But the moron did. “I’d like to see that!” he scoffed loudly.
“Fuck you. No watching.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the subject of their conversation walking briskly down the hall away from them toward the exit. Evan shot forward and caught up to her, grabbing her arm before she got to the elevator. “Hey!”
She looked down pointedly to where he gripped her and then back up to him, as if to say what without actually going to the trouble of saying it.
“Where are you going?”
“I have some errands to do for Mr. Reynolds. Mr. Michael Reynolds.”
“Maybe, but you’re sure as hell going to take care of some business for Mr. Evan Reynolds.”
Chris was watching them, but far enough away so he couldn’t hear.
“Where?” she repeated tightly, staring him straight in the eyes.
“The penthouse suite at the Wrentham.”
“Fine. Give me an hour or two.”
He dropped his hand and she left.
Chris came up to stand behind him. “Wow. No need to manhandle the poor girl,” he scolded. “No means no, bro.”
Evan didn’t bother to correct him.
* * * * *
Jack Tottingham ordered another Bloody Mary and waited for his appointment to show. He glanced at the flat-screen television in the corner of the bar, which showed a man being taken out of an exclusive apartment building in handcuffs. A plainclothes policeman was walking beside him in the pouring rain and putting him into an unmarked police car. They’d been playing the same clip over and over, alternating it with a shot of Michael Reynolds being rushed into an ambulance and spirited away to be patched up by the best doctors Damien Reynolds’ money could buy. Good. About time some rain fell in his old school chum’s charmed life.
Jack looked at the deluge on the screen. Rain fell. Good one.
Carlo Bruscinni slid into the barstool next to him. About time.
“Sorry I’m late.” Carlo shook his head at the bartender who came over. “Nothing for me.”
Bad sign. This appointment was apparently going to go the way of all Jack’s other ones. South.
Bruscinni had his eyes glued to the TV screen. “Did you see that? Incredible thing. Nobody is safe these days.”
“Yes, well, sometimes you get what you ask for.”
“Oh? You know Michael Reynolds?”
“No. I knew his father.”
“I don’t know the patriarch, I must admit, but I’ve always found the sons to be quite straightforward. I’m sorry to see this,” he gestured toward the screen, “trouble. Although perhaps I should give my little goddess there a call and see how she’s faring.”
Jack looked at the clip he’d seen a dozen times since he had sat down in this dreary, overpriced bar. Michael Reynolds’ white, apparently unconscious figure on a stretcher—incredible Damien hadn’t managed to put a quash yet on broadcasting this tape, but he undoubtedly had other things on his mind than controlling all his puppets in the media right now—while some girl who was no more than a tumble of blonde curls hovered anxiously over the stretcher and climbed into the ambulance behind it.
“Goddess?” Like all Italians Jack knew, Carlo was a notorious womanizer. Typical, the man would view that scene and think about the woman in it, although Bruscinni should take care if he intended to poach on Reynolds’ preserve. That family was full of men who were quite the womanizers themselves. “The blonde?” he asked absently. “She doesn’t look like much to me but I suppose she isn’t at her best right then.”
“No, not her. I don’t know who she is. No, I mean Michael’s secretary.”
“Oh, is he sleeping with her too?”
Carlo muttered some curse in Italian that Jack knew the gist of if not the literal translation and held a hand up to his heart. When he switched to English, he said, curtly, “No. I would never believe it of my angel.” He added wryly, “She’s saving her virginity for me. I know it.”
Jack laughed. Any girl Carlo set his sights on wouldn’t keep her virginity for long. Not that he gave a rat’s ass about his companion’s sex life, but he wanted to be congenial, so he said, “Oh? Who would that be?”
“The alluring Miss Prentiss.” He said it as if it was some kind of a title. “Look at this.” Whipping out his phone, he brought up an image, showing it as proudly as he would a wedding picture. Pathetic. It was a shot of a brunette scowling at the camera. She was pretty enough, but really…what nonsense.
“She’s going to bear my children someday,” Carlo said, although his attention had drifted from the photo or even the television screen to a lush redhead who slid into the barstool two down from him. He smiled at the flesh-and-blood alternative to his goddess and started to slip his phone back into his pocket.