The Price of Scandal (Bluewater Billionaires) - Lucy Score Page 0,93
drug stop.”
I leaned forward, ready to interject a defense. Lona Geiser was known to be tough but fair. However, my source at Building Fortunes had failed to mention that much more of the interview energy trended toward tough.
Emily’s very sharp stiletto met my foot under the table.
“Some may see a woman who wasn’t arrested because she had done nothing wrong,” Emily corrected smoothly. “When I get up in the morning, I’m a CEO who has hundreds of employees and their families counting on me to make good decisions. I have millions of customers worldwide who hold me accountable when it comes to the products I develop and sell. I take that very seriously. More seriously than baseless accusations and gossip-mongering. If you’re not in the arena with me, I don’t have time to listen to your criticisms. Metaphorically, of course.”
“Of course,” Lona said with what could be an approving nod.
“Lona, let’s get this out of the way,” Emily said, liberating her utensils from the napkin as two servers approached with our meals. “I don’t need you to like me.”
“I’m not required to like you,” Lona responded calmly.
She reminded me of my implacable seventh grade English teacher, a woman I’d thought hated me until the last day of school when she coolly told me I had potential if I were smart enough not to ruin it.
“You’re also not required to paint a pretty picture of me. I’m not nice. I’m not a friendly boss. I’m tough. I’m smart. I’m busy. But I am also very, very fair. And I care deeply for my employees and my customers. Not every billionaire, female or otherwise, can say that. I’ve earned my place here, and I’m not going to allow anyone to question my accomplishments.”
“Your company has certainly revolutionized wrinkle treatment,” Lona said. I detected a distinct jab. The implication was clear: Wrinkles weren’t cancer.
Emily smiled dangerously, and I debated texting Jane to be ready for a hasty departure with a shovel and a tarp.
“My company has donated tens of millions of dollars to girls’ STEM programs, university science departments, and environmental sustainability programs. Our new scar treatment will give tens of thousands of people—including wounded veterans and domestic violence survivors—a chance to be seen for something other than their past.”
“Some would wonder if that’s enough,” Lona said, ignoring the steak fajitas that sizzled in front of her. “Especially with an initial public offering that could earn you even more money.”
Emily folded her hands neatly in front of her plate. “Some don’t get to have opinions on how I spend my money and what causes I support. Your purpose for being here—”
“Is to write an unbiased profile on the woman who single-handedly built an empire and didn’t allow a scandal to slow her down, much less knock her off course,” Lona said, picking up her fork. A genuine smile hovered over her lips.
“Then we have an understanding,” Emily said, smiling over her arroz con camerones.
I sat back in my chair, certain that I’d missed a vital piece of the conversation. I flagged down a member of the waitstaff. “Yes, I’d like to order three tequilas please.”
Emily’s eyebrows shot up. “Did you learn nothing from last time?”
I held up my hands. “I’m not sure what just happened, but I feel like it requires tequila.”
“Let’s talk about your college years,” Lona said, consulting her notebook. “You were a biology and chemistry dual major at Johns Hopkins University, and that’s where you met your chief marketing officer, Lita Smith.”
“I was practically a lab rat. We met in a biophysics class,” Emily recalled fondly. “Lita is responsible for dragging me out of the lab every once in a while.”
“Do you still enjoy spending time in the lab?” Lona asked.
“Every chance I get.”
I sipped tequila while they discussed education and the early discoveries that led to the humble beginnings of Flawless. With the terrifying female posturing over, Emily seemed relaxed. At least until Lona surprised us both by snapping a photo from her phone. “For the article,” she explained. “It will be a combination of candid photos and, of course, the photo shoot.”
“Photo shoot?” Emily repeated. Her heel dug into the Italian leather of my loafer. My shoe guy was going to have a hell of a time buffing that out. I sat still and took my medicine.
“I get the impression that this interview was sprung on you,” Lona guessed.
I cleared my throat. “There was a slight miscommunication with Emily’s calendar,” I said.