Page 8 of The Price of Scandal

“You’re a good friend,” I told her.

“Yup.”

* * *

Merritt Van Winstondid not drive a normal vehicle.

I didn’t know my luxury sports cars, but I was pretty sure this bumble bee yellow lump of aerodynamic metal and plastic was a Ferrari.

A stupidly expensive car for a man who didn’t actually work for a living. Wonderful.

The Emily-Lita scales were definitely tipping in my favor.

The two blocks to the restaurant were the most interminable of my life. And that’s saying something in Miami. The man dressed like a European playboy and spoke like a valley girl. His bootcut jeans were so tight I wondered if the blood supply to his legs was cut off. And then there was the glossy purple shirt worn so open we could be cleavage twins.

“You’re like super-hot,” he said, grinding the gears and flashing me a smile so white I had to avert my eyes.

A Bentley, tires squealing, pulled out in front of us from an alley.

Merritt slammed on the brakes and stalled the car.

“What are you doing in town?” I asked, craning my neck to peer out the window. The car sat so low I felt like I was laying on the street.

“I have a little business with my bros,” he said cagily. He turned the engine back on, and we lurched forward.

Porn probably,I guessed.No, wait. Maybe a yacht party with underage starlets? Bath salt abuse contest?

I was being uncharitable. And entertaining. It kept my digested food on the inside of my body.

“How do you know my brother?” I asked.

“Trey? Oh, man. Me and him go way back. Prep school. Tahoe. Greece.”

For one out-of-body moment, I wondered what it would be like if my own story hadn’t been limited to classroom, lab, and boardroom. I didn’t have any friends from Tahoe. Or stories from Greece.

Then again, I also didn’t have to pull up to a restaurant in a car that cost more than most people’s lifetime income to get my kicks.

“Here we are,” Merritt sang as he revved the engine up to the valet stand. The photographers stationed outside salivated on cue, and camera flashes blinded me.

“I’ll come around, pretty lady,” he said, wrestling the door up. He tossed the keys to the valet and shot his arms in the air in a V. Passersby stopped to stare.

Maybe I could just stay in the car?This kind of attention couldn’t really be valuable for either one of us. What did it matter who I went to dinner with? Or didn’t go to dinner with.

I thought longingly of my pajamas and leftovers in my fridge.

But my door was lifting like an eagle wing, and there was no longer a barrier between me and the hungry photographers. Someone—Merritt or a valet—reached in and offered me their hand. Thank God I’d worn sensible underwear today. Climbing out of this damn car was like requesting a public gynecological exam.

It was Merritt’s hand, I realized when I gained my feet on the sidewalk.

He tossed his sugary hair out of his eyes and offered me his arm. “Smile big.”

At least that’s what I thought he said. I couldn’t tell for sure over the sound of the sirens. The flashes weren’t just from cameras now. Red and blue lights were painting the outside of the restaurant, bouncing off the glass facade.

“Someone’s in trouble,” Merritt yelled over the noise.

“Is this your car, sir?” a uniformed police officer, hand on her weapon, demanded.

I needed that voice for board meetings.