Nick flashed me a look of pity, before shaking his head.
“He’s already gone. There’s nothing we can do.”
I wasn’t accepting that. I couldn’t accept that.
“There has to be something!” I cried, leaping to my feet. My dress was most definitely ruined beyond repair, so I settled for my black lingerie and the jacket of his suit. “Nick, we can’t just let him—”
His hands closed upon my shoulders, drawing me soothingly into his chest. I hadn’t even heard him get up behind me, but I took no comfort in the words he said now.
“Honestly, Abby—there are worse pictures of me out there.”
There was a pause. Then I turned slowly around to face him.
“Yes, but there aren’t worse pictures of me.”
His eyes lightened in sudden understanding, and he turned his head to gaze at the door.
In hindsight, I think it honestly hadn’t occurred to him. When you live so long one way, sometimes you forget that there’s another. That not everyone has already been as violated and exploited as you. That some people still remember what it means to have privacy.
A look of sudden determination flashed across his face, and the next second, he took off running. I stared after him in shock, whiplashed at how fast the night had taken a turn, before crying out the only thing that came into my mind.
“Nick—you’re naked!”
I should have known that wouldn’t be enough to stop him.
“It’s cold,” I added as an afterthought.
There was a hitch in his stride, and the next second, he lifted up his hand. I tossed him a pair of boxer-briefs, and he slid into them on the spot. He flashed me a roguish grin, and the next second, he threw open the same door the man had vanished through a moment before.
A half-naked billionaire, chasing a paparazzi into the cold Manhattan night.
And just like that, the game was on...
Chapter 11
YOU LIVE IN NEW YORK long enough, you become accustom to certain things.
Horses skipping by amongst the taxis, dragging star-crossed lovers to the nearest coffee shop. People dressed up like the Statue of Liberty—willing to spout off limericks and poems for money. Rats the size of ponies trotting alongside the subways.
Perhaps it was for this reason, that no one really noticed Nick as he sprinted in nothing but his underwear down the street.
That is...until he ran into a late-night hot dog vendor.
“Ow—shit! Sorry!” he cried all at once, doing his best to wipe hot grease and mustard from his chest as he took off after the cameraman.
Even from where I was—twenty paces behind him—I was still able to hear the small chorus of profanities the vendor launched his way. The Italians have a way of cursing better than the rest of us, and this man ran with the best of them.
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” The man lobbed a large handful of horse radish Nick’s way. “Put on some fucking pants—pretty!”
Nick waved desperately over his head in apology, as he continued sprinting down the street. Barefoot. In the middle of a New York winter.
Against all the odds, he had actually caught sight of the man who had snapped our picture as he headed down the street. He’d yelled something threatening, and the man had taken off in terror—only to have Nick in full pursuit. Each one was tearing down the middle of the street, but for very different reasons. Skirting taxis. Ducking billboards. Eyes on the prize.
For my part, I was tagging along in the back—trying to keep my lingerie from falling off as I sprinted after the two of them, screaming at the top of my lungs at no one in particular.
“Hey!” Nick cried again, jumping past a baby carriage as he raced along the sidewalk. “I only want to talk! HEY!”
But the man showed no sign of stopping. To be fair, if I looked behind me and saw an enraged naked billionaire in full pursuit, I wouldn’t have stopped either. Then again, I couldn’t really blame the guy for snapping another picture over his shoulder as he ran. Between the bare chest, the golden-brown hair, and the streaks of mustard—it was paparazzi gold.