Page 145 of The Price of Scandal
I pulled a cashmere throw off an armchair and draped it over him. That’s when I noticed the shirt tucked under his arm. It was mine. One I’d left here. Any ice left in the cracks of my heart liquefied.
“Damn you, Price,” I whispered.
In the kitchen, I fired up his espresso maker. While I waited for the magic of caffeine, I shamelessly snooped through the open files on the counter.
The complete and official Emily Stanton dossier sat, thick and tempting. But it was a red folder open under another empty beer bottle that caught my eye. I moved the bottle and spun the file around.
Lita.
Of course he’d known. Judging from the research, he’d been suspicious from the beginning.
I’d missed it. I’d been blind to her envy, her insidious undermining. She’d never been a friend. And Derek had seen it immediately.
He’d tried to tell me, I remembered.“Why do you trust Lita?”And I’d shut him down.
I paged through the file. He’d had his boxing friend Jude follow her. Noted suspicious contact with La Sophia. Dammit. There were notes from his lunches with her.
She attempted seduction under the guise of innocent flirtation. Leaning in. Whispering. Stroking my arm. Even went for the damsel in distress routine. Bottom Line: She wants everything that is E’s. That includes me. Hope E gets the opportunity to kick her in the face. Must find way to tell E before L attacks.
I’d seen enough about Lita’s betrayal and opened the next folder.
I wasn’t prepared for what I found, however.
It seemed that Derek’s digging had been more thorough than my own. I sucked in a shaky breath. I wasn’t sure what was worse: the betrayal or the fact that I wasn’t surprised.
There were more notes here.
I want to personally take care of this one. Or watch Jane use her stun gun.Derek had pushed so hard with the pen the words were carved into the paper.
The smell of fresh espresso permeated my fog of self-pity. I had work to do, and I needed the unconscious man cuddling with my gym shirt to make it happen.
On cue, he groaned.
It was the raspy, gravelly noise of the defeated and dehydrated. I knew it well.
I picked up the cup of espresso and my bag and carried them both into the living room.
“Emily?” he murmured into my t-shirt. I set the cup down with a clink on the coffee table. One of his eyes cracked open. I reached over him and turned on the lamp.
“Wake up, Price.”
“You’re here.” He sat upright, swinging his legs off the couch. His feet swept three bottles to their death.
“Bloody fucking hell,” he groaned, cradling his head in his hands.
“You’re a mess,” I sighed, carting an armload of empties from living room to kitchen.
“Don’t go,” he said.
He was on his feet, swaying.
“Sit down and drink your coffee,” I insisted.
“I think this is a dream,” he muttered to himself.
“Price, sit down. Drink your damn coffee. And sober up because we have work to do.”
He squinted at me from across the room. “You’re bossy like the real Emily.”
