Page 78 of The Price of Scandal

“It’s because they’re trying to decide if we’re sleeping together,” I told her.

“We just got here. Word hasn’t had time to spread.”

I pulled out my phone and called up a gossip blog at random.

Billionaire Emily Stanton mixes business and pleasure with date Derek Price.

“Never underestimate how quickly salaciousness travels,” I advised, showing her the screen.

“You better be right about this, Price. Otherwise, my father might try to beat you to death with a centerpiece tonight.”

25

Emily

The gala was a typical fundraising event. The same attendees—the wealthy and the notable. The same divine wardrobe choices. The same conversations about politics and gossip and celebrity trainers and bottom lines. The same pricey yet still disappointing food. And, of course, the murmurs of “such a good cause” as Miami’s wealthiest residents competed for the title of most generous.

Derek was pulled away by a former client, a beautiful young woman who had once been accused of breaking up the marriage of a beloved celebrity couple. He shook her fiancé’s hand heartily and listened to the happy couple’s Parisian wedding plans.

Blissfully unencumbered for a moment, I returned to the bar and took another flute of champagne. It was for show, not sipping. With age and responsibility came the wherewithal to not get spectacularly drunk in public.

I ducked into a corner behind a heavy velvet curtain to check my phone. My mother would have a conniption if she saw me with it in hand. It wasn’t that she required my undivided attention. It was more that she abhorred the physical reminder of my attachment to work. How could I meet an eligible bachelor if I was too busy responding to my chief financial officer? What man would want me if I couldn’t be bothered to put down my SEC filings and smile prettily while he told amusing anecdotes to an appreciative crowd?

I had the usual dozen texts. And one that actually excited me.

Esther: Got some results you might be interested in. Swing by the lab Sunday?

Me: How interesting will I find them? Sunday’s good.

She responded immediately, and I could picture her in the lab, her Converse-clad feet propped up on a work table while data scrolled by on her computer monitors. She was probably eating cold Chinese takeout. And I’d have given anything to be there with her.

Esther: I’m rerunning a few things to verify, but I think I’m going to owe you $5.

I hugged my phone to my chest. Feeling that old, familiar excitement that used to sweep over me every time I crossed the threshold to my college lab. It was ironic that being successful in science could take me so far away from the lab. But I had skills that went beyond peering into microscopes and analyzing reams of data.

I gave in to the excitement and danced a little boogie.

“Oops. I try to hide from the party and walk in on another one,” said a woman poured into a gown the color of the midnight sky hugging her voluptuous curves.

Embarrassed that I’d been caught, I offered her a polite smile. “Welcome to the VIP section. I’m Emily Stanton.”

“Franchesca Baranski,” she answered, shaking my hand enthusiastically. She pointed over her shoulder with a thumb toward a man whose beauty rivaled Derek’s. “That tall drink of water over there is my husband, Aiden Kilbourn. He’s probably negotiating the price of a small country.”

“He’s very handsome,” I said.

Franchesca lifted a shoulder, her thick dark curls spilling over it. “Yeah, he’s okay,” she said fondly. “Who belongs to you?”

I liked that she didn’t ask who I belonged to. I spied Derek across the room schmoozing with a diplomat and her artist husband. “That gentleman over there who is quite possibly picking pockets.”

She nodded approvingly. “Nice. He’s so pretty it kinda hurts my eyes.”

“He has that effect,” I agreed. “Are you hiding from anyone in particular?”

“Eh, these things aren’t my jam. I’m more of a pajama pants and bunny slippers Friday night kind of gal. But apparently just writing checks for causes is frowned upon. You have to beseenwriting the check. Price of privilege and all that. So, here I am sneaking some PB and J because I know these bozos aren’t serving up a twenty-grand-worthy veal parm. You want?”

She pulled half a sandwich out of her clutch. I liked her immensely.

I shook my head. “No, thank you. I’m holding out for a milkshake afterward.”