I saw why when two police cruisers squealed to a stop in front of the valet stand, boxing the Ferrari in.
Trouble.
“Oooh! Someone important must be coming?” Alicia said, clicking the tips of her pink fingernails together.
“Is this your car, sir?” demanded an officer. She had one hand on butt of her gun and didn’t look afraid to use it.
Surfer guy shrugged at something Emily said. She was trying to tug her hand free.
“Sir? Is this your car?” the cop said again.
I couldn’t hear the exchange because the photographers camped outside the restaurant’s doors exploded with questions and flashes from their cameras, turning Ocean Drive into a red carpet war zone.
Whatever he’d said, he’d included an unfortunate amount of attitude. Emily took a very intelligent step to the side, keeping her hands visible.
Too smart for him.
The host appeared next to me with two menus just as Van Winston howled, “Do you know who I am?”
Oh, you stupid, entitled idiot.
The officer searching the vehicle called to his partner. “Found something.” He held up a baggie of what was probably going to be cocaine.
I was already reaching for my phone when one of the officers caught Emily’s move.
“Ma’am! Put your hands behind your head,” the first cop yelled.
“That shit’s not mine,” the pissant howled. The photographers started shooting video.
I scrolled through my contacts at lightning speed.
“Everything is fine,” I heard Emily say calmly. “I’m just reaching for my phone.”
“Hands behind your head!”
“Imani,” I said into the phone. “You’ve got about thirty seconds before you’re made aware of a rather large problem. I think I can be of some help.”
The cuffs snapped onto Emily’s well-bred wrists like damnation as two dozen paparazzi recorded every second.
5
Emily
Billionheiress’s public humiliation! Drug arrest!
Daughter of Miami cruise line executive Byron Stanton arrested for drugs!
Flawless CEO released without charges in drug bust
The secret drug-fueled life of party girl Emily Stanton
“Wake up, jailbird.” The chipper voice cheerfully intruded on the thirty minutes of sleep I’d managed to snag after the worst night of my life. And I’d once dropped a vial of leptospirosis on the lab floor.
I pried a crusty eye open and peered over the luxurious softness of my bed linens.
“What are you doing here?” I rasped at the three shadowy figures hovering over my bed.
I never should have given them my alarm codes.
“Emergency circle the wagons,” the tallest shadow said, arms crossed.
“Yeah. Now, get your adorable ass out of bed so we can make it all better,” the middle one chirped, slapping me on the butt. Luna was outrageously cheerful all hours of the day.
I groaned, sitting up, noting it was still dark outside.
“Get dressed, my little vagillionaire,” the third one said, throwing workout clothes at me.
“You want to work out now, Daisy? You’ve got to be kidding me.” Daisy didn’t willingly spend time in the gym unless it was to flirt with a hot personal trainer.
“Lights on.”
My bedroom lights came on dimly.
“Damn it, Cam,” I complained. “I deserve at least another hour of wallowing.”
My phone signaled from the lovely hammered copper nightstand. I didn’t have the energy to pick it up and immerse myself in the shitstorm that was most certainly brewing.
“Get up and meet us in the gym,” Luna said.
They left the room, a united front of badassery.
I stared at the clothes in my lap. I was exhausted, humiliated, and not just a little worried. I was a fucking basket case. One misstep. I’d just endangered the future of my company, the security of my employees, with one horrifically bad decision. And I wasn’t ready to see just how bad the fallout was.
“Move it, Ems!” Daisy called.
Leaving my phone where it was, I dressed quickly and dragged my hair into a limp ponytail as I trudged across the lawn to the gym. I was the kind of person who focused better and worked harder after a grueling workout. When we’d built the enclave, when we’d envisioned Bluewater, I’d taken great joy in designing a property that suited me and my needs down to the ground.
My friends had a looser, more interpretive relationship with exercise. But they supported me with weekly workouts slash bitch sessions.
And there they were. My people.
In the ocean-front, state-of-the-art gym that I started my day in every morning, a peppy pop song thumped through the sound system.
Cameron Whitbury—aerospace entrepreneur, luxury shoe whore, and long-legged auburn-haired beauty—was looking fierce and squatting with free weights. Her ass was official perfection, at least according to Indulgence Magazine’s Best Butts in Business poll last year. The magazine had