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“And when I think of Nick Harwood, not a lot of good things come to mind.” I sit back, mirroring his posture and enjoying the bitter expression rolling across his face. “I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this.”

He takes a long drink from his glass. “Everyone’s the same.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Everyone believes the tabloids, even if they lie more than they brush their teeth.” He thinks for a moment, then gives me an appraising frown. “What if I told you that it’s not true, what they say about me?”

My stomach flips.

Bingo.

“No?” I say, looking him directly in the eye.

“No. I can be an ass, Sienna, but I’ve never trashed a hotel room. I’ve never street raced. Someone very close to me spread a rumor three years ago, and since then, my reputation has been—” He mimes a bomb dropping, complete with a mini explosion on the bar. “—less than respectable.”

My eyebrow cocks.

He takes a deep breath. “Okay, worse than that.”

I study him, fingers drumming on my bicep. I’ve done a lot of research into Nick Harwood over the last week. I’ve tracked his journey through magazines and gossip blogs. I’ve talked to the owners of his favorite clubs, his entourage, his waiters and bartenders.

And … he’s right.

Most of it isn’t real.

Nick Harwood is a playboy, no doubt about that, but the articles describing his feral party lifestyle are pure fiction. If you look closely, it’s easy to see the stories don’t add up—there are no crashed parties, no brokenhearted bikini models—but no one’s bothered to look closely. No one knows who he really is. The public doesn’t know, his father’s old PR managers didn’t know, and Victor Harwood sure as hell doesn’t know.

But I do.

“I’d believe you, Mr. Harwood.”

He blinks at me. “You would?”

“Absolutely. But—and I hope I’m being very clear, now—it doesn’t matter. If the tabloids think you’re a bad guy, and they figure out they can make money on you being a bad guy, they’re going to say you did a lifetime of stupid things. Even if you never did.”

Nick stares at me. “You actually know they’re lying about me?”

“I do.”

“And you think there’s a way to get them to stop?”

“I’m sure of it.”

The smugness on his face falters, betraying surprise and something else I can’t quite pinpoint. It’s the expression of someone who’s never been believed before, being believed for the first time.

Then it’s gone. He uncrosses his arms and waves the bartender over, ordering another whiskey on the rocks. Turning to me, he asks, “Want anything?”

Fireworks are going off in my chest. “No, I’m good.”

“Okay.” With a new drink in his hand, he looks closer at the papers I’ve fanned out in front of us. “What’s your play, PR girl?”

Chapter 3

Sienna

A spiritual evaluation stunt goes as follows:

Nick Harwood quits going to parties. Just for a month or two; long enough for people to miss him.