from everything except the society pages.
âI moved on to other things, some new interests.â Which was no answer.
âBut kept the same boyfriend all these years?â
Okay, so that didnât sound particularly professional, but too bad; given their personal history, he was curious.
More than curious.
âBoyfriend?â One perfectly arched eyebrow lifted a fraction of an inch.
âThe underwear model,â Smith said, getting to the heart of the other two thirds of the article. The
Ocean
writer had all but swooned on the page over the guy and packed the interview with all the juicy details.
Juicy.
Details.
Smith had marched the damn thing up to the thirteenth floor at Steele Street and shown the article and its accompanying âyoung stud in his underwearâ photo to Skeeter, to get a girlâs opinion.
Baby Bang had taken one look at Honeyâs boyfriend and grinned like the Cheshire cat. âSex on a stickâ had been her girlish opinion. âSomething women like to lick,â sheâd addedâwhich was way more opinion than heâd wanted.
So what. It was none of his business, not really, and he didnât know why in the hell it bothered him.
Yes, he did.
âRobbie MacAllister?â Honey asked.
Yes, according to
The Washington Post
âs society page the week Smith had gotten back from El Salvador. Thereâd been a nice picture of the two of them at some fashion gala, the guy with his arm around her, holding her close, looking very protective, which had bugged the crap out of him. Smith had been the one protecting her in El Salvador, and doing a damn good job of it under circumstances a helluva lot more threatening than a frigginâ fashion show.
âHe looks young.â Damned young, and immature, and dissolute, especially in the picture of what was apparently his most famous underwear ad, the one included in the
Ocean
article. The young guys Smith worked with didnât have the luxury of pouting in their underwear for a living, but he couldnât see Honey York dating an Army Ranger. Never in a million years. And he couldnât see her dating a DEA agent.
Or an SDF operator.
Hell. What had happened between them had been a fluke, a point that had hit home hard when heâd seen the society page and realized it had taken her all of a day and a half to bounce back into a social whirl complete with a boyfriendâa very young, very rich, celebrity boyfriend. It was enough to make a guy wonder if heâd made any kind of an impact at all.
And then sheâd made the society page again, the next week, on the arm of a French count, which had especially rankled. European royalty, in general, didnât sit well with Smith. Quasi-famous, polo-playing, race-car-driving, champagne-sipping French royalty didnât sit well at all. But hell, he wasnât the boss of her.
That job, apparently, belonged to the guy sheâd shown up with in Manhattan two weeks later, the hedge-fund king of Wall Street, a guy much older than her who looked like anything that happened between him and his underwear needed to be kept private. Very private. Theyâd lasted a whole weekend, and then, the next week, it had been back to the underwear model, and then back to the hedge-fund king for another fun-filled weekend of opera openings and charity fund-raisers.
The last time Smith had checked the society page, the day before heâd left for Peru, sheâd been with a whole new guy who went by the unbelievable name of Kip-Woo, but whose real name apparently was Elliot Fletcher-Wooten III.
Geezus.
She made his head spin.
âWell, he was young when he started in the business, and the underwear campaign took him straight to the top. Actually, the whole campaign was considered a turning point in male fashion photography,â Honey said. âBut why in the world are we talking about Robbie MacAllister?â
At least the guy wasnât
âI moved on to other things, some new interests.â Which was no answer.
âBut kept the same boyfriend all these years?â
Okay, so that didnât sound particularly professional, but too bad; given their personal history, he was curious.
More than curious.
âBoyfriend?â One perfectly arched eyebrow lifted a fraction of an inch.
âThe underwear model,â Smith said, getting to the heart of the other two thirds of the article. The
Ocean
writer had all but swooned on the page over the guy and packed the interview with all the juicy details.
Juicy.
Details.
Smith had marched the damn thing up to the thirteenth floor at Steele Street and shown the article and its accompanying âyoung stud in his underwearâ photo to Skeeter, to get a girlâs opinion.
Baby Bang had taken one look at Honeyâs boyfriend and grinned like the Cheshire cat. âSex on a stickâ had been her girlish opinion. âSomething women like to lick,â sheâd addedâwhich was way more opinion than heâd wanted.
So what. It was none of his business, not really, and he didnât know why in the hell it bothered him.
Yes, he did.
âRobbie MacAllister?â Honey asked.
Yes, according to
The Washington Post
âs society page the week Smith had gotten back from El Salvador. Thereâd been a nice picture of the two of them at some fashion gala, the guy with his arm around her, holding her close, looking very protective, which had bugged the crap out of him. Smith had been the one protecting her in El Salvador, and doing a damn good job of it under circumstances a helluva lot more threatening than a frigginâ fashion show.
âHe looks young.â Damned young, and immature, and dissolute, especially in the picture of what was apparently his most famous underwear ad, the one included in the
Ocean
article. The young guys Smith worked with didnât have the luxury of pouting in their underwear for a living, but he couldnât see Honey York dating an Army Ranger. Never in a million years. And he couldnât see her dating a DEA agent.
Or an SDF operator.
Hell. What had happened between them had been a fluke, a point that had hit home hard when heâd seen the society page and realized it had taken her all of a day and a half to bounce back into a social whirl complete with a boyfriendâa very young, very rich, celebrity boyfriend. It was enough to make a guy wonder if heâd made any kind of an impact at all.
And then sheâd made the society page again, the next week, on the arm of a French count, which had especially rankled. European royalty, in general, didnât sit well with Smith. Quasi-famous, polo-playing, race-car-driving, champagne-sipping French royalty didnât sit well at all. But hell, he wasnât the boss of her.
That job, apparently, belonged to the guy sheâd shown up with in Manhattan two weeks later, the hedge-fund king of Wall Street, a guy much older than her who looked like anything that happened between him and his underwear needed to be kept private. Very private. Theyâd lasted a whole weekend, and then, the next week, it had been back to the underwear model, and then back to the hedge-fund king for another fun-filled weekend of opera openings and charity fund-raisers.
The last time Smith had checked the society page, the day before heâd left for Peru, sheâd been with a whole new guy who went by the unbelievable name of Kip-Woo, but whose real name apparently was Elliot Fletcher-Wooten III.
Geezus.
She made his head spin.
âWell, he was young when he started in the business, and the underwear campaign took him straight to the top. Actually, the whole campaign was considered a turning point in male fashion photography,â Honey said. âBut why in the world are we talking about Robbie MacAllister?â
At least the guy wasnât
Similar Books
