Page 55 of The Price of Scandal
“Now, Emily,” I began calmly, putting the shaker down on the countertop.
“Don’t you ‘now, Emily’ me,” she yelled. “You donotget to come and go as you please in my home!”
She had a point. So I went on the offensive.
“What are you doing at home on a Wednesday night in men’s boxers that is so much more important than repairing the damage you’ve done to your reputation?” My voice raised to carry over the music.
She threw a dish towel at me. Judging from the material, it cost more than most people’s bed linens.
“What makes you think me paying you gives you the right to enter my house whenever you feel like it?” she shouted.
“Turn the music down!”
“Get out of my house!”
“Not until you stop willfully endangering the IPO you say you want!”
She snatched her phone off the counter and punched in a code. The music cut off abruptly, leaving more space for our angry silence to fill.
“Listen up, Price. I can take a night off. One night. That’s all I get. I don’t take vacations. I work weekends. I rarely leave the office or the lab before nine every night. I deserve one uninterrupted night alone.”
The flashing anger in her eyes was Morse coding D-A-N-G-E-R at me.
“Valerie told me you left early for a date,” I said.
“Yes, with myself. You’re interrupting. And you owe me a martini.”
I glanced down at my wet Oxford. The alcohol fumes were strong.
“Then I’ll make you another,” I said, unbuttoning my shirt.
“Stop it!” she said, still pointing the shears at me.
I dropped the shirt on the counter and unhooked my belt.
“Why do you keep taking your clothes off in my house?”
“You’re just so welcoming, Emily. Such a lovely hostess. I feel so comfortable here.”
“Bite me.”
I dropped my pants and dared her to look.
She didn’t disappoint. I could feel the heat from her gaze as it trailed over my chest and torso before it paused on my Dolce & Gabbana briefs. “Where’s your vodka?” I asked.
“In a puddle on the floor. What are you doing here, Price?” she asked, suddenly weary.
I felt it, too, as I toed off my shoes and left the pants on the floor. It had been a long couple of weeks, and my desire to fight was gone as quickly as it had come. “Ah, here it is,” I said, finding a stash of high-end liquors in one of the cabinets. “How dirty do you like it?”
“Don’t be an ass,” she said, slumping onto a barstool.
I helped myself to ice from the dispenser and went to work on the martini.
“Aren’t you the least bit embarrassed?” she asked me, watching me as I worked.
“Not at all. I happen to think I have an excellent body.”
“You burst in here thinking I had a date, Derek.”
