Champagne Cravings

Ava McKnight

Intrigue, champagne and lust—what a
combination!

Lacey is a corporate fraud and
abuse investigator. Her latest assignment is to discover the saboteur of an
ultra-sexy cosmetics campaign. Suddenly she has a multitude of suspects, a
lesbian supermodel who wants to get it on with her and a company full of
bigwigs none too pleased with the direction of her investigation.

Then there’s Mike, the gorgeous
neighbor she finds naked in her shower. She’s been burned by his bad-boy kind
before, but he’s wanted Lacey for three years and it seems he’s ready to make
his move. While the scandal at work has her juices flowing, it’s the hunky Mike
who’s slowly seducing her into shedding her inhibitions. From their first
searing kiss, she’s hooked.

Carnal cravings abound, but can
Lacey overcome her trust issues to accept the love Mike has to offer?

Even Cristal Can’t Take the Sting Out of Being Duped.

When scandal calls, I always answer. I can’t help myself.
I’m fascinated by other people’s dirty deeds and have a natural compulsion to
uncover what motivates them to sin—and help to right the wrong, if I can.

Well-versed in fraud and abuse, I landed my first gig as a
female super sleuth in Corporate America just two short years ago. Gotta tell
you, the things that go on behind closed doors on Madison Avenue, Wall Street
and the like would blow your mind. Some might turn you on a bit too. At least,
that was what happened to me.

Most of my jobs called for me to be in the trenches,
hounding executives and wading through the nitty-gritty to solve cases, such as
embezzlement, the theft of proprietary information or property, and misappropriated
funds, laptops or resources. Tonight, however, I’d lucked out with a more
elegant assignment—investigating the attempted sabotage of a product launch for
Elan Essentials, a
Fortune
500
cosmetics company. For the first
time, I didn’t sit behind a desk overrun with paperwork, one hand pressing a
phone to my ear, the other pecking away at a computer keyboard. Instead, I
sipped champagne and ate caviar.

The over-the-top affair took place near Central Park.
Several hundred elite were on hand, including VIPs from the fashion, modeling
and cosmetics industries, as well as a smattering of movie and rock stars,
politicians and socialites from all over the country. The rooftop of the
prestigious Montlimiere Hotel glittered with twinkle lights in the imported trees
and the pearly white smiles and sparkly diamonds worn by the rich and fabulous.

The star-studded event was centered around a long, narrow
pool, slightly elevated and sectioned off by velvet ropes. A red carpet paved
the way to the lit platform surrounding the water, where the who’s who of the
crowd made their entrances and showed off their designer fashions to the
flashing cameras of the rabid paparazzi.

I’d dressed for the occasion, though I was nowhere near
glamorous enough to stand out in this crowd. For the festivities, I’d styled my
long, dark-brown hair into fat curls secured at the nape of my neck, leaving a
few loose strands around my face. I’d gone to town on my makeup as well, giving
myself smoky eyes and crimson-colored lips that complemented my satiny, silver
gown.

My immersion in the fairytale extravaganza was a nice change
of pace from my past few down-’n-dirty cases; though again, I didn’t catch
anyone’s eye. Not even a bit of media exposure from my days as an investigative
reporter on TV could help me to compete with the notables gathered this
evening.

Of course, that worked to my advantage, since I was on the
clock and anonymity served me well. I hadn’t yet gotten the full scoop on the
woes riddling Elan’s most prestigious product launch to date, and the
associated megamillion-dollar ad campaign, but I trolled the party with purpose
anyway. The flurry of activity gave me plenty of opportunity to catalog faces,
look for any sort of suspicious activity and observe body language. The latter
being my specialty. Having the keen ability to read nonverbal messages had
served me well when it came to snooping around and ferreting out guilty
parties.

In this particular setting, the Elan Essentials’ executives
were of most importance to me. They were the ones in charge of this
ostentatious PR blitz that had miraculously been pulled together in a very
short period of time to counteract an impending campaign leak. As I watched the
vice president of Marketing bicker with the vice president of Public Relations,
recognizing both men from the dossier I’d been provided, Mav Linnear sidled up
next to me.

“Enjoying the party, Miss Mansfield?”

I smiled at Elan’s CEO, a well-groomed man of fifty-one or
two. He was easy on the eyes, with a handsome face and a chocolate-colored gaze
that was both engaging and shrewd. An interesting combination. His cropped,
dark-brown hair had grayed at the temples, giving him a distinguished look,
especially when paired with his impeccable tux. Armani, I deduced.

