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“Columbia,” he finally says. “Yes, Fumi and I go way back, Mr. Black.”
A spark of something ignites in my chest. My back straightens a bit more. My teeth grind.
I don’t like his insinuations one fucking bit. And I certainly don’t like the insane feelings of what might be goddamn jealousy that those insinuations are stirring up inside me.
“Anyway, I’m afraid I was just leaving,” the man says with an easy smile. “But it was good to meet you, Mr. Black. Good luck with your campaign.”
Without another word or even a handshake, the man turns and fades into the crowd. I’m tempted to follow him, but a cleared throat behind me interrupts me. Meredith, dressed up and for once without her tablet clutched in one hand and her phone in the other, frowns when I turn.
“Who was that?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. An old classmate of Fumi’s from Columbia, supposedly.”
Her brows furrow. “Hmm, well, speaking of Fumi, I might need you to deal with something.”
“What kind of something?” I growl.
Meredith sighs, turning to nod with her chin. I follow her gaze and groan.
Shit.
Fumi is across the ballroom on the other side of a giant ice sculpture near the buffet table. And she’s talking with Emily fucking Puthe.
Emily’s a notorious, prying, boundary-crossing, piece of antagonistic tabloid scum masquerading as a legitimate journalist. A reporter who was most definitely not invited today, since her bread-and-butter inflammatory stories usually fall just this side of libel.
“I’d have intervened myself, but?—”
But this isn’t Meredith’s first rodeo with Emily. The last time Meredith tried to get the “reporter” to back off from one of her clients, and gently pushed her away, Emily tried to file an assault charge against her.
“Don’t worry. I’ll handle this.”
Once again, I find myself storming across the room toward Fumi. Just before I reach her and Emily, I pause behind the ice sculpture to listen to their conversation.
“Ms. Puthe, I know what you want me to say.”
Emily laughs lightly. “Oh? What’s that, Ms. Yamaguchi?”
“You want me to get angry and tell you my relationship with Gabriel is none of your business, so that you can print something vaguely libelous in your tacky tabloid about how my bad response to your invasive questions suggests my fiancé isn’t fit for office—or something equally as moronic and childish.”
“Well, plenty of people?—”
“Would you like to know the real truth about our relationship, that no other media representative in this room has heard today?”
Emily is positively salivating as she grins. “Definitely.”
Shit.
I’m about to step out from behind the ice sculpture to stop this before Fumi nukes my entire campaign, when I stop cold.
“The dirty truth, Emily, is that there is no dirty truth. We’re just two people who love each other, and I think that’s what makes Gabriel’s campaign so appealing to voters. He’s not some larger-than-life, power-hungry demi-god. He’s just a man who loves me, and I’m just a woman who loves him. There. That’s it. That’s the dirty secret.”
I’m grinning at the sour look on Emily’s face when Fumi suddenly turns, and our eyes lock as a slight smirk twists the corners of her lips.
“And here he is now!”
I don’t have time to prepare. I don’t even see if coming. She crosses the two feet between us, grabs onto my tie, and pulls herself up on her tip-toes to sear her lips to mine.
When she does, my reaction is…automatic. A given. A primal response to the heat of her body, the scent of her skin, and the taste of her lips.
