Front Page Gossip

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Peter Wells drained his champagne and plucked another flute from a passing waiter. Events hosted by New York’s social elite—even the ones he bought and paid for—always left him with the urge to get laid, get drunk, and go to confession. Definitely in that order. If he ever converted, he might even manage to do all three at once.

His mind on the first check box on his list, he automatically scanned the crowd, his attention alighting on his date du jour. Chastity. Letting the dry champagne roll over his tongue, he contemplated her long-limbed, pert form, and the waterfall of blonde tresses brushing her bare back. She was a beauty. The best the service had sent in a while. He might keep this one for a bit. It’d be a nice change of pace.

Putting on his game face, he met Chastity next to a table laden with strawberries and a cluster of champagne flutes. He swept two glasses between the knuckles of one hand and dropped a strawberry into each. Handing her a glass, he sipped at his own and perused her figure with a lazy toe-to-head sweep, ending the journey at the graceful slope of her shoulders.

Her white satin gown showcased only what was appropriate for the venue, but more than enough to give him a glimpse of the lush valley between caramel-kissed breasts. He finally met her too-blue eyes and allowed his appreciation to linger in his gaze. Perfectly pouted pink lips curved into a demure smile in response to the implicit compliment. She was sweet, like candy, and had an innocent quality men loved to corrupt.

“Enjoying yourself?” He slipped an arm around her waist, his hand coming to rest intimately on the crest of her derriere.

“Yes, thank you.” She shifted one hip to encourage his touch.

He played his fingertips over cool satin, teasing the higher peaks and valleys of her ass as he took another sip of his champagne and feigned interest in the crowd. Chastity tilted her head to look at him. He pretended not to notice.

Two gossip columnists, both men, trained their gazes in his direction. Tomorrow’s headlines would ask whether the illusive playboy had finally snagged his Mrs. Right. He nearly snorted into his champagne.

The orchestra wound the set to a close. The foundation’s hostess prepared to make the benefit award announcement. Peter snapped his head to the right to release the crick in his neck.

“You’re uptight,” Chastity murmured.

Bunched muscles in Peter’s shoulders twitched at her pronouncement, making him aware of their increasing ache. Smiling for her and her alone, he took in Chastity’s heart-shaped face with its perfectly formed nose and artfully covered freckles. She moistened lips so lush he couldn’t help visualizing them pressed against his awakening arousal.

“A little,” he said, allowing the magnetism of the moment to spark briefly between them.

Long lashes swept low before revealing eyes darkened with desire. “I could fix that for you.”

He quirked a brow at her offer. The rest of him retreated, dismissing advances and overtures he hadn’t instigated. When he didn’t reply, merely took a measured sip of his drink, she stood on tiptoe. The movement barely brought her in contact with his ear, and he forced himself not to tilt his head to accommodate her.

Moist breath whispered over his lobe, nonetheless. “I found the perfect little room. Lots of old books and a gas fireplace. A comfy chair where you can sit while I…massage you.”

The hostess took the wireless microphone from a podium near the orchestra. Judging from the furtive glance she darted in his direction, she’d decided to give him up to the wolves rather than allow his personal donation to remain anonymous. Tomorrow he’d have five hundred requests from global foundations and charity organizations, all because she couldn’t resist the impulse to preen. He cursed himself for giving her the check tonight, in person.

He made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. “Sure. Let’s go.”

Chastity’s pout morphed into a twenty-thousand-dollar smile. Taking his hand, she led him away, through the mingling crowd to a dimly lit corridor, and from there to the private reading room she’d described. The pocket door’s rollers slid quietly enough, but even after several tries the door wouldn’t latch.

Chastity laughed and placed gold-painted fingertips on his biceps. “It’s okay. I don’t mind an audience.”

Something in his stomach curdled. Probably the goose-liver pâté.

He moved past her to the fireplace and flipped the switch. A gas hiss preceded the whoosh of the flames. Christmas decorations—a wreath, gold balls, and holly—adorned the mantel and the space above. Two leather wingback chairs flanked the hearth, but he remained standing as he watched the flames dance over a fake log in a predictable pattern.

Moving about the room like an apparition in slithering satin, Chastity circled, homing ever closer to her target. Peter listened for the sounds of applause down the hall and tensed when his name reached his ears. Then the clapping began, and tension knotted his stomach.

Chastity stepped toward him. He snapped his head up to glare at her. “Stop.”

Her eyes went wide, and he saw the confident-woman facade crumble. Hands laced together, twisting, she bit her lip and looked over her shoulder. When she looked at him again, it was with a question in her eyes. Should she leave?

Peter sighed and dropped into one of the chairs, drained glass dangling from his fingertips. It wasn’t her fault he was a control freak. “Come here.”

