Public Relations (2 page)

Chastity’s head fell back on his shoulder. She sighed as he cupped both of her breasts and circled his thumbs around each nipple. “This is nice, but shouldn’t I…”

He brushed a kiss at her temple. “Just relax. Enjoy.”

She settled into him. Tracing the fingers of both hands against the peachy softness of her labia, he spread her lips and breached her pussy with one slow push of his index finger. Musk and heat curled through the air. He breathed deep, taking a moment to savor her soft femininity. Chastity sighed, a little mewl escaping her lips. He wriggled his finger, and she grasped his wrist in an attempt at control. Motionless, he waited her out. When she released him, he rewarded her with a soft slap to her tender, swollen flesh.

She arched and gasped.

“Be a good girl,” he whispered against her ear. “Grab the chair arms and don’t let go unless you want me to stop.”

When, and only when, she complied, he danced his fingers over the sensitive points of her sex and set to work on making her cry out his name.

A long time later, the fire overheating him on one side, he shifted and set Chastity on her feet. She wobbled a little as she smoothed her dress. He laughed, and she smiled at him.

A breathless “Thank you” escaped her lips.

He stood and reached for his billfold. “My pleasure.”

“Not all yours.” The skin around her eyes crinkled with her genuine smile. “I feel as if I should be paying you, not the other way around.”

Three thousand dollars slipped from his fingertips as easily as water. He barely watched it go before he set about straightening his tux.

“Are you available Thursday? I have a dinner with some important guests.” He knew her answer before she gave it, but he asked for the sake of politeness.

“Of course.” She laid light hands on his shoulders and brushed a kiss on his cheek.

Their arrangement hovered between them, unspoken now but settled on over a week ago. As long as he kept paying her retainer plus her per-event fee, she’d be his exclusively until he felt the need to move on. Sometimes his
relationships
lasted six months, maybe a date or two, and rarely a year. For as long as he wanted her, she’d be his. No strings and no complications. With as much discretion and loyalty as money could buy. Well, that and a watertight confidentiality agreement.

“Do you want to…” She shook her head at whatever she was about to ask and turned away, but not before he saw the spark of hope flare in her eyes.

“Chastity?” One hand on her shoulder, he compelled her to face him.

“Yes, Peter?” The bright smile painted on her face made him drop his hand and step back.

He briefly closed his eyes. God, he hated it when his girlfriends for hire got emotionally involved. Especially so soon.

“Don’t make the mistake of falling for me.” It was the only warning he’d give and one she’d do well to heed. “You work for me. Just like any other employee. We’ll have some fun. Take in some shows. But at the end—and it will end—I won’t be in love with you. And I will let you go.”

Shock drained every last vestige of color from her refined features before two bright red spots painted her cheeks. She held up the money and tipped it toward him as she forced a smile. “I guarantee you’ll get exactly what you pay for.”

Reassurance was a cold weight around his dead heart, but he made light of the moment. “You just like me because I tip well.”

Her laughter rang false. “Well, if you consider multiple orgasms part of your tip, you’re damned right.”

Peter caught a flash of movement in the hallway. Apparently, at some point during his little tryst, the pocket door had slid open several inches. He stepped around Chastity under the guise of opening the door for her. In truth, though, he was more interested in seeing if he could catch the person who’d moved past.

A woman in a red evening gown stalked down the hallway. Platinum hair cut in a sleek bob, dress hugging curves she knew how to work, she appeared softer and sexier than the velvet caressing her lushly rounded bottom. Peter watched her go and frowned as longing swept through him, chasing arousal he hadn’t yet sated.

He cast a dubious glance at the event he’d paid dearly to sponsor. It was in full swing in the next room. Knowing he should return, he almost turned to Chastity to tell her she was free to go for the evening. Visions of sycophantic blue bloods clapping him on the back and asking thinly veiled questions about his investment portfolio gave him serious pause. Perhaps he’d do best to follow the lead of the lady in red and take the back stairs. He could call his car once he was outside.

“Do me a favor, Chastity?” He didn’t have to look around to know she remained two steps behind, awaiting his cue.

