Bobbie had called in sick, probably for the first time since she'd started working for him, so he'd left the phone messages unchecked. He wasn't retrieving them and sure as shit didn't have time to deal with a temp.
Penelope Brand had texted, then called, then texted again to say "check your e-mail"; all of this he'd registered while sitting across from Ingrid Belter. Ingrid was a powerful woman who held the keys to the city of Austin, where he was currently working with her to open two new hotels. And he wouldn't undermine her or their meeting to answer Penelope. Pen worked for him, not the other way around, and did a damn good job of panicking often and early.
Once Ingrid was on a plane back to Texas, Reese finished up what he could for the day, ignoring the belligerent red light blinking on Bobbie's desk. Even if he did know how to tap into voice mail, he was far too spent to go through dozens or hundreds—who knew how many of them Bobbie handled that he never saw?—of messages.
He climbed onto the elevator and by the time he hit the lobby, his phone gave an insistent ring. Penelope. Again. He should have remembered what curiosity did to the proverbial cat before he hit the ANSWER button.
"What?" he barked.
"I'm guessing you didn't check your e-mail or my text messages," Penelope said.
"Pen—"
"There's no time. Are you near a television? Your segment is up next."
"My—"
"Inside Edition," she said, then rattled off the channel.
"Mike," Reese said to the man at the front desk. He instructed him to pull up the channel on the lobby television. There was a small alcove of chairs in a corner by the TV, and Reese took one. He was still on the phone with Penelope, who was blathering about how she'd tried to reach him sooner to warn him.
Warn him about—?
A second later, his mind went blank.
Reese felt his shoulders go rigid as he saw a picture of himself—naked in Gwyneth's apartment bedroom—shortly after they'd started dating. He was bright-eyed and fresh-faced and may as well have had the word SUCKER written across his forehead.
"Young and in love Reese Crane, photographed by then girlfriend, Gwyneth Sutton Lerner, has recently taken over Crane Hotels," the news anchor said. She went on to question the timing of a tweeted (now deleted) photograph, guessing it was a desperate attempt by Gwyneth to win him back now that he'd landed the coveted position.
"Hard telling how the news has hit Reese's current wife, Merina, seen here leaving a coffee shop wearing an oversize pair of sunglasses…"
A photograph taken a few weeks ago, Reese remembered, and one they'd chuckled about one morning over the coffee in their own kitchen.
"Gwyneth did remove the photo from Twitter sometime this morning, but since then has tweeted the following message: 'I regret nothing, including the four years I spent with Reese Crane. #ReesesRocket, #Loveofmylife.'"
The reporter wrapped up by showing the photo of him for the fourth fucking time and mentioning there was no word of what Gwyneth's husband, Hayes Lerner, thought of his wife's revelation to the public at large.
Reese, numb, had forgotten the phone was to his ear until Penelope spoke.
"Not as bad as I thought," she said.
"Is that a joke?" he asked, voice flat. "I'm naked on national television."
"This is a small matter of spin. We'll say your desperate ex-girlfriend is having marital problems. I already briefed Merina, so she's prepared for a possible run-in with the press. If you happen to run into a reporter, just remember to…" Penelope continued with her instructions.
Reese, in rigid monosyllabic replies, agreed to do as she suggested: smile and shrug it off.
Smile.
Yeah, right. Gwyneth's betrayal was thick and bitter, and the timing was abysmal.
He pressed END on the call, noticing Mike still standing behind him awkwardly, remote in hand. "Mr. Crane, did you want me to—"
"Turn it off," he said, managing to add, "Thanks."
Stiffly, he made his way to his car, mind on what he'd be dealing with tonight and the days to come, and not the least bit happy about it. By the time he pulled his Porsche into the garage and went inside, he was thirsty for scotch and more scotch.
Chapter 17
Not knowing what else to do, Merina had come home from the Van Heusen, laced up her athletic shoes, and gone for a jog. She'd wanted to pound something, may as well be the ground.
Fifteen minutes later, she gave up trying to run off her disappointment—both in herself and for trusting Reese, the dirty liar.
She'd slowed to a walk, holding her aching side while watching her shoes cut through the plush grass when she heard his voice.
"You look like you need a break." Reese was dressed in his suit from work, tie knotted at his neck. The article of clothing she couldn't wait to take off him had become the one she wanted to strangle him with.
"I'm more of a stationary bike kind of girl." She blew out a breath and walked to the cooler outside, getting herself a bottle of water. "At the gym at the Van Heusen."
"So why are you running?"
The back patio faced the lawn surrounded by trees, and she took a seat on a cushy chair beneath the awning, tugging her sagging ponytail free. He sat next to her.
"I thought it would calm me down," she answered truthfully. One of them may as well be honest. "Seeing that picture of you…" In the end, she couldn't lay herself open. She let her voice trail off.
Her eyes had adjusted to the dark, though there was enough ambient light—some from the gardens surrounding the house, most from the interior of the mansion—so that it wasn't pitch black.
Reese remained quiet. Evidently, he wasn't going to broach the subject if she didn't. Merina wasn't feeling as magnanimous.
"It was serious between you two," she said. "You and Gwyneth."
He stared into the distance for a minute before leaning his elbows on his knees.
"Four years," she said when he said nothing.
"Is there something you'd like to say, Merina?" It was a question he didn't want answered. She could tell by every tense line on his face. "I don't have the patience to let you poke me with a stick until I respond the way you'd like.