“Great. Make it happen.”
Both women, elated with the idea of having another space to haggle over, rushed off. Eve let out a single grateful breath.
“Well done.” Roarke stepped up to her, offered her a tube of Pepsi.
“Thanks.” She cracked it, guzzled. “Why do you have gifts for everybody? They get to come, get to eat, get to drink, get live music. I see the stage over there.”
“They’re guests, it’s Christmas. It’s a token.”
“They didn’t sound like tokens. But it’s your dough.”
He slid an arm around her waist, kissed her temple. “Our party.”
“Yeah.” Cleared of florist and decorator, she took a fresh look around.
All the trees up and dressed, and, okay, they looked pretty terrific. She watched a guy in a watch cap and combat boots fiddle with some sort of handheld—then grin as lights, pale gold, spread tiny stars over the ceiling.
“Fucking A, I’m just that good!” he called out, and someone laughed.
Tables, she assumed for food, ranged against the two side walls. Little hightops clustered here and there, all draped in that pale gold again. She noted some of them already held a low display of red flowers, tiny gold pinecones, white candles.
She began to see how it would be.
“Pretty snazzy.”
“One hopes.” He took the tube, had a sip for himself.
“But friendly. And—I get the crystals, the snowflakes. It’s Christmas, it’s winter. But it’s warm. It’s welcoming, I guess.”
“Then we’ve hit the mark, haven’t we?”
“Hey!” She called across the room, grabbed the tube back from Roarke and strode over to two workmen wheeling in another tower of flowers. “Don’t bring that in here.”
“Bower said—”
“It’s too much for in here. It’ll look better on the terrace.”
“But Bower said—”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what Bower said. This is my party. I’m in charge. Take it out. I’ll show you where.”
Slipping his hands into his pockets, Roarke watched her point the workmen out again.
Yes, indeed, he thought. They’d hit the mark.
Eve wouldn’t say she enjoyed a couple of hours ordering around decorators and florists and the people who—apparently—feared them. But she couldn’t deny a certain satisfaction in it. And a deeper satisfaction from making sure everyone involved feared her more.
Still it was with huge relief she snuck away, confident everything was under as much control as possible, to grab twenty minutes—okay, maybe an hour—in her office.
She checked her incomings first, surprised and grateful to find one from Mira.
She opened it, scanned it, then homed in on one section.
Victim Ziegler and Suspect Copley both demonstrate a skill in recognizing the needs and desires, strengths and weaknesses of others, and forged careers which utilized that skill. Ziegler in personal training, i.e., the desire of a client to appear more attractive or become more fit, what will motivate them to succeed or appear to succeed. His instinct for culling through those clients, and others, for women who would be amenable to exchanging money for sex and his exploitation of same. His success in these areas encouraged him to expand his limits, exploiting other clients for gain, using illegals to “persuade” other women to engage in sex, then exploiting them for financial gain.
In Suspect Copley’s case, his skills guided him to public relations where he could read clients, using words or images to create campaigns to influence opinion. His secret accounts, financed primarily with money taken from his wife, demonstrate a need to control and, again, for gain. While his career benefits make him financially secure in his own right, he requires more, and feels he deserves more.
He, like Ziegler, has—at least for the short term—successfully lived two lives. With money taken from his wife, money he would feel rightfully his, Copley has established a second residence where he has placed a woman for his own sexual gratification and ego. His choice—a young, naive woman—demonstrates a need for do