Page 33 of Art of Sin

I look at the ceiling. “Jesus fucking Christ.” At a small gasp from my morally upright secretary, I add, “Sorry, Joan.”

She coughs lightly. “What should I do?”

I drum my fingers on the desk. Resist the urge to pull my hair from its pins and run cackling down the hallway. I’m losing it.

“Send her up.”

Trent mutters, “Here we go.”

Maggie grimaces. “This should be interesting.”

I give them each hard looks. “I didn’t get where I am today by playing it safe. We’re going to hear what she has to say.”

“Are you really considering taking her on?” asks Trent. “Wouldn’t it be a conflict of—”

“Ms. Linn already has a publicist,” I interject. “I highly doubt she’s here to hire anyone.”

“Then what does she want?” asks Maggie.

Sometimes I feel so old, I wonder why I’m not sipping margaritas in Florida. Sighing, I answer the question as simply as I can.

“She wants to meet me.”

Size me up.

Catalog my weaknesses.

Ask me why.

Because although it’s public knowledge that she was the one who fucked up her marriage—carrying on a year-long affair with a European model—Gideon Masters isn’t a man easy to walk away from.

I barely know him, but I know that.

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