That Night with the CEO. Karen BoothЧитать онлайн книгу.
think of it as fighting fire with fire.” She knew that Adam would be a difficult case. He hated the press, which made the persistent nature of what was now known as the Party Princess scandal much worse.
“Frankly, the whole thing seems like a colossal waste of money, and I can only assume that my father is paying you a lot of it.”
But you wouldn’t want to insult my profession. She pursed her lips. “Your father is paying me well. That should tell you how important this is to him.” As annoyed as she was by Adam’s diatribe, the retainer from his father was greater than she’d make from her other clients combined this month. Costello Public Relations was growing, but as Adam had alluded to, it was a business built on appearances. That meant a posh office space and an impeccable wardrobe, which did not come cheap.
A bark came from the far side of the kitchen, the door beyond the Sub-Zero fridge.
Adam glanced over his shoulder. “Are you okay with dogs? I put him in the mudroom, but he’d really rather be where the action is.”
“Oh, sure.” She nodded, placing her things on a side table. “What’s your dog’s name?” She already knew the answer, and that Adam’s dog was a sweet two-hundred-pound hulk—a Mastiff and Great Dane mix.
“His name is Jack. I’ll warn you. He’s intimidating, but he’ll be fine once he gets used to you. The first meeting is always the roughest.”
Jack yelped again. Adam opened the door. The dog barreled past him, skidding on the hardwood floors, taking the turn for the great room. Jack thundered toward Melanie.
“Jack! No!” Adam may have yelled at the dog, but he made no other attempt to stop him.
Jack sat back on his haunches and slid into her. Immediately, Melanie had a cold dog nose rooting around in the palm of her hand. Jack whacked his sizable tail against her thigh.
She hadn’t bargained on Adam’s dog ratting her out by revealing that they shared a past, too. “He’s friendly.”
Adam narrowed his stare. “That’s so strange. He’s never done that with anyone he’s never met. Ever.”
Melanie shrugged, averting her eyes and scratching behind Jack’s ears. “Maybe he senses that I’m a dog person.” Or maybe Jack and I hung out in your kitchen before I left your apartment in the middle of the night.
The only sound Melanie could hear were Jack’s heavy breaths as Adam stepped closer, clearly appraising her. It made her so nervous, she had to say something. “We should get started. It’ll probably take me a while to get back to my hotel.”
“I’m still not sure how you got up the mountain, but you aren’t getting back down it anytime soon.” He nodded toward the great room windows. It was raining sideways. “There have been reports of flash floods in the foothills.”
“I’m a good driver. It’ll be fine.” She really was nothing more than a skittish driver. Living in New York meant taxis and town cars. She kept her license valid only for business trips.
“No car can handle a flood. I have room for you to stay. I insist.”
Staying was the problem. Every moment she and Adam spent together was another chance for him to remember her, and then she’d have a lot of explaining to do. This might not be a great idea, but she didn’t have much choice. She wouldn’t get any work done if she was lost at sea. “That would give me one less thing to worry about. Thank you.”
“I’ll show you to one of the guest rooms.”
“I’d prefer we just get to work. Then I can turn in early and we can get a fresh start in the morning.” She took a pair of binders from her bag. “Do you have an office where we can work?”
“I was thinking the kitchen. I’ll open a bottle of wine. We might as well enjoy ourselves.” He strode around the kitchen island and removed wineglasses from the cabinet below.
Melanie lugged her materials to the marble center island, taking a seat on one of the tall upholstered bar stools. “I shouldn’t, but thank you.” She flipped open the binders and slid one in front of the seat next to hers.
“You’re missing out. Chianti from a small winery in Tuscany. You can’t get this wine anywhere except maybe in the winemaker’s living room.” He cranked on the bottle opener.
Melanie closed her eyes and prayed for strength. Drinking wine with Adam had once led down a road she couldn’t revisit. “I’ll have a taste.” She stopped him at half a glass. “Thank you. That’s perfect.” The first sip took the edge off, spreading warmth throughout her body—an ill-advised reaction, given her drinking buddy.
Jack wandered by and stopped next to her, plopping his enormous head down on her lap.
No. No. You don’t like me. Melanie squirmed, hoping to discourage Jack. No such luck.
Adam set down his glass, his eyebrows drawing together. “I swear, Miss Costello. Something about you is so familiar.”
“People say that I have a familiar face.” Melanie’s voice held a nervous squeak. She turned and practically buried her face in her project binder.
Adam considered himself an expert at deciphering the underlying message in a woman’s words, but he was especially fluent in coy deflection. I can’t believe she’s going to try to hide this. “Have you done any work for me?”
She shrugged and scanned her blessed notebook. “I would’ve remembered that.”
Time to turn up the heat. “Have we dated?”
She hesitated. “No. We haven’t dated.”
To be fair, she might have him on a technicality there. They hadn’t really been on a date. He scoured his brain for another leading question. “Do I detect an accent?” A slight twang had colored the word dated.
She screwed up her lips and sat straighter, still refusing to make eye contact, which was a real shame. Her crystalline blue eyes were lovely—plus, he’d be able to tell if she was being deceitful. “I grew up in Virginia.”
“I met a woman from Virginia at a party once. She was a real firecracker. Maybe a little bit crazy. If only I could remember what her name was.” He rubbed his chin, took another sip of wine, rounding to the other side of the kitchen island and taking the seat next to hers. Jack hadn’t moved, standing sentry at her hip. That’s right, buddy. You know her.
“I’m sure it’s difficult to keep track of all of the people you meet.” She pointed to a page titled “Schedule” in his notebook. “So, the interviews...”
He scanned the page, getting lost in a confusion of publication names and details. “No wonder my assistant was panicked this afternoon.” He flipped through the pages. “I generally work eighteen-hour days. When exactly am I supposed to find time for this?”
“Your assistant said she’ll rearrange your schedule. Most interviews and photo shoots will take place at your home or office. I’ll do everything I can to make sure your needs are met.”
Right now, his greatest need was to seek comfort in a second bourbon as soon as he’d dispatched the Chianti. Continuing this charade held zero appeal, and her refusal to own up to their past was frustrating as hell. He needed the question that had been hanging over his head for the past year to be answered. How could a woman share an extraordinary night of passion with him and then disappear? Even more important, why would she do that?
“For the moment, the biggest interview is with Metropolitan Style magazine,” she continued. “They’re doing a feature on you and your home, so that will entail a photo shoot. I’m bringing in a professional home stager to