She approached with hesitant steps until she stood before him. He ran a palm up her hip. Bunching the smooth fabric of her gown, he studied the contrast between her curves and the masculine angles of his hand. The applause crescendoed outside. People called for him openly. He dropped his hand, and Chastity’s dress swirled around her ankles, hiding strappy gold heels and an expensive pedicure. Flicking his gaze to the rug at his feet, he indicated his preference and gave her his hand, palm up.

Material whispered over her skin as she knelt between his opened thighs. A measure of control settled over his universe once more, wrapping him in tight arms. He dipped two fingers into his glass and withdrew the strawberry. Droplets glistened against the red, ripe skin and dotted his fingertips. Tipping Chastity’s chin with his featherlight grip, he dangled the berry above her lips. “Don’t bite until I say.”

Her gaze never left his. “All right.”

The tanned line of his wrist ended with crisp white cuffs. Gold, square cuff links, each engraved with a classically severe W, winked with firelight as he traced the berry along plump, parted lips. “Lick.”

Chastity pressed the flat of her tongue against the berry.

Peter pulled back. “Just the tip.”

Delicate nostrils flared, telling him he’d managed to arouse a woman whom, likely, very little tempted anymore. His masculinity roared its approval, and his cock took notice of the conquest. Lowering the berry just within reach, he made her work for it and watched the point of her tongue dance to taste the fruit’s tangy sweetness. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Eyes widening, she withdrew her tongue and swallowed hard. He noted her unwillingness to talk. Didn’t press when she merely shrugged slender shoulders and darted a glance toward the fire. All artifice gone, she was his and his alone.

He brought the berry to his lips, drawing her attention. The bright sweetness of champagne and berry bathed his tongue as he bit into the delicate skin. Savoring the taste, he kept his narrowed gaze on her as he chewed slowly and swallowed. She waited patiently until he pressed the bitten berry against her lips. Where pink once reigned, red blossomed as juices coated her mouth. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she moaned.

“Taste,” he commanded.

Remembering the previous lesson, she used only the merest touch of her tongue to trace the pulpy insides.

“Very nice.”

Golden skin brightened at his compliment. Dark lashes fluttered upward as she smiled shyly at him.

“Ready for your treat?” He rolled the berry delicately between his thumb and forefinger to encourage the juices as he leaned sideways to place his glass on the floor.

Pink tongue darting in anticipation, she murmured her assent. He dropped the dripping tidbit between her parted lips and scooped her off the floor into his lap. Threading his fingers at her nape, he tilted her head and claimed her mouth. A sweep of his tongue caught the last sweet burst of flavor from the berry. Pretty sighs escaped her, bathing him in heat and the scent of summer fruit.

Palming one perfectly rounded breast, he appreciated the taut, proud nipple at its crest with a brush of his thumb. In a slow reveal of silken limbs, he pushed her gown upward and positioned her so one foot rested on the floor and the opposite dangled prettily over one arm of the chair. Back to him, she presented a landscape of hills and valleys, dips and curves to explore at his leisure. In keeping with the specifications in her contract, she hadn’t worn any panties.

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.”

Damn Peter Wells straight to hell.

Just thinking his name ground the vertebrae in Georgia’s neck together. If the cab weren’t jouncing over potholes the size of her great-grandmother’s silver tea service, springs shrieking in protest, the cabbie might’ve heard the sound of bone against bone. She twisted her neck and released the tension with an unladylike crack.

Ten minutes. She’d wanted ten minutes alone with the man to ask about the Wells Foundation, the charity Wells Industries funded, and Peter chaired. All night he’d had one woman or another on his arm. Though she’d put herself in his path more than once, he’d completely ignored her. It was as if she’d been transparent, for heaven’s sake. She’d gone to use the loo, and when she’d returned, he’d disappeared. Up and vanished in the midst of the annual benefit speech. Chalking the night up as a total loss, she’d downed two glasses of champagne in quick succession and gone for her coat.

Thirty minutes later, stuck in Saturday night traffic just outside Times Square, she berated herself for going out last night instead of taking the time to research a back-burner story. She’d been so cocksure. Thoroughly convinced Peter’d find her irresistible and talk with her. Maybe even dance with her. By the time he’d bothered acknowledging her existence, his notice had been too little much too late.

The uncharacteristic fantasy she’d harbored all week—she a vision in red velvet, he in his crisp tux, twirling about the dance floor as the symphony played a waltz of Peter’s choosing—reared and was quickly superimposed with one of him in a tango clutch with that blonde. A blonde he’d paid. Not just to accompany him, but to…to…

She closed her eyes and immediately opened them when a vision of the woman’s spread legs—Peter Wells’s fingers playing her like a virtuoso with his chosen instrument—flashed in her memory like a pay-per-view porno. Not that she had any familiarity with what those movies were like—not really—and she certainly hadn’t needed any up-close and personal lessons from Mr. Wells. She’d had enough of those walking in on her own father in flagrante delicto with London’s answer to the Las Vegas showgirl more than once, thank you very much.

