Page 43 of The Price of Scandal
“I’m not going,” Emily said.
“Oh, really?” I asked, fascinated.
“Hey, man, I gotta roll. Meeting a client in an hour,” Jude said. He was a reluctant one-man security outfit and couldn’t seem to stop getting business thrown his way.
“Thanks for the rounds,” I said, deliberately turning away from the woman who was ready to breathe fire.
“You bet. Beer next week?” he offered, scooping up his gym bag.
“In the books.” We hugged it out, one-armed man style.
When I turned my attention back to Emily, she was stepping through the ropes into the ring, her $1,200 shoes neatly tucked in the corner.
“Are you coming to fight me?” I asked.
“I am if you think I’m going to that asshole’s party.”
“Fallen CEOs can’t be choosers,” I reminded her.
The action around the gym had picked back up, leaving the two of us in the ring.
“My job is to paint a new picture for the public. And the only way I can do that is by putting you out there.”
“The man grabbed my VP of finance’s ass and called me a stupid whore at a fundraiser for clean water in sub-Saharan Africa.”
Asshole.“An open bar, I presume?”
“I’m not going. Which brings me to the most important agenda item: I now require approval on every event you’re adding to my calendar.”
“Forget the party. You stabbing Ellison with a Jimmy Choo wouldn’t do much to repair your reputation. But you are going to have to do things you don’t want to do if we’re going to clean this up.”
She took a step forward and lifted that aristocratic chin. “All Idoare things I don’t want to,” she shot back.
Her lips curled in on themselves as if she was trying to take the words back.
“Tell me,” I pressed.
But the walls were back up. The temper banked down.
We were standing too close. She was in my space, and I could smell whatever delicate perfume she wore, feel the energy crackling off her. If anyone needed to go a few rounds, it was the wounded, frustrated Emily Stanton.
“I want vetoes,” she said.
“Fight me for them.”
Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.” I tapped my gloves together. “Fight me for them. We’ll go a round.”
I expected her to scoff at the suggestion. To toss her hair over her shoulder and storm out. To fire me.
“I’ll change,” she said with a brisk nod.
My client was full of surprises.
I should have known I was in trouble when she returned to the ring in short shorts, a sports bra, and her own headgear and gloves in hand.
But I was a man. A stupid, stupid man.
