I’m not marrying Monica for sentimental reasons, I’m marrying her to make her pay for her crimes. And it’s going to take a lot more than her begging to come to make up for it.
My phone buzzes, and it’s my publicist, Rose. I knew that it wasn’t exactly going to be quiet with me and Monica, but I didn’t think that it would be this fast. “Hey, Rose,” I say as I answer the call.
“Do you want a heads up on the questions?”
Rose never beats around the bush and she rarely does pleasantries. But in this case I honestly have no idea what she’s talking about. “Questions for what?”
She sighs. “First round of publicity for the launches, Daniel. Smaller papers from around the Southwest. They’re the lead up to the big guns. They’re going to show up to your suite in five minutes, this has been on your calendar for a month, we’ve confirmed three times. I’m in no mood for you to play dumb. Do you want the questions?”
I scrub my hand over my face. “It’s been a hell of a last twenty-four hours, Rose. Forgive me for not remembering a drive-by publicity session.”
“Just please tell me that you’re dressed and I’m not going to see pictures of you in the tabs opening your suite door in a robe and nothing else.”
I laugh, “I’m decent. Thank you for the heads up. I don’t need the questions.”
I hang up, because this is fucking perfect. An illustration for my new bride that I mean business, and that she’s going to pay.
My phone buzzes again, and it’s Jack calling from downstairs. “Boss you’ve got some reporters here?”
“Send them up, Jack. And when the lawyer shows up, tell him to wait, please. Something unexpected.”
“Sure thing.”
I hear the elevator ding and a knock at the suit door a few minutes later. I glance around the suite, and everything seems fine. No stray underwear or something that’s going get me into actual trouble. I open the door with a smile and face down the three reporters in my face. “Hi.”
A bubbly blonde with a recorder beams at me. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Argent. Can we come in?”
I gesture with open arms and the best fake smile that I can muster. “Absolutely.”
As they enter space, she introduces herself. “I’m Lucy Sanford from the Las Vegas Star.”
“Mike Bangor, San Diego Chronicle,” the handsome man behind her says. I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
And finally, “Shelley Pollon, Portland Tribune.”
“Welcome to my humble abode.”
They settle on the couches in the living room, making themselves at home quickly and easily, as most reporters do. “Can I offer you all some refreshments?”
“Water would be lovely,” Lucy says.
“Certainly. Monica,” I call loudly. “Can I see you for a moment?”
A few seconds later Monica emerges from my suite in one on my t-shirts on. It’s so big that it’s falling off her shoulder, and she has nothing underneath it. It’s sexy as fuck, and I probably could push the neck all the off her thin shoulders and watch it drop to the floor. She hasn’t found the sweats yet. So the t-shirt ends at her thighs.
She sees me looking, and blushes pink. “The sweats wouldn’t fit,” she says. “They keep falling down.”
Right now, she’s not in the line of sight of the reporters, but she will be. “That’s fine,” I say. “Will you grab three glasses of water from the kitchen for our guests?”
“Guests? I thought it was just the lawyer.” I just smile and raise my eyebrows, and she sighs. “Fine.”
I walk back into the living room and settle across from the reporters. “Hit me,” I say. “I’m an open book, but unfortunately I don’t have a lot of time to give you today.”
They nod in unison like their heads are on strings. “Completely understand,” Mike says. “I’ll start. I’d like to ask about the launch of your newest properties and how you expect them to influence the local—” his eyes slip past me and he freezes mid-sentence. The women’s eyes follow his, and I turn to find Monica with a tray of water in nothing but my t-shirt staring down the barrel of three reporters.
“Thanks honey,” I say. “I’m sure our guests are thirsty.” Monica’s face is bright red, and I can see the water in the glasses shaking from here. She glances at me, and I nod towards them. It takes her a second, but she steps forward and hands a glass to each reporter.
Even reporters from smaller papers are still reporters, and they’re not stupid. Shelley from Portland is the one that speaks first. “Are you…Monica Blast?”
“Yes,” Monica says quietly, looking at the floor.
I catch her around the waist and pull her down beside me on the couch, ignoring entirely the fact that the t-shirt is high enough to show off her thighs and probably her ass. “Miss Blast’s presence here and anything she says are strictly off the record. You can ask your questions.” I curl Monica in beside me and put my hand possessively on her hip, teasing the hem of the shirt. She’s stiff as a board beside me.