.

“Georgia?” He blinked at her before his searching gaze shifted past her shoulder. “Where’s…?”

“She asked me to take her place.” To her own ears her dismissal was a little too airy, her voice a little too shaky. “Last minute thing she had to attend to. I came over to borrow some clothes.”

The ensuing silence was thick with his dismay. He stepped forward, she back, until he was inside, closing the door behind him.

Towering over her, he blinked once. “She stood me up?”

“She sends her apologies?” She winced internally. Though she meant the reply to come out as a statement, the uplift at the end posed a question.

Peter swept her with his gaze, lingering at the points men usually lingered on. Though she’d like to flatter herself, she knew he only measured her to see whether or not she’d embarrass him this evening. Damn, but she should have stuck to her original plan and gone as Gigi.

While he studied her, she drank him in. From the dark shadow discernible along his freshly shaven jaw, to the way his lashes spiked around eyes striated with cobalt and hints of gray. She inhaled with the intent to speak. The scent of warm leather—a different cologne from the one he wore during the day—sent a shot of languid heat down her limbs and to her sex.

God, what was wrong with her?

“So, you’re my date?” Peter grimaced. “And I’m paying you to work tonight?”

“How ironic,” she muttered.

Without invitation, he turned, stalked the length of her living room, and paused midpivot.
Bugger
. The family photograph—the only one she owned. She’d meant to shove it in a drawer but had forgotten. It obviously looked like her, not Gigi, and her resemblance to her mother was undeniable.

Pinpricks of moisture spiked with a flush Georgia hoped her liberal use of foundation hid. He lifted the silver frame and studied it while she resisted the impulse to find something heavy with which to hit him. Knocking him out might not present a permanent solution, but at least she’d be able to make a clean getaway before he woke up.

His eyes lifted from the photo. “Your parents?”

She swallowed audibly and managed a nod.

“And you at what? Eight? Ten?” His brow furrowed.

“Yes.” Her fingers twitched against her desire to cover her face.

“I guess you two really have known one another awhile.”

She could only nod this time.

He returned the frame to its perch and sat on the sofa, uninvited. One arm casually draped along the back, he regarded her with his direct stare. His boardroom gaze swept away all traces of bedroom eyes. Given the topic and a choice, she’d have selected the latter.

“Tell me about her,” he said.

Her frown deepened. “About Gigi?”

He sat here, with her in her sexiest dress, and he wanted to discuss another woman? One ankle crossed over his opposite leg, he gave a regal nod that made Georgia lock her knees on an aborted curtsey. Sarcasm wouldn’t win her anything here.

Think fast.

She shrugged. Looked around and caught the time. Eight. He’d be late. “Aren’t you—”

“Let me worry about the time.”

Georgia lifted one bare shoulder again. “All right. What do you want to know?”

“How do you know her?”

“She was a friend. We also went to boarding school together.”

“Which one?”

“Lycée Français.” Peppering the story with truth, she gave the name of the French language boarding school she’d attended in Manhattan.

“You…” Peter shook his head as a private smile flitted about his lips. “Are fluent in French.”

Knowing he recalled the incident over the reservations for Le Bernardin, Georgia nodded and warmed to the not quite lie. She always seemed to be walking partial truths with this man. Hovering in the shadows of a surreal reality and wondering when the rabbit hole would swallow her, she said, “I won top honors in fact.”

Proud she hadn’t lied, she almost smiled; then her conscience butted its ugly head into her rosy world. As if pretending to be an admin wasn’t bad enough? Didn’t telling him day after day that she had no idea of the columnist’s identity constitute a barrel of lies?

She shooed her inner nemesis away. They could tussle over technicalities later. Currently she needed her wits for other things. Like making sure if and when Peter found the answers he sought, she wasn’t within 500 miles of him.

He stood and crossed to her. Hands jammed in his pockets, making a mess of the elegant line of his trousers, he cocked his head, considering.

“One of the two of you, if not both, knows who wrote that column.” He leaned low, his nose brushing her ear. “Care to tell me now? Or do I have to probe further?”

She shivered.

He drew back to look her in the eye. “Come clean, and I won’t sue.”

Sue her? For writing the truth? Georgia drew to her full height, an invisible string of indignation pulling her upward from the top of her head. “Are you here to take me out for the evening? Or play chief inquisitor? If it’s the latter, please show yourself the door.”

For a moment she thought he might leave. Then, banking the hellish fires in his gaze, he snapped the mantle of Peter Wells, billionaire businessman, around his shoulders.

“I believe I was here to take Gigi out for the evening. You, on the other hand? Are working.” He leaned down to brush her ear with the tip of his nose. “For me.”

The implication hung in the air. If she wanted to have sex with him as a fringe benefit, it was all right by him, but at the end of the day he’d be paying her just the same. She curled her fingers against the desire to slap his handsome face.

He straightened and lifted her coat from the back of the hall chair and arched one brow, effectively cutting off the conversation. “Shall we?”

She turned so he could help her. “I could always meet you at the…”

Her sentence trailed off as warmth bathed her bare shoulders. If she faced him, she’d brush her breasts against his chest. Those same breasts that quivered above the dip in her dress with every breath she took. Hemmed in by the chair in front of her, she had nowhere to go but into his arms if she faced him.

“Is this how this evening’s going to go?” she heard herself ask.

“Is this how you wanted it to go?” His breath tickled along her nape, and her knees went liquid.

God, yes.

The temptation to sink into him compelled her to sway backward, but shame mingled with disappointment, steeled her against the impulse. He thought of her as an employee. Not a woman. Or at least not a respectable woman. She might not last the night against his magnetism, but she could at least make it out her own front door without giving in. Frantically she searched for the frame of mind that would help her reclaim her position on the chessboard of his making.

“I’ve heard it’s customary to wine and dine before the sex.” She should have stopped there, but her lips kept moving. “Or are you so sure of yourself that you’ve stopped trying at all?”

He stepped back. She slowly faced him. Their gazes met. Held. He lifted her coat again, and damn her if she didn’t swallow hard. Raising her chin, she approached him and allowed him to help her.

His hands dropped away as he stepped back, crossed to her front door, and held it open for her. Sweeping through before him, she handed him the key and waited for him to lock the door. She held open her clutch so he could drop the key inside.