Champagne Cravings by Ava McKnight Read Free Book Online Page B

needed to meet with her as well.
    Biel drew my attention. “Want champagne? We just opened some
Cristal.”
    “Thanks, no.” It was only one o’clock, after all.
    Biel refreshed her drink, then strolled over to the vanity
and popped open a bottle of prescription meds. She tossed back two pills and
washed them down with a sip of her bubbly. Curiosity over what she took nearly
killed me.
    I asked, “Do you have a few minutes to answer some
questions?”
    “Sure,” she said in her soft, singsong voice. “But just a
few. I’ve got to get across town to meet with my agent. Big doings this
afternoon.”
    She reached for her iPhone, scrolled through calls or emails
or texts and then plopped down on a pristine, armless white sofa. Patting the
cushion next to her, she said, “Have a seat.”
    I elected to sit across from her on a matching sofa, the
coffee table between us. That didn’t work for me, though. I couldn’t get the
image of Biel perched on the edge of it as Piper fucked her from my mind. I
moved to a chair.
    Biel smiled again. “I’ve made you horribly uncomfortable.”
    “Not at all,” I lied. “Um, can you give me a rundown of
events from the time you arrived here yesterday until the unveiling of the
makeup on the rooftop at the Montlimiere?”
    She nodded. “Of course. But there’s a lot to tell and I’m
running behind. A terrible habit, if you didn’t notice from Piper’s snarky
comment.” She stood and went over to the closet to pull out a suit. Holding a
color-blocked one with a tiered hem in front of her, she asked, “What do you
think? Conservative enough for a business meeting with my agent?”
    Another trendy ensemble that blew my mind, and one much too
cutting edge to ever be considered conservative. Regardless, I said, “It’s
great.”
    “Phew. I’m so not into professional attire.” Her emerald
gaze slid over me. “But you’re clearly a business fashionista. I love your
suit. Donna Karan, right? My mom’s a huge fan.”
    “Thanks. Uh, Biel,” I ventured, ignoring her last comment. I
already felt way too fucking old to be in her presence. “Aren’t you concerned
about the fallout of the botched product launch?”
    “Well, yeah, sure,” she said as she untied the sash at her
waist and dropped trou right there in front of me. The woman didn’t have an
uninhibited bone in her body. I found myself jealous of her. Not so much that
she was drop-dead gorgeous—perfection personified, to be exact—but because she
was so confident about, and comfortable with, her body. With herself in
general.
    As she rummaged around in a waist-high drawer for a thong, I
presumed, she continued. “I was totally beside myself last night. I mean, what
a fucking nightmare, right? And I was like, so unprofessional. I shrieked in
front of hundreds of people at the party and, inevitably, millions of viewers
on TV and the Internet. Seriously, how bad is that?”
    She spared a quick glance over her shoulder, then returned
her attention to the lingerie chest and dug around a bit more until she found
what she was looking for. Black satin strings that I, in my now over-the-hill
mindset, couldn’t figure out how they constituted underwear.
    I didn’t get a chance to respond to her question. She
quickly added, “So I bawled all night long as if I was a two year old, then
woke up this morning and thought, ‘You know, you just have to be honest about
your reaction and hope the world forgives you.’ I tweeted about the whole
thing, apologized, said I was embarrassed by my reaction, but that I was also
upset because of the way the whole incident hurt Elan. I posted the message to
my wall too, and everyone on Facebook was so supportive.”
    She slipped into the strappy G-string and turned back to me.
I kept my eyes glued to her face, not the bare breasts that would make most Playboy centerfolds want to slit their wrists. “I’m totally blown away by how wonderful
everyone has been—and I picked up even