Public Relations (6 page)

Good question. Did she want the job? If he’d purchased the paper hell-bent on revenge, wouldn’t it be best to leave before he succeeded in figuring out her real position? With no time to think clearly about the situation, she decided on a tactical retreat to regroup.

“I’m sure I can manage it.” She pasted on her brightest smile.

He blinked at her for a moment, then narrowed his gaze to study her more closely. Something about the way his attention rested on each prominent point of her features—mouth, nose, the ridges of her cheekbones—gave her pause. Her skin tingled under his scrutiny. It was as if he thought he might know her. Trying not to appear nervous, she took calm, even breaths and held his gaze until he harrumphed and returned his attention to his laptop screen. She took the opportunity to make her escape.

Out in the hall, Sid lurked in the alcove next to the men’s bathroom. As she passed, he fell into step with her.

“Is he working in there?” Speaking out of the side of his mouth, Sid jerked his head toward the conference room.

“Apparently,” Georgia answered in normal tones.

“What are you going to do?”

What was she going to do, indeed. Georgia quickened her pace, ignoring the question. Reaching the bull pen, where most of the journalists worked, she looked down at her desk. Something was off. “Where’s my stuff?”

“I moved it to the admin desk outside of the executive offices.”

She turned in a slow circle, first one way, then the other, the motion reminding her of a weather vane buffeted by inconsistent winds. The admin desk faced outward, its back toward the row of glass doors at the opposite end of the room. A lonely work space, it hadn’t been used in years. Beyond the desk, workmen scurried in and out of the largest office carrying paint cans and tools, apparently preparing to freshen the walls and replace the flooring.

“Who in bloody hell ordered all this?” she asked.

“I figured, you know, it should look like you actually used that desk,” Sid said, misunderstanding her question.

“No. I see that. I meant—” Georgia lifted her chin toward the largest office. “Who ordered that work in there?”

“Mr. Wells.”

“His name is Peter.” Too angry to care that the man was Abercrombie-gorgeous, Georgia spat his name, using it as a substitute for an invective.

Sid coughed behind his closed fist. “He invited us to call him Mr. Wells.”

Georgia crossed the room and sat in the wooden swivel chair. A power tool ripped through flooring in the room behind her, vibrating the boards under her feet. She closed her eyes and begged for patience. Or better yet, a freak meteor to hurtle down and strike her new boss. The man had to be new money. No way old money would behave so pretentiously, replacing things five minutes into a position.

“What do we know about his past?” she asked.

Perching a hip on the corner of her temporary desk, Sid eyed her suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

“Where did he come from? Who are his people?”

“You’re the expert, Georgie.” Sid shrugged and stood. “I take it that means you’re not quitting?”

“What? No!” Maybe some of the articles in the magazines she’d brought in would provide a clue about his background and help her find a way out of this mess. Georgia searched the surface of the desk but found only her handbag and pencil cup. “Where’re my magazines?”

Pointing to her desk drawers, Sid answered her question. “I wouldn’t let him see those if I were you.”

“Don’t know ’bout that. Apoplexy might suit.”

Sid jammed his hands in his pockets and blew out a breath that puffed his cheeks. He was worried, and she couldn’t say she blamed him. After all, he’d lied to Peter when he’d covered for her this morning. All their jobs, ultimately, were on the line. Not just hers.

Georgia sighed. No reason to get herself or anyone else fired before she figured out whether they all fought a losing battle. Ringing phones and the sound of clacking keyboards filled the room, making the space buzz with energy. This was the place she loved—vibrant and full of news in the making. With a part of her soul imbedded in this paper, she didn’t know if she could quit. Or should quit. These people were the only real family she’d known. One thing was certain. If she went down, somehow she’d take that horrid man with her.

“When you get that look, it scares me,” Sid said.

Georgia glanced up at him. Blond hair flopping in his eyes, he frowned down at her.

“What look?” she asked.

“The one that says you’re going to take out the enemy no matter the collateral damage or the cost of the ammunition.”

“I hope the enemy happens to be the maître d’ at Le Bernardin.” The quiet resonance of Peter’s words made Georgia’s heart leap out of the starting gate and bolt past the lure.

