Lisa
"Flawless IPO faces SEC scrutiny after CEO's near-arrest"
"Jennie Kim not fooling anyone with goodwill tour"
"Five things you need to know about Lisa Manoban starting with what she looks like in a Speedo"
"Why the hell not?" I demanded into my phone.
"Ms. Kim declined your invitation to attend the gallery opening," Yuna said politely.
"Does she have something better to do than clean up her reputation?" This was the third Wednesday the woman had refused to participate in anything, and it was starting to grate on my nerves. That and the fact that she'd remained coolly professional toward me.
"I'm afraid you'll have to ask her yourself, Ms. Manoban."
"Put me through to her," I insisted. "Please."
"She's gone for the night," Yuna said, and I thought I heard a hint of amusement in her tone. "I believe she has a standing date on Wednesdays."
I swore colorfully, then apologized with a modicum of sincerity. A date?
"Have a good night, Ms. Manoban," Yuna sang before hanging up cheerfully.
Despite the fact that it was only Wednesday, it had already been a long week.
Even I was tired. But the days immediately after a scandal were the most important. We were making headway. It was just slow going. And calling it a day at 7 p.m. on a weeknight when there were places to be seen wasn't helping Jennie.
I dialed my office. "Seulgi," I said when my head research nerd picked up.
"What's up, L?" she asked, her mouth full.
Conveniently enough, my head researcher and my media liaison had crushes on each other and "worked late" flirting over Thai takeout several nights a week. I could give a flying fuck if my employees dated. As long as no one let a breakup damage the teamwork, they could do what they liked.
I was a firm believer that relationships and their ensuing breakups didn't need to be messy. People complicated relationships with ridiculous expectations. If you were honest about who you were and what you wanted, no one could sanely accuse you of misrepresenting yourself, could they?
"How are we trending?"
"Mmm, lemme check." She chewed. "I was just plotting a few data points that Lance gave me."
Seulgi was an Ivy League dropout who, under my tutelage, had developed a program for digesting and weighting media reports, then spitting out complex probabilities of public opinion.
She made presidential approval ratings look like an elementary school vote by raised hand.
"We're looking at a solid twenty-six percent positive," she said. "Up four points from last week."
Four points. Good. But not good enough. A smiling appearance at a gallery could have nudged her up another point. Ms. Kim and I were going to have a discussion about priorities. A loud one. In front of her date.
Half an hour later, I pulled up to the security gate at Bluewater.
"Would you like me to announce you to Ms. Kim, man?" the guard at the gate asked.
"She's expecting me," I lied. "I'm on the list."
"Have a nice visit," he said, buzzing me through.
Indeed.
She was home, I noted, pulling into the circular driveway. Lights were on, and I could distantly hear music. Was she entertaining? Was I about to walk in on her and some mystery man?
The thought irked me more than it should have. This was the type of thing I needed to know about my clients. A secret boyfriend? That was definitely something I should know.
And I was going to explain that very clearly to her.
Avoiding the security cameras on the front of the house, I skirted the building. It was a series of white stucco boxes, connected by arched walkways. I crossed between the garage and the master bedroom and came up on the beach side. If the front of the property was luxurious, the back of it was positively decadent. Jennie had two hundred feet of pristine, private beach. Chaise lounges under palapas dotted the white sand. Her white coral stone terrace included a kidney-shaped pool with a sunning shelf and hot tub, a professional grade barbecue, and enough seating for the better part of a senior class on spring break.
None of it looked like it was used.
I crossed the terrace, sticking close to the house. The glass accordion doors off the kitchen were open, and music poured out.
So Jennie was having a little party.
Wasn't that nice, I thought grimly.
I stepped inside, ready to shock her, annoy her. Ready to impress upon her boyfriend the importance of doing exactly what I tell him. Namely, get lost.
But there was no boyfriend. There wasn't even a party.
The commercial grade refrigerator door was open. Beneath it, I caught a peek of bare feet and long legs.
The music—Abba, if I wasn't mistaken—blared through hidden speakers.
And then the door closed, and there was Jennie Kim, billionaire, CEO, society princess in men's boxer shorts and a tank top performing a truly terrible rendition of "Dancing Queen" while jiggling a cocktail shaker.
There was a martini glass—only one—with two skewered olives on the blue Brazilian stone countertop next to her open laptop and neat piles of paperwork.
Jennie shook and sang, whirling in a tight circle. Her brunette hair whipped out behind her.
"Ha! Stuck the landing," she said with a little shoulder boogie.
"You certainly did," I agreed.
She shrieked and, on instinct, hurled the cocktail shaker at me. I caught it, but the lid came off.
It wasn't a fearful scream, I noted as cold vodka soaked its way through my shirt and pants. It was a battle cry.
She lunged for the kitchen shears on the counter. I wasn't sure if it was a reflex or if she actually intended to kill me.
