Public Relations by Tibby Armstrong Page B

accusatory 9:33. Scrubbing his face with one hand, he sat up fully, the covers falling to his naked waist.
    Pointing with his chin, he cleared his throat. “Got any more of that?”
    Leaning over the side of the bed, she reached for something on the floor. When she came upright again, she held a small paper bag with steam rising from the top. He reached for it.
    She handed him the bag. Their fingers brushed, and they both froze. He flirted with the impulse to stroke along the fleshy part of her thumb with his forefinger. No. Though his body had other ideas, his mind vetoed the action.
    Withdrawing his hand and the bag, he noticed the pile of folders resting next to her thigh on the bed. He bunched the covers over his morning erection and withdrew the coffee and muffin from the bag. “Do you have the—”
    One folder landed high on his thigh, its edge smacking his arousal and cutting him off. He clenched his jaw and pressed his palm against his crotch in a soothing gesture. Visions of Georgia, her dress pushed past her hips, breasts jiggling as he pumped into her over and over nearly made him curl his fingers around his length. Slowly, painstakingly, he withdrew his hand and opened the folder as he set his coffee on the bedside table. It was her report. All sixty pages of it. His brows rose to his hairline. She had written all this? Researched all this?
    “Wait in the kitchen,” he said, needing to get up and get dressed.
    Georgia stood, the mattress shifting as she released its springs. “Here.”
    He looked up. She held out a gilt-edged envelope. Elegant script spelled his name on the front. Taking the letter from her outstretched hand, he turned it over. A large, gilt G was stamped in a circle of gold on the back.
    “Is this from Gigi?” Peter indicated the envelope and slipped his forefinger under the sealed flap.
    Georgia waved at him dismissively on her way out of the room. He watched her go before returning his attention to what he assumed was a letter of apology from Gigi for standing him up. Underneath the flap, he encountered a stack of thick paper. Frowning, he withdrew the…wad of cash? All hundreds. Fifteen of them in all. His field of view widened, then narrowed.
    Fisting the money, Peter stood and drew the blanket around his hips. When the covers wouldn’t come with him easily, he cursed and kept walking anyway. Over the bedroom threshold, down the long hall, and into the kitchen.
    Standing by the table, in the process of setting up her laptop, Georgia didn’t look up until he stood directly in front of her. He shoved the wad of cash under her nose. “Is this your idea of a joke?”
    She stepped back. He followed until he had her pressed against the island’s edge. Wetting cracked lips with the pink point of her tongue, she glanced from the money to his eyes and back before slowly lifting her chin.
    “It’s my month’s salary, minus taxes. Just so we’re clear you didn’t pay me for last night.”
    Fury burned away the edges of his vision. Yanking her close, he used his free hand to pull up her sweater. She squeaked, her palms coming up to ward him off. Too quick for her, he found the peachy lace of her bra and stuffed all fifteen bills into the front. He walked away, giving her a view of his naked ass.
    In the shower, he jerked the spray to high and the steam on full. How dare she… How dare… Soap flew from his fingers, and he bent down to swipe it from the floor. He lathered his armpits and soaped his balls, lifting his sac and releasing it with painful jerks.
    As soon as he could see Georgia without committing an act of violence, he’d fire her. Then he’d go downstairs to give that harpy, Gigi, a piece of his mind. Undoubtedly that’s where Georgia had gotten the money—and the idea smacked of socialite vengeance. Nobody played him like that. Nobody. He reached for the shampoo as his bathroom door bounced off the wall with a resounding thwack.
    A livid Georgia, the fire in her eyes