"Leo's not going to sign the contract. Not after tonight."
"Of course she is. Come on. You rescued her from dirty old Montgomery. You're a fucking hero."
I strongly suspect that hero is in the eye of the beholder.
She throws her phone down. "Oh, stop sulking already. Even if she does get difficult, you'll find a way around it. Right?"
Maybe I don't want to be a hero. Not unless it serves a purpose. I like the shadows better, where the dark things hide.
Tuija studies me, rolling her shoulders. "You like her, don't you?"
"Perhaps."
"So...how do we play this? Our arrangement, I mean."
Ah. The arrangement where Tuija poses as my alleged girlfriend in order to maintain my image. It's almost become a facet of the public Mr Lore; nobody looks too hard at my love life these days because they just don't think to. Any encounter I've had, any occasional indulgence, has been swiftly buried under a heap of cash and the odd non-disclosure agreement. And even then, I've controlled myself. Learned from my mistakes.
As a rule, I do not court women in public. It tends to result in assault and battery.
Tuija's looking at me like I'm some rejected puppy, like I've come running to her with my tail between my legs. The idea that she considers me so vulnerable makes my insides shrivel. Although maybe letting her believe that would work to my advantage. Maybe it always has. It keeps her agreeable in circumstances that prevent her taking lovers of her own.
There are CEOs who consult PR companies for this kind of bullshit. Not me. I've made an entire career manipulating the news to suit myself, and I can play the system like chess. Rules: I bend them. Laws: I break them. There's not a smart mouth in this world that I can't buy. And if that sounds like arrogance, it's because it is. Life will not give you lemons if you put your hand out and ask for them nicely—it will just bite your fucking hand off.
"I guess it depends." I roll melting ice around my glass. Listen to it clink and slosh. "I was hardly all over her on the red carpet. And she's not going to talk, not to the press."
"Other press, you mean."
"Uhuh." The image of her bloodied thumb comes back to me, the way she swept it between her lips to lick. "I don't think she's the type to overshare."
"So...?"
"Whatever you're asked, it's no comment. And if anything changes, I'll let you know."
If anything changes.
If Leo and I were to become...involved.
I'd say it was unlikely, but that's only if you factor in this amusing idea of me giving her a choice.
***
Monday morning mindfuckery at Lore Corp is most definitely in session. Between the suspect breakthroughs on the JFK incident, the usual inpouring of complaints from the public because our news crews are allegedly obstructing the crime scene, and the press fallout from the Suicide Ball—thank you, Kasha, for rolling drunk off your stretcher to cuss at Aspen Paverley—by eight AM, I'm already itching to escape. For this reason, I turn my security meeting with Harvey into a jog around Central Park.
There are no assistants to annoy us, no phones ringing, no security team; sweat and speed render us unrecognisable. It's just me, Harvey, the soft crunch of stones and dust beneath our running shoes, and the spring green overhang of old trees. Other joggers dart around us, intimidated by the quiet bubble we run in. Harvey and I jog together at least once a week—ironically, for privacy.
"So." We turn to run around a huge maple, and for a moment, are swallowed by its shadows. "You have intel from Friday?" I ask.
Harvey nods. His breath is harsh but regular. "Followed M home. He went as far as the East Village and then switched to another car—a Prius, sir. Goddam pansy. Said Prius went to a penthouse—"
"You checked the ownership, right?
"I'm getting to that." He holds up a bulky hand. "The owner of the apartment is listed as Gretchen Piers."
I wipe a drop of sweat from my eye. "As in, chair of the FCC, Piers? His daughter? You're shitting me."
"Oh, it gets better. Gretchen isn't the only one who lives there."
As we emerge from the cluster of maples, the lake comes into view. Sunshine bounces along the water in streaks of rippling silver.
"Go on," I urge.
"The other resident is her twin brother, Gregory."
Oh, this is too good. "Tell me he's gay, Harvey."
A calculating grin spreads across his stubbly face. "Gay as they come."
Middle America pretend they don't care about who everyone else is fucking, but that's garbage. If this came to light, GNS would forever be dubbed Gay News Systems and would probably lose at least a quarter of its audience. They'd have to kiss any business in the Middle East goodbye. Montgomery does a lot of underhand shit—his last wife was involved in the most convenient of 'accidents'—but honestly, this is far better than anything I could've got on that. "We're thinking drunken booty call, right? Because that's what it sounds like."
"Something like that."
"In bed with the FCC. I love it." I return his grin, squinting into the sunshine. "In bed with the FCC's cock. Fucking exemplary. You have evidence?"
He swipes his forearm across his damp, shiny forehead. "A couple photos of him going into the building. I've already assigned a full detail for the next week to see what we can pick up."
I glance around, making a hundred percent sure we're out of earshot. The nearest jogger, some senior in a headband, is a good twenty feet away. "Hack the bastard's phone," I say in a low voice.
Harvey frowns. "I thought we weren't going there again."
"Officially...we aren't."
"You know how these things get."
Bloodthirsty. "Uhuh."
A solemn nod. "You want voicemails?"
"And texts. Whatever you can get. Just use them as leads, things we can attribute to coincidence."
"Understood." He pulls to a stop, leaning over to brace his hands on his thighs.
A second later, I join him. My calves are on fire, yet feel strangely light. A little like the way I felt standing over Leo on that balcony.
God, there's a thought.
"You still planning on entertaining the literary agent tonight?" Harvey asks.
"In a word."
"You have any idea who they actually are?" He stands up straight. "We've got nothing besides the security camera footage of the guy who hand-delivered that last letter. And he's just a John Doe."
"Not tonight, he isn't." I cock my heel and lean into a calf stretch. "I'll get it out of him."
"Try not to get your other lip bitten off, hey?"
"Oh, fuck you." I press my lips together just to feel the twinge of pain. The swelling has eased off now, but a purple crescent of a bruise hangs beneath my bottom lip, and I needed three stitches on the inside where the lion sank her teeth. "She was drunk."
Harvey's eyes grow distant. "Of course she was."
My head of security knows more about me than any other member of staff. Over the years, he's been more than an employee; he's been a trusted source. An alibi. There are other things, things I'd never tell anyone—things like Rachel Fordham. But Harvey knows when to push for answers and when to shut the hell up; it's half the reason I hired him. The other reason is that for a security professional's client to get caught out—that's career suicide. Harvey has a good deal here, and he's too selfish to sacrifice himself.
"I'll be on call if you need me," he adds in a tone that suggests he thinks it likely.
This is a shut-the-hell-up moment, and he knows it.
Fifteen minutes later, we arrive back at the Lore Corp building. Tuija, who waits for me by the tall glass reception desk, strides over and hands me a towel. Together, we walk to the elevator. I pat myself down as we go.
"Good run?" she asks.
"Oh yeah." The elevator doors draw closed, and the slow hum of acceleration pervades our silence. I can smell the salt in my own sweat. "Any news on the contract?"
She tugs at a curl of red hair. "Um...no. Sorry, boss."
"You think I should send her some flowers or something?" I'm only half-asking to flatter Tuija's ego. The other half of me is actually curious about this idea, despite the fact I've always considered sending flowers to be code for they were all out of bullshit apologies.