Page 54 of The Price of Scandal
Four points. Good. But not good enough. A smiling appearance at a gallery could have nudged her up another point. Ms. Stanton and I were going to have a discussion about priorities. A loud one. In front of herdate.
* * *
Half an hour later,I pulled up to the security gate at Bluewater.
“Would you like me to announce you to Ms. Stanton, man?” the guard at the gate asked.
“She’s expecting me,” I lied. “I’m on the list.”
“Have a nice visit,” he said, buzzing me through.
Indeed.
She was home, I noted, pulling into the circular driveway. Lights were on, and I could distantly hear music. Was she entertaining? Was I about to walk in on her and some mystery man?
The thought irked me more than it should have. This was the type of thing I needed to know about my clients. A secret boyfriend? That was definitely something I should know.
And I was going to explain that very clearly to her.
Avoiding the security cameras on the front of the house, I skirted the building. It was a series of white stucco boxes, connected by arched walkways. I crossed between the garage and the master bedroom and came up on the beach side. If the front of the property was luxurious, the back of it was positively decadent. Emily had two hundred feet of pristine, private beach. Chaise lounges under palapas dotted the white sand. Her white coral stone terrace included a kidney-shaped pool with a sunning shelf and hot tub, a professional grade barbecue, and enough seating for the better part of a senior class on spring break.
None of it looked like it was used.
I crossed the terrace, sticking close to the house. The glass accordion doors off the kitchen were open, and music poured out.
So Emily was having a little party.
Wasn’t that nice,I thought grimly.
I stepped inside, ready to shock her, annoy her. Ready to impress upon her boyfriend the importance of doing exactly what I tell him. Namely, get lost.
But there was no boyfriend. There wasn’t even a party.
The commercial grade refrigerator door was open. Beneath it, I caught a peek of bare feet and long legs.
The music—Abba, if I wasn’t mistaken—blared through hidden speakers.
And then the door closed, and there was Emily Stanton, billionaire, CEO, society princess in men’s boxer shorts and a tank top performing a truly terrible rendition of “Dancing Queen” while jiggling a cocktail shaker.
There was a martini glass—only one—with two skewered olives on the blue Brazilian stone countertop next to her open laptop and neat piles of paperwork.
Emily shook and sang, whirling in a tight circle. Her blonde hair whipped out behind her.
“Ha! Stuck the landing,” she said with a little shoulder boogie.
“You certainly did,” I agreed.
She shrieked and, on instinct, hurled the cocktail shaker at me. I caught it, but the lid came off.
It wasn’t a fearful scream, I noted as cold vodka soaked its way through my shirt and pants. It was a battle cry.
She lunged for the kitchen shears on the counter. I wasn’t sure if it was a reflex or if she actually intended to kill me.
“Relax. It’s me,” I bellowed over Abba.
Emily was wielding the shears at me even though recognition lit her eyes.
“I know it’s you!”
