Page 42 of The Price of Scandal

Derek

“Sophia Wang shoe style sells out after post-jail Emily Stanton steps out in them”

“Flawless board scrambles to save IPO”

“So you broke into her house and pulled the old Say Hello to My Little Friend?”

A meaty fist swung at me. I dodged and landed a blow on the behemoth’s jaw.

Jude Ellis was the size of a small country. The running joke was that his massive biceps should be registered as weapons. We’d been sparring together since before hangovers lasted three days and closing down clubs and strutting into work with lipstick and glitter on our collars got old.

“Had to get her attention,” I grunted, absorbing the blow to my gut.

This was a friendly match in our favorite dingy gym in Miami. The warehouse hadn’t been so much converted as two boxing rings had been erected in the middle of cracked concrete floors. Racks of weights and heavy bags took up the rest of the space. The brick walls were papered with yellowed newspaper articles about old fights.

It was dirty. Gritty. It smelled like sweat and testosterone. And it reminded me fondly of my youth. Always looking for a fight, a challenge.

“You got balls, brother. She could have had her security shoot you,” Jude said, ignoring my feint to the left.

That was the problem with knowing someone so damn well. Poker and boxing became more like a choreographed dance than a competition.

“I get the feeling that Ms. Stanton would prefer to shoot me herself,” I said.

“A little fire under all that ice?” He was a man of few words. Ex-military. A vault about his history. But our friendship didn’t require encyclopedic knowledge of each other’s pasts. We both enjoyed a good challenge and ice-cold beers after a fair fight.

We exchanged rapid-fire blows to the torsos.

“I believe there might be—” I ducked when he took a swing at my head and threw an uppercut. “A dragon under that very proper exterior.” That kiss we’d shared had been anything but cold and civil.

Sweat sheened my torso and dampened my hair. My muscles were warm. I loved shedding the civility of a suit and stepping into the barbaric energy of the ring.

In the next ring, the local female featherweight champion was training with her coach. The sound of blows reverberated off the concrete.

Not wanting to be left out, we put on our own show of fast feet and lightning strikes.

“Price!” The voice was sharp and authoritative. And decidedly feminine.

“Uh-oh. Your dragon’s here,” Jude said, in the clinch.

Action around the gym came to a halt.

Already amped from sparring, I felt the quickening of my pulse. There was something very appealing about Emily Stanton, and it went far beyond her billions. We broke apart, and I strolled to the ropes, breathing heavily.

She stood out. Surrounded by men and women in the throes of beating out their aggressions into canvas and flesh, Emily stood coolly in heels, tight cropped pants, and a short-sleeved sweater in graphite that managed to be both demure and sexy. Everything about her was decidedly feminine, even the power, the temper, that radiated from her.

Her arms were crossed, and that razor-edged line of her jaw was tight. And I remembered in vivid detail just how those lips tasted.

“Emily, what a lovely surprise.” I was curious how she’d found me.

“Bullshit,” she said succinctly. “You booked me for Malcolm Ellison’s beach party.”

Malcolm Ellison was an entrepreneur of questionable reputation. But his soirees were wildly famous. Attendees were in the news for days after a party and usually included the A-list of Miami’s residents. It would be considerable controllable press for our tarnished billionaire.

“I did,” I said, picking up my water bottle.

“You’re in trouble,” Jude whisper-sang behind me.

I reached behind my head and flipped him off.