“This is spectacular. Looks more like an awards ceremony
than a product launch,” I told him. “And Lacey is fine.”

He nodded at the reminder I was a first-name basis kind of
girl, which I’d established over the phone with him a couple days ago, when
we’d briefly conversed and had agreed to meet in person tonight at the hotel.

“I had my doubts we’d pull it off,” he admitted. “Moving the
product launch up nearly two weeks left us all scrambling. But if we hadn’t
made the move, we’d have lost all the momentum and fanfare because of the
leak.”

“I hadn’t thought of how detrimental a premature unveiling
of your ad campaign could be to the launch. But if everyone knows the outcome
before it happens… Yes, I can see where that’d put a damper on things.”

“More than a damper,” he said with a tight laugh. “We’ve put
a lot of eggs in this basket and we’re spending an unprecedented amount on the
model. The entire marketing plan has been top secret, including who we selected
to represent the products.” He’d already told me Elan had signed Biel McKinley,
but he obviously didn’t want to say her name out loud, still striving for the
element of surprise when it came to this astounding turnout of press-worthy
guests. “We made the deal quickly and got right to work. When we shot stills
and TV spots, our security team escorted her through the delivery entrance and
service elevator, in disguise.”

The company had done an excellent job heightening the
speculation of who would represent this highly anticipated line of cosmetics.
Even I’d been curious, before Mav had contacted me and spilled the beans.

Of Biel, he said, “No one knew she was in our studio, except
those closest to the management of the campaign. That means only someone on the
inside knew enough to create the threat of a leak.”

The information had been set to go viral the coming weekend,
the reason Elan had to pull off the event in advance, on a Thursday night. A
web blogger known for reviewing products before they hit the market for public
consumption had recently hinted at having the lowdown on Elan’s new line of
ultra-lightweight and luxurious waterproof makeup—and its undisclosed celebrity
spokesperson—and that’s when Mav had called in the cavalry, which included me.

Giving me a pointed look, he added, “There’s more to this PR
blitz than a product launch. That’s why I need to know who’s sharing embargoed
information and pull the plug on them. Sooner rather than later.”

Ah, a sense of urgency to the matter.
I felt a
familiar tingle of intrigue along my spine as I contemplated reasons why someone
would want to rain on a cosmetics campaign’s parade—especially if the saboteur
was on the inside, rather than a competitor. Though I wasn’t about to rule out
the latter possibility. Infiltrating the organization and working from within
was definitely an angle to consider.

I’d already contacted the blogger, but “mum” was the order
of the day. And since she hadn’t actually posted what she supposedly knew about
the launch, Mav had no substantial grounds for recourse. A hands-tied situation
that didn’t sit well with either of us. And one that meant I had to start from
scratch.

“The background information you provided on your executives
is very helpful,” I said. “I’ll be in first thing tomorrow morning to get the
ball rolling.”

“My assistant has an office set up for you and I’ve alerted
the heads of all of the departments to cooperate with you in whatever capacity
necessary. I want everyone to know how serious I am about finding the culprit.”

I slid a glance toward the two VPs, still engaged in a
heated debate. They were at the top of my list, based on their positions.
They’d be the ones in the know. Their blatant animosity toward each other,
which they didn’t bother hiding from anyone who took an interest in them,
fascinated me as well. No doubt, there was a good deal of competition there.
One of them might attempt to get a leg up in the corporation by undermining the
other’s efforts.

As Mav replaced my empty champagne flute with a fresh one, a
loud chime rang out with panache, like the announcement of the beginning of an
opera at The Met. A hush fell over the crowd. With a hand on my elbow, Mav
directed me forward until we neared the embankment of the pool. Across the
rooftop, the elevator doors slid open and Biel McKinley, supermodel
extraordinaire, stepped out, much to the surprise and delight of those gathered
about. The mystery had been solved this evening, the way Mav had intended and
not a moment before.

The large projection screens mounted in the far corners
captured Biel’s every move as she glided down the red carpet. She looked
spectacular in a midnight-blue satin gown that pulled tight across her flat
stomach, then flowed like a languid-running stream down her long legs and
flared at her calves to create a shimmering puddle of material at her feet.

The bodice of her dress was intricately designed with
sparkly beads along the vee’d neckline, which dipped provocatively to reveal
the inner swells of her round, perky breasts. Her sleek, dark auburn hair
cascaded down her bare back. She moved with such grace and elegance, she
mesmerized us all. And made me feel mousy, even in my designer attire. I
suspected every female in attendance had the same flicker of inferiority when
eclipsed by a woman born to bask in the limelight.

