We’d agreed on a pair of glittery Louboutins. Their shimmer was understated, yet sexy. The whole outfit—along with Valentina’s expert hair and makeup treatment—made me feel confident despite the media debacle.
Jude looked utterly charming in his tux. I didn’t bother asking why he had a custom-tailored tux on hand. I had a feeling he wouldn’t give me a straight answer if I did. So I simply enjoyed how delicious he looked and hoped we’d be able to manage an early exit. As good as his clothes looked, I wanted to slowly strip him out of them.
The dinner was uneventful. Good food. Industry chat with other aerospace executives. No one mentioned my bad press. Most of the attendees were either high-level executives—many of whom had faced something similar in their careers—or engineers who either didn’t pay attention or didn’t care about that sort of gossip.
Three attendees, however, were not industry people. They were journalists.
And they were here for me. I could tell by the way they watched me.
I’d noticed them just after the keynote speech. I stood with Jude near the bar, feeling like a gazelle being circled by a pack of hyenas. None of them had come close yet, but I knew as soon as one did, the rest would dart in to attack.
“How did they get in here?” I asked. It was mostly a rhetorical question. But typically these regional industry events didn’t draw much in the way of mainstream media. Representatives from Aviation Week or Aerospace Manufacturing Magazine, perhaps. But those publications were interested in industry news, not in stirring up fabricated CEO scandals.
Those three weren’t industry reporters. And by the predatory looks on their faces, they were out for blood.
“I’d say they aren’t here for you, but they’re obviously here for you,” he said.
“I should have worn sassier shoes.”
“We can go,” Jude said.
I took a casual sip of my champagne, pretending I hadn’t noticed them. “They’ll follow us out.”
“I’ll have Joe meet us out back.”
“Yeah, but they’ll still follow us. And I really don’t want to talk to them tonight.”
“They won’t follow.”
“Why?”
He took my drink and set it on the bar, then grabbed my hand. “Because we’re going to lose them.”
How he could appear so casual and still hurry us toward the hotel ballroom entrance, I had no idea. He was slick like ice, people’s gazes sliding right over him. He led me toward the lobby and sure enough, the three reporters followed.
“See?” I whispered.
“Just don’t trip.”
“I wear heels almost every day, I won’t trip.”
He squeezed my hand and we took a sharp turn down an adjacent hallway.
“Excuse me, Ms. Whitbury?”
“You can’t hear them,” Jude whispered.
I kept walking, eyes straight ahead.
“Ms. Whitbury, is it true you essentially staged a hostile takeover of Spencer Aeronautics?” she asked, raising her voice.
“She’s getting closer,” I hissed. “And where are the others?”
“Trust me,” he said.
The hallway came to a T up ahead. Jude turned us left, but one of the other journalists was closing in from that direction.
“Shit,” he muttered.
We spun around and quick-walked in the other direction, passing a bank of elevators. Without warning, he pushed open the door to a stairwell.
Thankful for every leg day I’d endured with Inda, I charged up the stairs with Jude’s huge hand still engulfing mine. He pushed open the door to the second floor, took one quick look up and down the hallway, and chose a direction.
The hall was lined with room doors and for a second I wondered if he knew how to hack an electronic lock. My heart raced—both from the trip up the stairs and the odd excitement of fleeing—and I almost laughed out loud. At least no one was trying to run over me. They just wanted to ask awkward questions and possibly take anything I said out of context. Running from them was so silly, and yet Jude hadn’t hesitated to get me out of there.
My heart went from racing to fluttering.
I was afraid to look back. One of the reporters had to be about to burst onto the second floor. The elevator dinged behind us. Had one of them taken it? And where had the third gone?