“You need your coat?” she guessed.

The hostess flitted by the arched entrance, and Peter retreated a step to keep his face in shadow. “That’d be great.”

Only a real schmuck would ask a woman to get his coat for him, but it wasn’t as if Chastity was a real date. For three g’s she could do a different kind of legwork. It’d serve them both if she wanted to get out of here before midnight. On her way past, he handed her his coat-check ticket and his wallet.

She gave his arm a quick squeeze. “Be right back.”

“I’ll be outside,” he called, and she casually flipped her hand up in acknowledgment.

The rapid clip of his dress shoes echoed down the dimly lit corridor as he headed for the exit. He fumbled with the brass tension bar before the door gave way. The air outside was more damp than truly cold. City lights reflected off the low cloud ceiling, making the night feel insular and hushed, wrapped in atmosphere and a bit of old-fashioned mystery. If he had to guess, it would snow soon.

Peter shoved his hands in his pockets and looked up at the sky, his frozen breath lost to the artificially bright cloud cover. He found himself puffing out several more breaths and twisting around trying to see them before they completely dissipated. A small smile escaped, chilling his teeth at the same time the sharp click of stilettos punched through the air.

He straightened at the sight of a red dress. A cab passed, its duty light dark. The woman waved her hand, the gesture a little wild given her social circle. The cab raced by, and she swore a blue streak as she gave the driver the finger. Peter’s brows shot up. His little socialite not only didn’t have a car and driver, but she knew words he’d only heard in a locker room.

“Can I help you?” He stepped toward her.

The blonde whirled to face him, her hand to her chest. “Good Lord! What a fright.”

He blinked as shock drifted in an erotic curl, tightening muscles in its wake. Only years of boardroom experience kept the surprise from his face. She was even more beautiful up close, the exquisite pout of her mouth a vivid contrast to her pale features. He doubted she knew tanning booths existed, much less used one.

“I’m sorry I startled you.” He held out a hand. “Peter Wells.”

Pushing an errant strand behind her ear, she ignored his hand and looked up the street—no doubt for more poor, unsuspecting, off-duty cabbies to verbally assault—before turning her back.

Unused to rebuff, Peter shoved his hand in his pocket and tried again. “And you are…”

“Not remotely interested,” she answered.

He blinked twice in rapid succession. “Excuse me?”

The indignation in his voice seemed to work like a gear, turning her around one sprocket at a time until she squared off with him. Tilted up at the corners, her eyes glittered with green fire. At six foot one, he was tall but not extraordinarily so. Judging from how she had to tilt her head to look up at him, this woman couldn’t be more than five and a half feet in heels, yet he felt as if she towered over him. That cat-eyed gaze swept up his chest with excruciating deliberation. She lingered on his tie and shirt collar, her stare shifting back and forth. One delicate nostril lifted as if she smelled something bad. A well-tended brow arched before she met his eyes.

He looked down at his shirt and saw his second button undone and a smear of lipstick staining his collar. It was the first nonverbal conversation he’d had with a woman in years where money didn’t change hands and his zipper remained up. Consequently, it was also the first conversation that left him fighting the urge to explain himself.

Thick snowflakes began to drift between them, catching him in a story the Brothers Grimm might have written, one with his very own Red Riding Hood who stared at him like he was her personal big bad wolf. He had a sneaking suspicion that this contemporary version of the distressed maiden wouldn’t need a guy with an ax to save her ass. She’d wield it herself.

He took a step back. “Allow me to hail you a taxi?”

She folded her arms over the drape of her fur stole and cocked her head. A chill breeze chose that moment to sweep down the street. No matter how low the thermometer read, Peter knew the frigid weather couldn’t compare to the ice storm brewing in this woman’s stare. He wanted to rub his hands up and down her bare skin to save them both from frostbite.

“Look, Red, I’ve been nothing but courteous to you.” He shoved his hands deeper in his pockets. “Do you have a problem with gentlemen?”

Both brows arched, high and graceful, before she presented her back to him once more. The line of her neck swooped upward from the delicate wings of her shoulders.

“I wouldn’t know.” She whipped up her hand to hail an oncoming cab. “I do so rarely meet them.”

