Nico shudders as my eyes dissect him. His silence only enhances my rage.
“Whatisthis?” I ask in low, deliberate tones.
People thinking I’m engaged to a younger man doesn’t thrill me. I don’t need a cabana boy or the baggage that comes with aging faster than my significant other and fielding questions like, “Are you his nanny? Or his sugar mama?”
Far worse than the age difference, though, is the man in question: Ronald Jameson.Ronald fucking Jameson. God help me. If the world ended, and he and I were the last two people capable of repopulating Earth…I’d let humanity go extinct rather than bump uglies with that cowboy caveman.
“Your brother emailed this over with a request to call him at your earliest convenience,” Nico replies, his voice emotionless.
Earliest convenience?“Get him on the phone,” I order, my mind spiraling into PR damage control mode. “And our publicists on standby. We need a strategy for whateverthisis, and then heads will roll.”
Nico’s face tightens, but he remains stoic as he exits. Twenty minutes later, he re-enters the room pale-faced. “Mr. Cash is on the line.”
I frown.Thisshould be rich. Taking a couple of deep breaths and clearing my throat, I press the flashing red button to let him through. “Billy,” I hiss.
“Hey, big sis. I figure you’ve read the article by now?”
“What in the hell, bro?”
“You can thank me later.” His pronunciation sounds sloppy like he’s drinking, and the connection breaks and crackles every couple of words. “Where are you at? The connection’s terrible.”
He laughs. “I’d offer to move around, but it’s probably not going to help any. I’m on a little island in the Caribbean.”
“Does it have a name?” I ask, wrinkling my brow hard despite more internal scolding. I don’t actually want the answer to this question, but his vagueness confuses me.
“It’s got three different names, depending on your ethnic identity, and it’s way off the tourist maps. Like you’d have to hire a personal charter to get here, and not every captain is willing to make the trip.”
It figures. My brother is abysmally irresponsible…especially when it matters most. Add early mid-life crisis to the mix.
“What’s the deal with the Word doc? Is this another one of your and Ronald’s stupid-ass practical jokes? If so, might I remind you we’re fucking adults…and I’ll sue you both for defamation.”
He laughs. “About that. I had an interview with a hot journalist from ZMT named Malia, and things got a little crazy in the speculation department, you might say. But no harm, no foul.”
“No harm, no foul?” I close my eyes, exhaling violently and running my tongue over the backs of my bottom teeth to keep from screaming. My mind flashes to visuals of pommeling my brother with something good, like a golf club or baseball bat.
The thin veneer of politeness crackles as I turn toward my computer monitor, searching my name and brand. Nothing out of the ordinary on Google… I sigh. That said, the ordinary is anything but pleasant:
The Red Brand Sees Lowest Q4 Sales Since Launch
Red’s Year-Over-Year Profit Margins Bleak
Why The Red Brand Needs a Break from Lesley Cash
Red’s Lesley Cash: The Devil Wears Prada…Except It’s Not Prada…Not Even Close
I growl low in my throat, disheartened by all the bad publicity. “Pussy journalists. It’s easy to trash someone publicly when you can hide behind a computer monitor, isn’t it?”
“Who are you talking to, Lesley?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I snap. “Just doing an internet search.”
“No doubt, you see why Red could use a little fresh publicity…”
I grumble into the phone. “You haven’t published the article yet. What do you want to shelve it?”
“Correction. Malia, who wrote the story, hasn’t published the article yet. But it’s with her editors. Make no mistake, it’s coming out tomorrow. Fortunately, you can use this to your advantage if you play your cards right…”
Chapter Two