Sid took a swift step away from the desk. On his way past, his hand knocked over her pencil cup, sending the contents every which way.

Needing to collect her scattered composure, Georgia swiveled swiftly in her chair and spoke at her computer log-in screen. “I’ve never made a reservation for a place like that.”

“True. She’s pretty much addicted to Chinese food,” Sid offered by way of support as he plunked several pens into her cup.

Both she and Peter glared at him.

“I’ll just…” Sid jerked a thumb toward his office.

“Want me to show you how it’s done?” Peter asked when they were alone.

“I think I can manage.” She lifted the receiver on her telephone. “Thanks.”

Not waiting for him to leave, she dialed information and had them connect her with the restaurant. When the maître d’ answered, she rattled off Peter’s request in fluent French, dropping the name of his contact as she might use a garnish. When she finished, Peter sat in the side chair by her desk, both brows raised. Whether in shock or admiration, she couldn’t tell.

A smug smile flitted about her lips, and she squelched it before meeting his gaze. Unable to keep the merriment from her eyes, she asked innocently, “Is that how it’s done?”

“Yes.” His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth. “That’s how it’s done.”

Was he one of those men who found foreign languages and accents titillating? He had been turned on by Gigi when they’d met. Georgia’s cheeks heated, and she looked away. She was never at a loss for words except around this man.

Chapter Five

Peter stared into eyes the color of a storm-tossed north Irish Sea and prayed for strength. When Georgia looked away, his blood cooled a fraction, and he pulled back. Though she didn’t have lush lashes or a sophisticated hairstyle, she had a fresh-faced beauty that captivated his mind and ratcheted up his libido.

He’d never seen such natural loveliness. With her high cheekbones and creamy skin all but devoid of makeup, her blush became a tell. Wine-red highlights streaked thick waves of shoulder-length auburn hair, making him think of Maureen O’Hara and sirens of the deep.

She was a spitfire, this one, and maybe a little too hot to handle. Despite years of pursuing only the most predictable and uncomplicated of relationships, he felt compelled to rise to the challenge she presented. At least until she opened a drawer to toss in her purse. She froze, hand hovering over the contents. He spied the stack of magazines at the same time she attempted to shove the swollen wood back into its housing.

Fingers gently gripping her wrist, he stayed her hand. “Give them to me.”

She shrugged, the gesture a little too nonchalant, and lifted the stack from its resting place. His temper spiked, tightening his skin, making his movements jerky as he hefted the weight of the periodicals from her hands. He fanned through the first and noted cryptic scribbles in its margins. Shorthand? Her chair squeaked as she rolled it back from him, ostensibly gaining a safer distance.

Pausing in his perusal, he glanced at her. “Are these yours?”

“I told you. I do research-type stuff. Fact-checking.” Her gaze remained steady, though she stumbled over her words.

“On me? For an already published piece?” He perched a hip on her desk and thumbed through more pages. “How interesting.”

Damn, but he’d bought the paper in the nick of time. Had they been planning another piece on him? God only knew what they’d have dredged up and flung at his reputation this time around.

Several minutes went by during which he flipped through the magazines. With each cavalierly worded lampoon of his character, all of which he’d assumed Carl would’ve shown him but hadn’t, embarrassment that this woman—and hell, the whole first world and probably select parts of the second and third—knew very intimate details of his private life churned his temper.

He dropped the magazines on her desk with a thump. The stack slithered into an untidy pile to cover a bare stretch of weathered blond oak. Georgia lifted her chin, its delicately rounded point tapering to the twin blades of her regal jaw. Faint blue veins ran like lacework up her neck, branching to pulse points below her ear. One of those points fluttered. “Look, Peter…”

He narrowed his eyes at her use of his name. “Mr. Wells.”

She pressed her lips together, flattening the peaks and valleys into a straight line. He practically heard her think
Whatever
. Oddly, the word registered in his mind in an English accent. He frowned and barely managed to shake Gigi Montrose’s dulcet tones out of his head as Georgia continued.

“Try not to let your paranoia run rampant.” Her sarcasm registered as a verbal slap.