"Relax. It's me," I bellowed over Abba.
Jennie was wielding the shears at me even though recognition lit her eyes.
"I know it's you!"
"Now, Jennie," I began calmly, putting the shaker down on the countertop.
"Don't you 'now, Jennie' me," she yelled. "You do not get to come and go as you please in my home!"
She had a point. So I went on the offensive.
"What are you doing at home on a Wednesday night in men's boxers that is so much more important than repairing the damage you've done to your reputation?" My voice raised to carry over the music.
She threw a dish towel at me. Judging from the material, it cost more than most people's bed linens.
"What makes you think me paying you gives you the right to enter my house whenever you feel like it?" she shouted.
"Turn the music down!"
"Get out of my house!"
"Not until you stop willfully endangering the IPO you say you want!"
She snatched her phone off the counter and punched in a code. The music cut off abruptly, leaving more space for our angry silence to fill.
"Listen up, Manoban. I can take a night off. One night. That's all I get. I don't take vacations. I work weekends. I rarely leave the office or the lab before nine every night. I deserve one uninterrupted night alone."
The flashing anger in her eyes was Morse coding D-A-N-G-E-R at me.
"Yuna told me you left early for a date," I said.
"Yes, with myself. You're interrupting. And you owe me a martini."
I glanced down at my wet Oxford. The alcohol fumes were strong.
"Then I'll make you another," I said, unbuttoning my shirt.
"Stop it!" she said, still pointing the shears at me.
I dropped the shirt on the counter and unhooked my belt.
"Why do you keep taking your clothes off in my house?"
"You're just so welcoming, Jennie. Such a lovely hostess. I feel so comfortable here."
"Bite me."
I dropped my pants and dared her to look.
She didn't disappoint. I could feel the heat from her gaze as it trailed over my chest and torso before it paused on my Dolce Gabbana briefs. "Where's your vodka?" I asked.
"In a puddle on the floor. What are you doing here, Manoban?" she asked, suddenly weary.
I felt it, too, as I toed off my shoes and left the pants on the floor. It had been a long couple of weeks, and my desire to fight was gone as quickly as it had come. "Ah, here it is," I said, finding a stash of high-end liquors in one of the cabinets. "How dirty do you like it?"
"Don't be an ass," she said, slumping onto a barstool.
I helped myself to ice from the dispenser and went to work on the martini.
"Aren't you the least bit embarrassed?" she asked me, watching me as I worked.
"Not at all. I happen to think I have an excellent body."
"You burst in here thinking I had a date, Lisa."
"I burst in here because you didn't feel the need to explain to me that you needed a break. I would have worked it out. If you need something, tell me. I will get you anything that you want. If you can be bothered to be honest with me." I capped the shaker and wrapped it in the very expensive hand towel.
"If I need something, I take care of it myself."
"Ah, but, Jennie darling, we're a team. Remember?" The cheerful sound of ice and alcohol melding filled the kitchen.
"I can't watch you shake that," she said, turning away to take in the ocean view, ignoring my flexing pecs and abs.
"Then how will I earn my tip?"
"I'll give you a tip. A sharp one plunged into your chest," she offered. This was not the cucumber-cool, pristine flower petal that the rest of the world saw. This was the real Jennie Kim, and I was enamored.
"You're a little mean on your night off. I quite like it."
"Sometimes I really, really want to punch you. Just one shot in the middle of a sentence. I fantasize about it," she mused.
"Yes, let's talk about fantasies," I said, conversationally as I poured the martini into her waiting glass then slid it toward her.
She stared at it for a beat, too stubborn to taste it and tell me what a magnificent bartender I was.
I opened the fridge and dug around for a beer.
"Are you purposely tensing your ass cheeks right now?" she demanded.
"Oh, you noticed? Perhaps you're not dead on the inside after all."
"I'm going to go watch the sunset," she said. "You can let yourself out. Or I can call Alison and have her stun gun you for real this time."
I found a Belgian beer on the door. "Promises. Promises." But she'd already left the room and was climbing the stairs in the foyer.
I followed her.
The stairs went up another tastefully decorated level before leading out onto a rooftop deck.
"Very nice," I commented, appreciating the view of Biscayne Bay.
Jennie glared at me. "Why are you here?"
"If I'm being honest," I said. "I find you annoyingly irresistible."
Her eyes flitted down to my groin again. "For the love of God, would you please put on a pair of pants before I get a call from Cam next door? The woman's got a telescope."
I glanced down in mock contemplation. "You're certainly not saying she'd need a telescope to see this, are you?"
A beach towel hit me in the face.
"Cover up, Ms. Confidence."
I obliged, wrapping the blue and white striped towel and taking the seat next to her. To be obnoxious, I scooted it closer to her.
"I really don't like you right now," she said.
"Unfortunately, that seems to do nothing to my attraction to you," I observed.