The Scandal (Billionaire's Beach Book 4) - Christie Ridgway Page 0,1
checking the time?”
“No,” she answered, sheepish. “It’s that hunted feeling I can’t seem to dodge.”
Her two friends shared a glance then adjusted their chairs, further shielding Sara from the rest of the diners in the courtyard.
“Don’t worry,” Emmaline said. “We’ll keep you safe.”
The only place she felt secure these days was behind the walls of Nueva Vida. “I suppose it’s all in my head,” she murmured. “I can’t imagine the world cares about me anymore.”
“With a gossip-hungry audience to feed twenty-four seven, you bet your bippy they still care…especially when the scandal also stars a media uber-mogul they’ve probably all detested for years.”
Emmaline jabbed Charlie in the ribs. “Gee, that’s comforting.”
“Sorry.” Charlie made a face. “Forgive me?”
“Nothing to forgive.” Sara waved the apology away. “Without you, I wouldn’t have found my haven here.”
The other woman worked for a widower and his young son who lived in another beachside home nearby. Charlie’s chance conversation with a property agent had given Sara a lead to the job, and then with the assistance of the Continental Academy, Saranna Reed-Smythe had become Sara Smythe, complete with glowing recommendations from her instructors.
They’d not blamed her for the scandal, thank goodness, though she still felt as if she walked around wearing a scarlet letter.
“Let’s order,” Emmaline said, signaling their circling waitress. “I’m starving.”
The rest of the meal went well. Though her morning interview had been a bust, Emmaline still held hope she’d find a position in the area. Charlie pulled out her ever-present memo book and jotted some suggestions about other avenues for their unemployed friend to explore.
“Still with the notes, huh?” Emmaline said, amusement brightening her eyes.
Charlie sent their friend a censuring look. “I’ll have you know Mr. Archer finds my methods most efficient.”
“Which should be your middle name,” Sara said. “And a stellar quality, in my book.”
“We all love Charlie, of course,” Emmaline said, “I just think she doesn’t let her hair down enough.”
Charlie smoothed her hand over her already-smooth hair. “Now why would I want to do that?”
Emmaline shook her head. “I give up,” she said and then they paid the bill, Charlie’s phone app splitting the amount three ways to the penny after allowing for a generous tip.
Following another round of hugs, the women went their separate ways. Sara slid behind the wheel of her sedan, pulled down the visor against the sun’s glare, and breathed easy for the first time since leaving the estate grounds earlier in the day.
“Time to go home.” Her gaze caught her reflection in the rearview mirror. “I mean back,” she added hastily. “Time to go back.”
It wasn’t a long drive along the Pacific Coast Highway, and with each turn of the tires Sara’s tension eased. She’d made it out of London. Albeit without a penny in her purse and with the knowledge that if she blew this current job she’d be in dire straits. The academy couldn’t be expected to overlook two failed postings and find her another.
But she wouldn’t fail this time.
Already Nueva Vida’s appeal had been enhanced by her attention to the interior and the extensive grounds. The owner’s assistant had made some noise about no long-term promises or plans about the place, but so far, so good. Another nine months to a year without interruption or interference, and she would turn what had been a near-abandoned estate into a beautiful home.
Then if needs be she would move on, taking with her, she hoped, a decent nest egg and a more-than-decent reference.
A car suddenly swerved into her lane, but even that didn’t darken Sara’s bright mood as she touched the brakes. Traffic wasn’t a typical bother, though she’d been told once summer was in full swing the cars would line up bumper-to-bumper. It was early May, however, and soon enough she turned in to the estate. Walls kept it private from lookie-loos, and a heavy wooden gate required she enter a passcode to gain access to the long, descending driveway.
She unrolled her window to reach the keypad, and the green, slightly sweet scent of oleander drifted into the car. The tall and leafy bushes lined the highway side of the estate walls, their flowers pink and red. In Southern California the perennial shrubs marched along freeway medians and sprouted from cracks in the sidewalk, the heat and the car exhaust not slowing them down. They were survivors, like Sara.
Thrivers. She might not be quite there yet herself, but someday. Someday she’d put down real roots and finally learn to flower.