Page 76 of A Billion Dollar Romance
“I don’t know, Mr. Martin,” Lyle said, “they should have run it past us before publication–”
“What, so we could shoot it down and ruin the scoop of the year? Do you know how many of these,” I shook the magazine, “this story will sell? How many clicks on their website? They’d never have let us get our hands on it–”
“Is it true?” asked Bridget, and I turned to her, my eyes narrowed. She was standing perfectly upright, her clipboard clutched in her hands.
“Of course not, Bridget,” I growled. “This…‘James Martin’s teaching sabbatical in the mountains was a lesson in seduction’... Ofcourse not, I would never–”
“Youwereher professor,” Bridget countered. “You told us that when you asked her to do this.Afteryou asked her to do this,” she added. “And promised her time at your personal residence in return.”
“Yes, but–”
“Are you sleeping with Miss Taylor?” she asked. Her voice was cold, as if we were going over last quarter’s sales report. “I’m asking you this before we see the lawyer.”
“Yes,” I said. Lyle’s–goddamnedfuckingLyle’s–eyes widened. “I am.”
“Had you slept with her when you asked her to pose as your fiancée?”
I forced my jaw open. “Yes.”
“That’s all I need to know,” she said.
“I never touched her when she was my student–astudent,” I protested.
“It doesn’t matter, Mr. Martin,” she said. “People will read this, they’ll make assumptions–”
Although in this interview, the couple denied knowing each other before this year, records obtained from Taylor’s alma mater reflect her taking a senior seminar with the publishing heir. An unnamed source toldNew York Weekthat Miss Taylor confessed to ‘having a crush on Mr. Martin’ when she was a twenty-one-year-old student and he her thirty-three-year-old lecturer.
“This was supposed to be a society profile,” I hissed, “what thehellis the weekly doing publishing this–”
The door swung open wildly to reveal Edie, pale-faced and wide-eyed.
“James–” she said, her voice tight, and then cut herself off as she noticed Bridget and Lyle. “I mean, Mr. Martin–”
I shook my head. “Hi, Edie.”
“Peter sent me straight up,” she said in a rush. “He didn’t tell me what had happened, I thought you werehurt.”
“Nothing hurt but my pride, sweetheart,” I said gently.
Her eyes grew wide.
She looked from me, to Bridget, to Lyle, and then to the open magazine, face-up on the desk where I’d thrown it. She rushed toward it, but I stopped her, putting my hand down over the glossy paper, my palm spread flat over the image of our interlaced fingers.
“If you haven’t read it,” I said, “don’t.”
“But–but how did they find out we were faking it?” she stammered. “We were so careful, we signed the NDAs, we hardly told anyone–”
I closed my eyes, my heart sinking into my churning stomach.
“It’s not that we were faking it, Edie. It’s…”
Her sweet brown eyes were open and trusting as they searched mine. “What?”
“They’re saying I slept with a student.You. That I’ve been…” I shook my head. “I don’t even know how to say it. Taking advantage of your innocence, that our relationship isn’t–”
“Give it to me,” she said, her face white.
“Don’t, Edie–”
