“Didn’t I just mention I was trying to escape the sycophants?”
Felicity bristles. “It was an honest observation, not an attempt to curry favor.”
“Mm. Perhaps. It’s hard for me to tell these days.” Elena sighs and gives the view a morose look.
“Tell me about your big project?” Felicity tries again.
“Why?”
“So I can see if I’m right.” She smiles. “About you not making many tactical errors. Or whether this is the first.” Oh, that’s cheeky. She can’t believe she even said that. The impudence of her, lowly lawyer Felicity Simmons, daring to judge Elena Bartell’s grand schemes. She can’t believe her own fucking audacity. Felicity’s heart starts thumping faster.
Elena’s eyes narrow into slits. “I’m starting an international fashion magazine to rival CQ and Vogue. It will be extraordinary in scale and content. So, Ms. Simmons, do tell me all about your extensive expert knowledge in fashion and magazines that will enable you to determine the success of my new project. I’m all ears.”
There’s real bite to her tone, and it contains that vicious, mocking sarcasm she sometimes adopts when she’s filleting Felicity’s boss. She only uses it when someone’s dared suggest she’s less than excellent at her job.
“You’re right,” Felicity concedes. “I’m not an expert. But why fashion? Bartell Corp’s all about news. It’s what you excel at.” She can’t help the trace of skepticism that leaks at the idea of Elena’s corporation dipping its toe into fashion.
“You really don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“I take it back—you’re not a sycophant.”
“As I told you…”
“You’re worse. You lounge around and poke at sharks, blithely unaware of their natures.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, Ms. Simmons, you should do your research before making a fool of yourself and questioning my expertise.” Elena’s gaze drifts over Felicity’s shoulder to the party beyond. “Ah. I see Richard’s deigned to appear,” she murmurs almost to herself. “I should mingle. I’ll leave you to your…bad habits.” She waves at the stubbed-out cigarette still clutched in Felicity’s fingers.
Felicity follows Elena’s gaze and sees a white-tuxedoed form through the French doors. Jesus. She’s with the perfect-jawed prince?
Richard’s eyes are sharp and interested, devouring Elena’s cleavage. As Elena glances down at the handle to open the doors, Richard’s gaze slides surreptitiously over to rake Felicity’s body too.
Christ. What a catch.
Half an hour later, Felicity is slamming down cocktails, in a proper mood, while her colleague, Larissa, is talking her ear off about environmental law and the caterer’s “sublime” cheese canapés.
Felicity’s tuned out, having little interest in either topic. No one has accused her of being a fool in her entire life. That barb stings and stings.
Larissa suddenly leans over and curls a loose strand of blonde hair around Felicity’s ear. “Want to clear out of here? You, me, and your hotel room?” Her smile is pure mischief.
“I…what?” Felicity’s head snaps up. “I’m not…” What? What aren’t I? “I like men.”
“You can like both, you know.” Larissa’s eyes are laughing. “Bi’s an actual thing.”
That thought freezes Felicity in surprise, given she’s never considered it about herself.
“Don’t you like me?” Larissa thrusts her cleavage in Felicity’s direction, and Felicity has to admit it is surprisingly appealing. “I always thought you did.”
“I rather do.” There. Felicity flings back the rest of her drink and wonders what’s possessing her to be so honest with herself. But it would be rather nice to get Elena out of her head for a little while. Infuriating woman.
An hour later, Felicity is orgasmically sated and re-reevaluating her sexuality. This is getting irksome. She’s almost thirty. Shouldn’t she know basic sexuality stuff about herself by now? Felicity reviews her situation. She’s naked, sweaty, postcoital, and rather enjoying Larissa’s wandering fingers, which seem to have a sixth sense for all Felicity’s erogenous zones.
“Saw you talking to the Tiger Shark earlier tonight,” Larissa murmurs. “She’s looking fine. Her outfit is perfection. But that figures, doesn’t it?”
That gets Felicity’s attention. “Why do you say that?”
“Don’t you know who she was before she founded Bartell Corp?”
“I…no?”
“She was being lined up to be the youngest editor of CQ magazine; hell, she was going to be even bigger than Anna Wintour.”
“You’re joking.”
“Oh no, back in the day, Elena Bartell used to live and breathe nothing but fashion magazines.”
The hell? None of the business profiles ever mention that. The finance journalists only ever focus on Bartell Corp and its news-based beginnings. Felicity pauses. The all-male finance journalists…who probably think a onetime dalliance in fashion glossies is either too embarrassing to mention or not worthy of the column space.
I’m starting a national fashion magazine.
Elena’s words replay in Felicity’s mind, along with the way she uttered them. So much pride in her eyes. Her ambitious plan is to go back to her first love, to her fashion roots. And what does Felicity do? Imply she’s an out-of-depth rookie trying a risky venture.
Felicity has been foolish indeed. “How do you know all this?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Larissa laughs. “I have the hots for her. She’s my celebrity free pass. I do a lot of research on her.”
