Page 57 of The Price of Scandal

“I was jealous,” I admitted finally.

“Let’s let the topic drop before one of us humiliateshimselfany further,” she suggested primly.

“Let’s not. What’s life without a little humiliation, a little pain? A little honesty?”

“A little honesty? Okay fine. You are under the idiotic assumption that I’m some ladylike wallflower who needs a boost of confidence,” she scoffed.

“I certainly didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your ‘let me save the day’ cape.”

I gestured at the towel. “Do you want this to be pants or a cape? Because I’m willing to do whatever makes you happy.”

“Then leave me alone on the only night that I get to be myself by myself.” She enunciated every word like it was a threat.

“No.”

She stood, and I thought for a moment that she would try to strangle me. But once again, her magnificent restraint kicked in.

“You’re a piece of work, Price.”

“You want to shock me? Then show me. Show me therealEmily,” I demanded, rising to my feet.

She spread her arms wide, vodka skimming the rim of her glass but not daring to spill.

“This is it. I’m wearing boxer shorts that I stole from an ex-boyfriend who thought he wanted to marry me until he found out that I cared about him less than starting my own business. I squeezed in a kickboxing class between here and the office because spending all day every day toning it down for the world is frustrating. I block out every Wednesday night to be alone. And you are ruining it. I’ve done every appearance you’ve scheduled. Dressed the way you asked. Smiled the way you instructed. I deserve my Wednesday.”

“Toning it down?” I repeated, purposely ignoring the rest.

“I’m not some shrinking violet or other delicate flower. I’m a badass, Price. I’m aggressive, very, very smart, and powerful. I’m intimidating. And if I don’t ‘tone it down,’ people start to whisper things like ‘bitch’ and ‘gird your loins’ when I walk past. I have things that I need to accomplish. And I can’t do them all if everyone is terrified of me or too busy cracking jokes about how I’m aDevil Wears Pradaboss.”

She was finally coming into focus for me. And oh, did I like what I saw.

“If you’re such a badass, why are you letting people like me and Lita and your mother tell you where to be and what to do?”

Unexpectedly, she flopped back in the chair. “That’s the billion-dollar question. Isn’t it? What’s your theory, smart guy?”

“Oh, you won’t like my theory,” I chuckled.

“There are a lot of things about you I don’t like. What’s one more?” she said airily.

Oh, yes. If the prim and proper Emily Stanton was tantalizing, this unedited, confident version was irresistible to me. I was going to make a very big mistake, and it was likely going to be quite costly.

I’d enjoy every second of it.

“I’ve spent three weeks watching you. You’re a chameleon. Competent in front of the directors. Terrifying for your assistants. Temperamental teenager to your father. The passive-aggressive good daughter to your mother. The unreachable CEO to your colleagues. The question is, which one is the real you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Price.”

“Oh, but you do,” I said, stepping into her space. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

I could see her temper flaring just below that flawless surface.

“Your job is to make this situation go away not get inside my head,” she reminded me.

“Let’s discuss the psychology of vulnerability, shall we?” I said. We were as close as we could be without touching.

“You’ve seen my calendar. I don’t have time for a psychology class.”