The blur of yellow slowed and jerked to the curb. Despite, or maybe because of, her comment, Peter stepped forward and opened the door. She got in, and he’d nearly shut the door before she looked up at him through the glass to say, “And my name isn’t Red.”

Struck speechless, he closed the door and watched the taxi race away in a swirl of snow and wondered where and when he’d gone wrong. How he could’ve changed the course of the conversation and convinced that saucy English rose to shed her thorns and remain by his side. Blanching at the purple prose of his internal monologue, he did a quick ball check through his trousers pocket and breathed a relieved sigh when he counted two.

“Give it up, my friend, because she never will—give it up, that is.” A man whose name he should’ve remembered from the event followed his gaze.

“Who is she?” The cab slowed in a snarl of traffic, and the inexplicable urge to make like a hound and chase the woman down compelled him to stubbornly plant his feet on the pavement.

“That’s Gigi Montrose.” He emphasized the name as if it signified something important beyond four measured syllables.

Traffic moved in a great forward lurch. Peter continued to stare after the cab until it was swallowed up in the sea of vehicles on Fifth Avenue.

Unable to believe his libido had latched onto the one thing he despised more than a bear market—a self-important blue blood with tits as expensive as her prewar co-op—he recited the alphabet backward. Finished, he looked around, annoyed as Chastity glided down the side entrance steps with a bottle of Remy, two glasses, and his coat.

Speaking of expensive…

Tomorrow they’d have what he was coming to think of as the ritual talk about limits. Particularly those involving his bank account and her access to it. Just because he was wealthier than 99 percent of the 1 percent didn’t mean he gave everyone around him a match and said,
Hey, burn some if the mood strikes you.

Taking his coat from Chastity’s outstretched hand and putting it on, he stared down at her and contemplated bringing her home with him. Instead, a picture of Gigi swam to the forefront of his mind. His body roused, taking interest in the wrong woman.

Perfect. Just great.

He felt for his billfold in his coat pocket and hailed a cab with his free hand. Chastity knew better than to protest when he placed her in the backseat without him and plucked the fine cognac from her fingers before shutting the door. He let her keep the glasses.

Red taillights retreated in a swirl of snow. Peter examined the decanter and its aged amber liquid. He briefly thought of going inside to return the thing to the high-end bartender, then shrugged. What the hell? Might as well enjoy himself. It had been far too long since he’d let loose, consequences be damned.

He removed the crystal stopper from the heavy bottle. The first drop hit his tongue, depositing nutty richness before shifting to more subtle honey and vanilla undertones. Taste buds sighed throughout his mouth. The heavy bottle swung by his side, dangling from one fist, while he held the top in the other.

“Top-shelf cognac.” Wry laughter accompanied his statement as he began his walk home. “Twenty-three thousand dollars.”

$23,000. Ma and Da’s first down payment on a house.

The memory launched the next line of his soliloquy. “A penthouse on the Upper East Side. Thirty-three million dollars.”

Christ. Was his place really worth that much? Wells Industries’ real-estate-investment arm owned the whole damned building, so he should know the penthouse’s market value. Even after years of dealing in sums with three more zeroes, the figure seemed unimaginable. He hadn’t thought about money, really thought about it, in so long he’d forgotten how surreal those sums could be. He’d become inured to their day-to-day meaning.

He took another sip of cognac to soften the rough edges of memory and the sting of guilt. The earthy aroma made even the damp city streets smell good, particularly the deeper into the bottle he got. Traffic whizzed past, tires making wet sounds against the mirrorlike pavement. People milled about, umbrellas perched jauntily over their heads, discussing the show they’d seen or the dinner they’d shared. Melting into the anonymity New York afforded, he took a heartier nip as he waited for the crosswalk light and found his punch line.

“The privilege of getting stinking drunk and jacking yourself to sleep without having to sign a prenup?” Saluting Times Square with a bottle he knew from personal experience could feed and clothe a family of six for more than a year, he finished with, “Totally. Fucking. Priceless.”

Chapter Two

Damn Peter Wells straight to hell.