Foot tapping, thigh bouncing, she gritted her teeth and willed the ride to be over, the night to be over. She had no decent story for Monday’s column and no time to research something new. It was his fault that she was going to have six inches of dead space to fill with something moronic and meaningless.

Unless…

A tight smile tugged the corners of her mouth, and she sat up straighter. She needed a story, and it seemed it just might be about Peter Wells after all. The beginning of the social gossip piece began to unfurl in her mind. It would be a tad vitriolic. He’d earned it, and that made it difficult for her to feel sorry for him. She’d envisioned him as a gracious, kindhearted, and genuine man—the exact type of his PR firm had cultivated in the media. Her uncharacteristically naive imagination had missed the mark so badly she was firing it.

The evening had proved the chairman of Wells Industries to be entirely egocentric, his charitable works done to cultivate a shallow social persona. And his personal life? Less than shallow. Like every part of his urbane personality, it was purchased in cold, hard cash. For God’s sake, she’d seen the money change hands with the escort at his side.

Lap. She’d originally been in his lap.

As if that image wasn’t burned into her frontal lobe. Forever.

She crossed and uncrossed her legs, trying in vain to assuage an ache that had reared when he’d offered to find her a cab. As if she needed his assistance. Having him so close, she’d had to call in every reserve she possessed to give him the proper set down he deserved.

Close up she’d been able to see how the shade of his five o’clock shadow highlighted the sensual cruelty of his upper lip. It had taken every iota of her restraint not to stare at his mouth as his nearness crashed through her defenses. If she’d responded in any other way, she had a good idea she’d be enjoying a very different end to her evening. A shiver of anticipation traveled down her spine. Huffing in disgust, she flopped back against the seat and lolled her head, so she faced the far window.

Her disappointment in Peter was more than righteous indignation. Loathing scored her heart. Only a fool would have believed he was different, special. He was like every other moneyed lothario, whether they were gauche Americans or Brits who hid behind their lofty titles and feigned superiority. They were liars. One and all. Just like her father.

Flashes of memory—her mother’s suitcase by the front door, the way she’d walked out without looking back; then her father’s string of mistresses and one-night stands parading around the London manse as if they thought they were already the next Countess Montrose—seared her brain as if the images were brand-new. She blew out a breath to abate the unexpected prick of tears in her eyes and nostrils. No matter how many decades went by, she doubted she’d ever forget the amused look on her father’s face each time she’d walked in on his ill-timed sexcapades. Seeing Peter Wells tonight, like that, had brought it all back and proven what she’d always known. She wanted absolutely nothing to do with the jet set. Aristocratic or otherwise.

Thank God she’d ducked the society scene when she’d insisted her father send her to boarding school in the States. It wasn’t as if she’d had to fight all that hard. Though he’d wanted her out of the way, he would’ve preferred a finishing school in Switzerland to the rigorous school she’d selected. Other than a monthly stipend and very occasional visits home, her ties with high society had been severed so completely that only her father’s solicitor knew who and what she really was on either side of the pond. And he knew only because he sent her monthly allowance checks and got her the invitations she needed to do her job.

The cabbie pulled the vehicle to the curb and glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “That’ll be $24.70.”

The building’s night doorman rushed forward to open her door and offered her a hand out. He paid her fare with a credit card the building kept on hand for this purpose. Snow frosted the sidewalk, and flakes fell thickly. The promise of more, maybe a lot more, was on the air.

Shivering, she hurried inside to where the elevator waited. She entered the already opened doors and absentmindedly punched the button. Across the way, the brass doors of the building’s penthouse car reflected her image in waves of rosy distortion. The closing lift cut off her artificially constructed image. Reaching up, she pulled off her platinum wig and dismantled the first piece of her Gigi persona.

Cool air hit her scalp, and she sighed. The pins came out next. By the time the elevator opened at the ninth floor, she’d deposited a fistful of hairpins in the wig’s shell and shaken her hair around her shoulders. She hooked her finger in the back straps of her heels and slid them off in the hall. Visions of the escort’s high heels, their stiletto tips gleaming on her dangling feet, brought a rush of heat to Georgia’s cheeks. She fisted her shoes and wig as every stocking-footed step she took toward her door fueled her sense of justice and the need to deliver a little of the stuff on her own.

Entering her apartment, she stalked across the marble-floored foyer, through the formal living room, and headed to the master bedroom. The flip of a switch sent heavy Roman shades descending uniformly over all six windows, obliterating her snow-frosted view of Central Park. She dialed her managing editor and put him on speaker as she began to wriggle out of a dress she couldn’t be seen in again.

