grabbed the milk and crossed gray slate flooring to the stove. All the earth tones had seemed like a good idea at the time, but today, at least, the decor lacked a warmth he sought. That homey feeling.
He poured water from the kettle and dunked the tea ball a few times. As he watched the liquid darken, he recalled there were reasons he’d created a simple personal life. While servants took care of his home, having a decorator fuss with flowers and changing fabrics all the time meant hours away from his work, doing things he really didn’t care much about. Or at least he hadn’t thought he cared about them. Until now.
Milk splashed into his tea, clouding the clear brown liquid before he set down the carton. Maybe he was developing some sort of early midlife crisis? Not good. Next thing he knew, he’d be planning a nursery, and his mother would be here fussing over her grandson. Peter shuddered, pressed the cap on the milk, and put it away. God help him. Please. All he needed was work and sex. Money from the former provided the latter and just about everything else he required.
Except companionship, a voice whispered across his mind, bringing with it visions of impossibly green eyes and pale English features. With curves as lush as a 1940s movie star’s, Gigi had bewitched him. Plain and simple. Witchcraft remained the only explanation. Shoving the woman out of his mind for the umpteenth time, he stalked from the kitchen, clutching his tea.
A pile of newspapers already lay on his desk when he entered the walnut-paneled study. The decorator had said something about wanting to give him warmth while he worked. He harrumphed and plunked down in his leather desk chair, the act of putting down his tea settling his mind into work mode.
He reached for the paper on top with one hand, drawing it into his lap as he turned on his laptop with the other. A remote to his left activated three televisions on the opposite wall. He glanced at them, then at his e-mail. Scroll, scroll, scroll. Nothing appeared to be on fire, which meant he could enjoy his tea and his papers—the best part of his Sunday.
He began with the lesser newspapers. They contained only smatterings of local news he might be able to use in brainstorming a new business idea, while the Journal he saved for last, when he was caffeinated and could give it his full attention. While he could’ve used a news service or read the papers on his tablet, something about the dry newsprint beneath his fingers felt real. Solid. Unlike so much else.
Scanning the index, he saw a line about last night’s charity gala and automatically turned to that page. While he didn’t relish seeing his name splashed throughout the article, he needed to be prepared to respond to questions.
He glanced to the television and saw a flash of the front of his high-rise. Flicking on the volume, he looked down at the paper. The gossip section. With his picture? He didn’t remember any of the gossip columnists on the invite list being part of this paper’s staff. Pausing the television, he scanned the so-called article.
PETER WELLS: MAN OF MYSTERY, MONEY, AND MATTERS OF CONVENIENCE
America’s favorite billionaire playboy proved tonight that there are few things money can’t buy. Interior decor fit for a king? One hundred thousand greenbacks surely isn’t too much. Public approval? Several million via a charitable donation. Drop in the hat. Affection? That’s hard to tell with any surety as call-girl rates are highly protected. However, I did witness what was a very large, though assumedly private, cash transaction following his tête-à-tête with a svelte blonde. I’d be most interested to know how he classifies his entertainment for the IRS, and mark my words—Mr. Wells was intimately entertained.
The event hosted at the New York Public Library’s Rose Room was a lavish affair…
One moment he was in his chair looking forward to his customary hour of leisurely reading. Next he punched
He poured water from the kettle and dunked the tea ball a few times. As he watched the liquid darken, he recalled there were reasons he’d created a simple personal life. While servants took care of his home, having a decorator fuss with flowers and changing fabrics all the time meant hours away from his work, doing things he really didn’t care much about. Or at least he hadn’t thought he cared about them. Until now.
Milk splashed into his tea, clouding the clear brown liquid before he set down the carton. Maybe he was developing some sort of early midlife crisis? Not good. Next thing he knew, he’d be planning a nursery, and his mother would be here fussing over her grandson. Peter shuddered, pressed the cap on the milk, and put it away. God help him. Please. All he needed was work and sex. Money from the former provided the latter and just about everything else he required.
Except companionship, a voice whispered across his mind, bringing with it visions of impossibly green eyes and pale English features. With curves as lush as a 1940s movie star’s, Gigi had bewitched him. Plain and simple. Witchcraft remained the only explanation. Shoving the woman out of his mind for the umpteenth time, he stalked from the kitchen, clutching his tea.
A pile of newspapers already lay on his desk when he entered the walnut-paneled study. The decorator had said something about wanting to give him warmth while he worked. He harrumphed and plunked down in his leather desk chair, the act of putting down his tea settling his mind into work mode.
He reached for the paper on top with one hand, drawing it into his lap as he turned on his laptop with the other. A remote to his left activated three televisions on the opposite wall. He glanced at them, then at his e-mail. Scroll, scroll, scroll. Nothing appeared to be on fire, which meant he could enjoy his tea and his papers—the best part of his Sunday.
He began with the lesser newspapers. They contained only smatterings of local news he might be able to use in brainstorming a new business idea, while the Journal he saved for last, when he was caffeinated and could give it his full attention. While he could’ve used a news service or read the papers on his tablet, something about the dry newsprint beneath his fingers felt real. Solid. Unlike so much else.
Scanning the index, he saw a line about last night’s charity gala and automatically turned to that page. While he didn’t relish seeing his name splashed throughout the article, he needed to be prepared to respond to questions.
He glanced to the television and saw a flash of the front of his high-rise. Flicking on the volume, he looked down at the paper. The gossip section. With his picture? He didn’t remember any of the gossip columnists on the invite list being part of this paper’s staff. Pausing the television, he scanned the so-called article.
PETER WELLS: MAN OF MYSTERY, MONEY, AND MATTERS OF CONVENIENCE
America’s favorite billionaire playboy proved tonight that there are few things money can’t buy. Interior decor fit for a king? One hundred thousand greenbacks surely isn’t too much. Public approval? Several million via a charitable donation. Drop in the hat. Affection? That’s hard to tell with any surety as call-girl rates are highly protected. However, I did witness what was a very large, though assumedly private, cash transaction following his tête-à-tête with a svelte blonde. I’d be most interested to know how he classifies his entertainment for the IRS, and mark my words—Mr. Wells was intimately entertained.
The event hosted at the New York Public Library’s Rose Room was a lavish affair…
One moment he was in his chair looking forward to his customary hour of leisurely reading. Next he punched
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