“I’ll—I’ll call you!” I promised as I stumbled towards the door. “I’ll see you at the gym!”
He nodded sadly, pouring himself another glass of wine.
“Sure.”
Melanie shot me a sympathetic look as I barreled through the front doors. A cab was already waiting by the curb.
“Where to?” the man asked politely.
I shot him a withering look.
“Oh...like you don’t already know.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, I had left one over-priced restaurant, only to find myself rushing into another. This one was even more over-the-top than the first.
The walls themselves were coated in gold—a light dusting that reportedly cost tens of thousands of dollars just to procure. The tables sparkled with crystal stemware. The linens were Japanese silk. A replication of the Sistine Chapel had been painted across the ceiling. (Rumor had it the manager kidnapped an art student from Julliard and held him prisoner for five weeks until it was finished.) A pair of Austrian violinists floated from table to table. A Swarovski-encrusted fountain bubbled happily in the back—adorned with Botticelli’s angels.
The first time I’d stepped inside, the place had shocked me. Now...? Well like I said, I’d been here several thousand times.
“Abigail! Thank goodness you’re here!” This time, it was Kate who swept towards me. Even skinnier than Melanie. Even longer legs. “Listen—I followed your instructions to the letter, and you know I’d never call the police. But apparently someone else did, and I don’t know what—”
“Where is he?” I interrupted.
My eyes scanned the room with a practiced sort of efficiency. Like one of those games you found in airport magazines—where you had to find the one thing in the room that didn’t fit in with the rest. This time, it was almost too easy.
“...you’ve got to be kidding.”
Of course. In a room full of international dignitaries, European royalty, Wall Street’s finest, and Manhattan’s elite...my client was the one standing in the fountain.
No wonder he called the fifth phone.
I approached cautiously, weaving my way through an ever-growing crowd. Sure enough, the police were there. As was the press. As were about fifty or sixty other people—all of whom had enough influence to buy and sell New York several times over.
All of whom were hovering just outside the splash zone.
Keep my work life and personal life separate? Who the hell was I kidding?
I rolled up my sleeves with a sigh.
I should have known my date would end like this...
Chapter 3
In the land of public relations, they called it the twenty second rule. It meant that from the moment you set foot on hostile territory, you had twenty seconds to make a game plan. Twenty short seconds to assess the situation, create your spin, plot your escape, and make your move.
Normally, twenty seconds was more than enough time. I had once snuck a wealthy client down a fourteen-story fire escape, dressed in nothing but a poncho, in less than ten.
But this wasn’t your average client. The Reverie wasn’t your average establishment. And right now...? Right now, I’d give anything for a fire escape.
Alright, Abby—you’re on. Twenty seconds starts...now!
I slipped through the crowd like an otter cutting through foamy surf, my layers of chiffon clouding up behind me. The timer was on, and I didn’t have the luxury of being either polite or delicate. Fortunately, my thirty-inch heels provided a great incentive to get out of my way. The last set of stockbrokers parted in front of me, and all at once, I skidded to a stop.
There you are.
International sex idol. Whimsical philanthropist. Playboy extraordinaire. Heir to the largest fortune in the Western Hemisphere. And the bane of my existence.