“Huh, Georgie.” Sid’s greeting was warped, likely because his face was mashed into his pillow. “Er early ’night.”

“English, Sid.” Next came the dreaded shape wear. God, this stuff made her feel like a walrus wrestling with a damned fifty-five-gallon drum. She wasn’t sure which she was, and that was the irksome point. Sure, she fell in the “normal” weight range for her height and bone structure, but high society would shave twenty pounds off her frame before she’d be considered a beauty of any measure.

Covers rustled as Sid moved around. A heavy flop said he’d crashed back to the mattress.

“You usually don’t call for another…damn, it’s eleven. You’re early. What happened?” His jaw cracked as he yawned with gusto. “Was it a bust?”

She couldn’t stop the bark of laughter. The only bust to her evening had been an easy 36C, none of it real.

“On the contrary. We have our story.” Tossing the shape wear across the settee at the foot of her bed, she started with the garters. “Look, Sid, I want to bang this thing out and get you to kill that ridiculous piece I did on the senator’s wife. No one cares that she spent two hundred thousand dollars on a tea service. But this? This is gold.”

At Sid’s immediate protest, she interrupted. “It’ll only take me thirty minutes, forty-five tops. I know what it needs to say, composed most of it on my way home. We have a moneymaker, Sid. Give me a chance.”

“Is it worth having me haul Kenny in for a new page layout?” His skepticism stung.

“Want the whole story or the highlights?” She normally loved this game, playing out the evening with him. Sid was the best friend she’d ever had, would ever have, and she cherished him. Tonight, though, there was a desperation in her, a compulsion to get this truth published and feed her need to report news, however trivial this truly was.

More cover rustling before his voice came louder over the speaker. “Gimme the highlights. I’ll have to get the paper to the printer in…damn. It’d have to be there in an hour. We give our dead three days before we bury them, and you’re only giving us an hour to pull off a miracle. You ever heard of sleep, Georgie? It’s up there with food as a necessity. Right now? I feel like a zombie. I haven’t even had enough sleep to throw wood. Oh my God! Do I have a pulse?” Sheets rustled, and the mattress squeaked.

She laughed despite her dour mood. “Fine. Just the highlights then. The Wells Foundation funded a children’s summer camp. The man of the hour gathered his date before the announcement. They disappeared into the private reading room, where she proved she had more unnatural flexibility than a circus performer. He paid her a substantial sum before lecturing her on getting too close to him. His advice? Keep in mind it was all a business arrangement.”

Sid choked so hard she wondered if he’d swallowed his tongue. “Business arrangement? As in a…a…a hooker?”

“I do believe the more expensive women are referred to as escorts, perhaps even mistress, but yes. In spirit? Same thing.” She frowned at the sound of water falling on water. “Are you using the loo?”

“You’re the one putting my ass on deadline for a paper I already put to bed.” Flushing and gurgling prevailed for a moment. “Don’t bitch.”

“Men are vile.” The lot of them. Even Sid. At least tonight. At least until she got this column out of her system.

The more uncomfortable physical traces of her Gigi persona banished, Georgia moved into the little library she used as both a reading space and an office. She popped out her colored contacts and put them in their case as she settled into her desk chair. Later she’d scrub off the clever makeup and ritzy nail polish. The jewelry would go back in the safe before bed. Presently, she had work to do. “I’ve never understood the allure of paying for sex. I suppose it’s a bit like test-driving a Bentley compared to a Nissan, right?”

“I wouldn’t know. I take the subway.” Rustling and static overtook the conversation as Sid grabbed his phone and took it off speaker. His tone changed, morphing from best friend to managing editor in under three seconds. “So you’ll have the piece in on time? This is a huge thing to ask. If I fuck it up… The paper’s already in the financial crapper. You’ve got to get this right. Fast.” Anxiety threaded his voice.

They knew each other so well that she could perfectly imagine the way his brows, shades darker than his lovely blond hair, had winged down in a harsh V. He’d be staring at the clock. “About the piece. What’s the flavor?”

“Well, I’m not sure.” The next words were so caustic she wouldn’t have batted a single eyelash if her tone melted the case on her phone. “I suppose that all depends on whether or not Peter paid his lovely date to swallow before I arrived.”

“Holy. Fuck.” The choked laughter and irreverent awe were tempered by open concern. “He really got to you, didn’t he?”

She snatched up her cell and took it off speaker. “Not even Peter Wells has that much money, Sid.”

“Good luck. Just…”

“What?”

“Get the piece to me pronto.”

She knew those words were surrogates for his original statement. It didn’t matter. Not really. Her mind was shifting, moving toward the task ahead.

Georgia Whitcomb, alter ego to the anonymously infamous Gigi, Lady Montrose, had an article to write, and one very unsuspecting playboy to bring down.