Public Relations by Tibby Armstrong Page A

his phone as he stalked toward the bath. On the way he told Miles to call his car service. He’d have to go in to the newspaper today. Though he’d avoided the place for the past week, loath to spend energy on a business that would ultimately give him the least return on his investment, he couldn’t stay away forever. Not if he intended to discover the name of Gigi Montrose’s gossipy friend.
    A lush mouth, cherry red in its glossy fullness, joined the gray-green eyes, tempting him to curse again. Flicking on the television in his bathroom, he focused on the morning financial reports and finished getting ready. On the way down to the car, he dialed Carl.
    “Donner,” Carl answered, clearly distracted by something or someone.
    Peter eyed the waterfall cascading off the lobby awning. “Shit, it’s raining.”
    A male voice said something unintelligible in the background, and Carl covered the receiver, momentarily muffling his conversation.
    “Sorry,” he said, returning after a moment. “And good morning to you too.”
    “I forgot my umbrella,” Peter explained. “Miles is slipping.”
    “So I gathered.” A slurp of coffee, then he said, “Do you want me to drive there to get it for you?”
    Peter chuckled. “That’s why I call you.”
    “Comedic relief?”
    “To remind me not to be such a prima donna.”
    “If that’s all you want, I’ll try harder to take you down a peg or two when we talk.”
    Peter snorted. “Thanks. At least it’s not slushing.”
    The car pulled up to the entrance, gleaming black against the gray of the December day. The driver came around to open Peter’s door, an umbrella covering the vehicle entry. Clutching his cell to his ear, Peter dashed out of the lobby. Water ran in a river along the gutter, gurgling and rushing toward a sewer drain. In the chill air, the city smelled clean in a way it rarely did. Peter breathed deep. Car door shut, he became separate from the world again.
    “Do you ever wish you could just go outside and get soaking wet?” He lifted his hips, drawing his coat upward to relieve the pull at his shoulders. “Let the rain do its worst?”
    A pause preceded Carl’s “Are you feeling all right?”
    “Yeah. I’m…” Peter eyed the water blurring the view of the yellow cab that had pulled up alongside them at a light. “Right as rain.”
    “Cute.”
    “So, I know it’s not your job, but I’m wondering if you can help me some more with this Gigi Montrose thing?” Cell clamped between his cheek and shoulder, Peter opened his briefcase and withdrew a folder.
    “Still no luck with your PI?”
    “The woman is a complete mystery.” The traffic lurched forward, and he tried to ignore the motion sickness that reared whenever he read in a moving vehicle.
    “Most are.”
    “Yes, well this one is more mysterious than most.” Peter flipped through the folder’s meager contents. So far he had a possible range of birth years and a photo from a Manhattan society event. “I have a lead on a London solicitor, but they won’t talk to me or my team. Any ideas?”
    “You said that girl— What’s her name? Arizona?”
    Peter laughed. “Georgia. Her name is Georgia.”
    “Yeah. Well, you said they know each other.” A microwave beeped in the background as Carl probably heated his coffee. “Why not ask her to make a dinner date with the Montrose woman for you?”
    Why hadn’t he thought of that? He’d been so close to the problem he’d completely missed the obvious. “You know, Carl, that’s why I pay you the big bucks.”
    “I could use a raise,” Carl joked.
    “Then increase your fees when we re-up your contract next month.”
    “Are you serious?”
    “I reward good work from my employees. You should know that by now.”
    “Yeah. Thanks, Peter.” Carl sounded wistful, maybe even a little hurt.
    Peter started to ask what was up, but the driver pulled the car to the curb outside the brick newspaper building and Peter tabled his worries. If