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An article in ScanDial, one of the worst gossip offenders.Rhys impregnated a high school senior?

The world seems to go gray for a moment, but then reality reasserts itself.No way. I steal a quick glance at him. Ethics completely aside, when would he have had the time to meet—much less seduce and bang—a high school kid? Normally he’s with some hot model or heiress or whatever—basically somebody glossy and perfect. Someone whose farts don’t even smell.

Rhys’s jaw muscles are bunched. His hand is tight around his phone, which keeps vibrating, and he hasn’t touched a single work document since we’ve been in the limo. Either he’s deathly ill or too pissed about the scandal. He’s even glaring at me like somehow I’m at fault!

Could it be real?

No.I don’t believe it. It isn’t just the lack of time, but his having standards. He’s hard on others, but absolutely merciless on himself. He’d never do something as preposterous and icky as seducing a high school girl.

But when the tabloids print crap about his family,he never lets it bother him… Actually, now that I think about it, he did get furious when they said made-up trash about how one of his brothers assaulted some hapless tourist couple. He just shrugged off every scandalous article about his parents—and that one about himself. So what’s different about this time? Could there be…a kernel of truth to it?

Rhys glances at the Japanese driver, who has shown no sign of understanding English and is paying zero attention to us, then raises the partition. “How much do you care about your boyfriend?”

Chapter Three

Rhys

Silence. My question was probably too abrupt. The fake smile on her face is likely meant to freeze my veins, but it only makes me think of hot, wrinkled sheets and messy things HR would never approve of.

I always assumed singers crooned, “She’s so divine” because “She’s not that bad, with a decent smile and straight teeth” didn’t sell albums. But after Max…I finally understand.

What would it be like to see her emerald eyes glazed with passion as she gazes up at me, her copper hair spilling across my pillows? Would she moan if I ran my hands along her soft curves? Maybe she’d bite her lip, in which case, I’d push her harder. Eliciting a moan when she was trying to be quiet would be hot.

I hired her after glimpsing an irresistible hunger and drive burning in her eyes. The others had better résumés, but lacked the intangible qualities that drew me in. They seemed too comfortable where they were. And once again, my instinct was proven correct. With some training, she’s turned into the best assistant I’ve ever had, working with focus and aggressive efficiency. Wonder if she’s like that in bed too. Or if she’s the type to be more malleable and relaxed, letting go of the control she’s held on to all day long.

Not that I’ve given in to the urge to find out, since she’s had a series of boyfriends, none of them worthy as far as I could tell.I would’ve known otherwise. You can’t hide a sneeze or being in love. Even my mother sighs with despondency after leaving a particularly talented boytoy. But Max? She just throws herself into work with laser focus.

Why did she ever bother with those men, anyway? Surely it isn’t out of boredom. I give her plenty of mission-critical tasks to fill her waking hours. Hell, I even torpedo her plans occasionally—intentionally—and she always chooses to do the overtime rather than be with any of her boyfriends.

At the same time, she won’t stay single even for a week. It’s like she’s demonically possessed to date, even though she doesn’t seem like the type who can’t tolerate being alone. She has no problem spending a weekend on her own because her boyfriend’s out of town for work.

Regardless, she could do better than her current man. Some kind of consultant that she brought to the firm’s Christmas party last year. In his late twenties, slicker than snake oil. Brown eyes to go with brown hair. Slightly pale—probably spends most of his time billing clients. Average body, average height, average off-the-rack suit, undoubtedly bought on sale. His face is acceptable, with acceptably formed features and extraordinary cheekbones—I recall the last detail grudgingly. Still, how in the world does he deserve to date Max? A man needs more than cheekbones to be worthy. Like abs at least. And a brain. Maybe some success.

He probably doesn’t have parents who greet his girlfriend with virtually naked sidepieces. That’s a huge advantage.

At least I don’t cheat. I’m pretty sure I saw him with another woman last month at Morton’s. Didn’t look like a business dinner. A dress that plunged to her navel, the way she was leaning way too close…and the shit-eating smirk he wore, that of a guy who knew he was going to get laid. The only reason I haven’t said anything to Max is that I’m not one hundred percentcertain it was him. It had been five months since the Christmas party, and I was on my way out with an audit team after an early dinner, so I couldn’t take time to really observe.

Regardless, my instinct says her boyfriend is a scumbag, and my gut’s pretty accurate about things like this. An acquired skill after dealing with so many of my parents’ partners. People like that, no matter how innocent they appear, give off certain vibes. You just have to know how to detect ’em, something Max is obviously incapable of.

Finally, I cock an eyebrow. “Well?”

She shrugs. “You heard the kissing noises just this morning.”

I almost grimace. “And? You both seem perfectly fine not seeing each other for a while. How much feeling can you possibly have for that kind of person anyway?”

“If I hadn’t had to accompany you here, toTokyo, I would’ve been in L.A. by now.” Her tone remains calm while her smile grows tight. “Wehaveto be fine or we would’ve broken up. He’s busy too, so it isn’t like if I’m not around, he’s just moping alone in his apartment.” Her gorgeous green eyes shine with affection and respect—the fact that both are directed at her boyfriend is highly annoying. “We’re very career-minded.”

“Ha. Making kissing noises and whining about needing to spend birthdays together.”

“Birthdays should be celebrated.”

I shudder. Dad said the same thing before he totally traumatized me on my fourteenth birthday. Thankfully, I slapped him down so my brothers were spared. “Just another day, nothing special. You’re a year older, so work faster.”

She gives me a daggered look. “You can work hard and have a life, too. People aren’t, like, born to work.”

“The phrase you’re looking for is destined to build an empire, whichSlick—Jeffrey”—I sneer the words—“doesn’t have the ambition or capability for.”

“Just because he doesn’t want to be a billionaire doesn’t mean he’s incapable. He’s very good at his job…and everything else. He’s perfect.”