At twenty-one, Biel was already a big-name model, but her
star was still on the rise. Given the monetary investment in the campaign and
the projected exposure Mav had mentioned when he’d first contacted me, I
wouldn’t be surprised if this job served as the skyrocket that sent her career
into the stratosphere.

“Watch carefully,” Mav said as he leaned in, close enough
for me to catch the scent of his expensive-smelling cologne. No doubt from
Elan’s vast collection.

I noticed some of his other executives had joined us,
including the two VPs. From our vantage point, we lost Biel in the throng of
onlookers until she ascended the few steps to the raised pool. A tuxedo-clad
waiter handed her a glass of champagne, which she sipped as the cameras snapped
off a zillion shots.

I had to admit, she was breathtaking. I wasn’t into women by
any stretch of the imagination, but I found this one erotically stirring. She
had deep-set, emerald-green eyes that sparkled under the lights as though she
knew she held the world on a string. Her infectious smile revealed straight
teeth that were blindingly white. Her arms were long and tanned and her narrow
waist accentuated her breasts and hips, giving her a sexy hourglass figure
infinitely more appealing than those of straight-bodied, stick-thin models.

All of these things made her radiant and beautiful, but the
way she carried herself with such confidence, her chin lifted at just the right
angle, her shoulders squared, impressed me the most. Clearly blessed with
self-awareness, the woman knew how to command attention. I could see it by the
way her gaze moved over the crowd with purpose. She made eye contact with
everyone in attendance, it seemed.

When her emerald irises connected with mine, I felt a
physical jolt low in my belly. I couldn’t explain it, other than to say the
woman possessed animal magnetism that transcended genders. She had sex appeal
in spades. She smiled softly at me before her gaze drifted away. I hadn’t quite
gotten my breath back when Biel handed over her champagne glass, kicked off her
sandals and dove smoothly into the water, shocking the hell out of her rapt
audience—and ruining Prada, for God’s sake. The collective gasp echoed across
the rooftop.

She swam the short width of the pool underwater and emerged
moments later, her wet hair still sleek as it smoothed away from her face and
down her back. Climbing the steps on the opposite side with such ease, she
captivated us once more, her makeup still perfectly intact. A few hushed voices
rippled through the crowd, but all eyes were on Biel. Except for mine. I spared
a glance at Mav and then the VPs. They were entranced, triumphant smiles on
their faces. Biel had pulled off her part of the launch. The element of
surprise had not been foiled by the inside saboteur or the blogger.

This case would be a cakewalk. It was just a matter of
poking around until I discovered who’d provided the 411 on the campaign. I
figured I’d have the assignment wrapped up by the middle of next week. I
touched the rim of my champagne flute to Mav’s before taking another sip of Cristal,
as Biel reached the top of the platform. The thin material of her gown clung to
every inch of her. Her small nipples pebbled behind the bodice and the wet
dress plastered to her body outlined the apex of her legs. An effect I realized
was deliberate. A tickle along my clit confirmed how alluring she truly was.

Of course, her stunt was meant to do more than arouse the
masses. But just as I, and the others around me, were about to applaud the
performance, another wave of whispers caught my attention.

Glancing up at Biel’s face, I saw the thin streams of black
trickle down her high cheekbones. Another man dressed in a tux handed her a
fluffy white towel and I had to bite back the urge to scream at Biel—this woman
I didn’t even know—not to wipe her face. But a heartbeat later, she blotted.
When she pulled the towel away, the stunned gasps were much louder this time.
All of the makeup on her beautiful face had smudged.

At first, it was clear she had no idea what the shocked
expressions and embarrassed-for-her intakes of breath were all about. Then she
looked over her slim shoulder at one of the screens, saw the raccoon eyes from
her ruined mascara and let out a loud shriek that resonated deep within me.

My heart sank. Somehow I’d become emotionally invested in this
gig. Not at all something I was accustomed to and it shook me up a bit. Maybe
it was a result of that lingering gaze Biel had given me earlier. Perhaps it
was the reminder of my own professional travesty, which had driven me out of
Phoenix and the microscope I’d lived under when my career had taken its rapid
downward spiral and had caused me to lose myself in the anonymity of bustling
New York City. Whatever the reason, I could empathize with her sudden
mortification.