The expression he leveled at her was deliberately bored. “Careful. Insubordination isn’t the way to my good graces.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have anything more tempting to offer.”

Without conscious thought, he swept her with his gaze, saying wordlessly,
Oh, but you do…

Really? You just went there?
her narrowed stare asked.

He blinked and erased any sign of interest so completely from his face that he knew she wondered if it had ever been there. Across the room, all eyes were on them. Sounds of work had stopped entirely. No keyboards clacked. A phone rang but went unheeded. Peter shifted his attention over his shoulder to his employees, and everyone scattered like he’d pulled a pin on a grenade and thrown it into their midst. As they went back to their foxholes, he returned his focus to Georgia.

“That’s two.” He held up two fingers. “Three’s my limit.”

She opened her mouth, and he dared to lean in and press his upheld fingers against the moist heat of her mouth. Big mistake.

Regions south of his belt jumped up and took notice, but he repressed a flinch. “Do yourself a favor and be quiet.”

When he withdrew his fingers, she gaped at him. He stood and walked away before she found her voice. After all, nothing good could come of him firing her. He’d put money on her knowing more than she let on, and at the very least she had access to people he needed to meet. One way or another, either she would put him in touch with Gigi Montrose or she’d feed him the name of his nemesis. Regardless, he planned to win every skirmish along with the whole damned battle. Even if he had to load the cannons himself.

* * * *

Peter pressed the chrome weight bar above his chest and focused on the burn. One week later and he couldn’t get Georgia Whitcomb or Gigi Montrose out of his head. A pair of jade-green, then gray-green, eyes flashed in memory. His arms began to shake too soon. Racking the weight, he cursed, then grabbed his sweat towel to press to his face. Immediately visions of both women rolled over him once more.

He tossed the towel aside and reached for his phone as he stalked toward the bath. On the way he told Miles to call his car service. He’d have to go in to the newspaper today. Though he’d avoided the place for the past week, loath to spend energy on a business that would ultimately give him the least return on his investment, he couldn’t stay away forever. Not if he intended to discover the name of Gigi Montrose’s gossipy friend.

A lush mouth, cherry red in its glossy fullness, joined the gray-green eyes, tempting him to curse again. Flicking on the television in his bathroom, he focused on the morning financial reports and finished getting ready. On the way down to the car, he dialed Carl.

“Donner,” Carl answered, clearly distracted by something or someone.

Peter eyed the waterfall cascading off the lobby awning. “Shit, it’s raining.”

A male voice said something unintelligible in the background, and Carl covered the receiver, momentarily muffling his conversation.

“Sorry,” he said, returning after a moment. “And good morning to you too.”

“I forgot my umbrella,” Peter explained. “Miles is slipping.”

“So I gathered.” A slurp of coffee, then he said, “Do you want me to drive there to get it for you?”

Peter chuckled. “That’s why I call you.”

“Comedic relief?”

“To remind me not to be such a prima donna.”

“If that’s all you want, I’ll try harder to take you down a peg or two when we talk.”

Peter snorted. “Thanks. At least it’s not slushing.”

The car pulled up to the entrance, gleaming black against the gray of the December day. The driver came around to open Peter’s door, an umbrella covering the vehicle entry. Clutching his cell to his ear, Peter dashed out of the lobby. Water ran in a river along the gutter, gurgling and rushing toward a sewer drain. In the chill air, the city smelled clean in a way it rarely did. Peter breathed deep. Car door shut, he became separate from the world again.

“Do you ever wish you could just go outside and get soaking wet?” He lifted his hips, drawing his coat upward to relieve the pull at his shoulders. “Let the rain do its worst?”

A pause preceded Carl’s “Are you feeling all right?”

“Yeah. I’m…” Peter eyed the water blurring the view of the yellow cab that had pulled up alongside them at a light. “Right as rain.”

“Cute.”

“So, I know it’s not your job, but I’m wondering if you can help me some more with this Gigi Montrose thing?” Cell clamped between his cheek and shoulder, Peter opened his briefcase and withdrew a folder.

“Still no luck with your PI?”

“The woman is a complete mystery.” The traffic lurched forward, and he tried to ignore the motion sickness that reared whenever he read in a moving vehicle.