“It’s funny that you should ask.” He threw open another set of curtains, ignoring the way his wildly hungover son flinched as the light assaulted his eyes. “I was walking into work this morning and there was a man handing out copies of the New York Times. Imagine what I should see on the cover, but my very own son.”
Nick had told me once that his father was like a winter storm. It wouldn’t kill you, as long as you were prepared. At the moment, we couldn’t have been less prepared.
The paper flew down on the bed between them.
“What is this?”
PLAYBOY NICK HUNTER’S BATTLE FOR OCEANIC JUSTICE
The headline was splashed across the front page. Complete with a photo of Nick standing in the middle of the fountain, warding away police with what looked like a pair of salad tongs.
As far as headlines went, it could have been much worse. The picture on the other hand...
“Mr. Hunter,” I dropped my eyes to the floor, “I can explain—”
“The extent of your usefulness, Ms. Wilder, is in your ability to guarantee that this sort of thing does not happen. Since that is a task at which you have already failed spectacularly, you would do well to keep your mouth shut.”
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Nick’s eyes flashed, and he started to get to his feet before remembering he was mostly naked. “You’re really going to blame Abby every time I go and jump into a fountain?”
Mitchell was chillingly calm.
“I want you to think about that sentence, remember that you’re twenty-four years old, and take a long hard look at your life.”
(Now and again, the man did have a bit of a point.)
“But no,” he continued, “I’m not blaming Abby.” He released his son for the briefest of moments, and turned that armor-piercing focus onto me. “Ms. Wilder, despite what you may have come to think of me, I’m not an unreasonable man. I understand that, as a mere mortal battling the astronomical ineptitude of my son, there is only so much you are able to do.”
His eyes narrowed, and I stopped breathing.
“But I do require an explanation.”
For the second time, Nick leapt to my defense.
“Give her a break,” he muttered. “We had this whole shellfish defense going on—”
Mitchell’s voice cracked through the air like a whip.
“Nicholas, be quiet.”
For once, his son obeyed.
Normally, I’d gloat. Over-analyze the exact tone to see if there was any way I could harness its silencing powers for my own use. But there was something rather terrible about the way his father spoke to him. As if he were a portfolio, rather than a person. An investment, rather than a son. I’d noticed it the first time I’d ever met Nick, two years ago in this very room.
Nick had been quite unaware of the fact he was getting a publicist. Like most major decisions in his life, it had been made without either his knowledge or his consent. When he’d stumbled into his bedroom, a Brazilian swimsuit model draped on either arm, he had been as surprised to see me as I was to see him.
For a moment the two of us just stood there. Frozen in shock. Then he turned to Mitchell.
“Thanks, dad.” Even then, I noticed the way his sparkling eyes dimmed a bit when they came to rest on his father. “We can always make room for a fourth.”
I’d sucked in a quick breath. Sure the tycoon was about to pull out some sort of death-ray and electrocute the kid right then and there. But Mitchell never missed a beat.
“This is Abigail Wilder. She’s to be your new publicist.”
Nick froze again, as the models made themselves scarce in the living room.
“My new publicist,” he repeated slowly. “Did I have an old publicist?”