Mistress(84)

Anne Hathaway should try slutty. She’s done sexy but not slut—

“Coming your way, coming your way. A black sedan. It’s moving slowly.”

Okay, focus, Ben. A black sedan. Maybe a government vehicle.

Maybe a billionaire’s vehicle.

“She sees it, too. She’s grabbing her purse. Now she’s heading for the door.”

I rise slowly, sitting on my knees, using my hands to part the shrubs and get a look at the street. “Tell me if I’m sticking up over the hedge,” I say.

“You’re good, you’re still hidden.”

“Use that camera, Sean. Snap everything you can. I’m not sure I’ll have a view.”

“Will do.”

The good news for me is that this parcel of grass where I’m hiding is elevated, raised off the sidewalk, so I can see over the car parked outside Anne’s building.

I see the black sedan pull up by Anne’s building. I listen to the hum of an engine idling. There’s absolutely no reason why anyone in that sedan would be looking in my direction, and according to Sean they wouldn’t be able to see me anyway, but none of that stops my heartbeat from kicking into full throttle.

I hear Anne’s front door open, then the clack of her shoes bounding down the small set of stairs.

The sedan’s rear passenger door opens and, as I’d hoped, the overhead dome light comes on, bathing the interior of the vehicle in light. A man in a dark suit gets out and frisks Anne before she gets in the car. Then she almost dives into the backseat, greeting the person sitting back there with a full-on, passionate kiss.

Anne Brennan is kissing someone, and it’s not me.

“Jesus Christ, is that who I think it is?” Sean cries.

The guy in the dark suit closes the rear door and gets in the front passenger seat. A moment later, the interior light evaporates and the car is dark again.

“Should I follow the car?” Sean asks.

I let out a breath, my chest burning. “No,” I say.

The car drives off briskly. I release the shrubs.

And my brain releases a flurry of thoughts.

Operation Delano…worse than a sex tape of the president…Delano…

Shit. Of course. I’ve been so stupid.

“Ben, did you see inside that car? Is that who I think—”

“Yes,” I say, falling down to my haunches. “That’s who you think it is.”





Chapter 98



Sean Patrick Riley and I sit in his rental car outside my fleabag hotel. It’s been three hours since we left Anne Brennan’s house. Three hours for me to process what I saw in the back of that sedan.

And three hours to figure out what to do next.

“You’re sure about this plan?” Sean asks me.

I sigh. “No, but I can’t think of any other. I have to do something.”

“No, you don’t,” Sean says. “Who put you in charge of saving the world? If I were you, I’d get as much money as I could out of that Russian billionaire, cut whatever deal you need to cut with the feds, and move to some island. But that’s just me.”

The guy makes a good point.

“And this whole plan of yours depends on the video,” Sean says.

“Right. Now that I know what’s on it, I can make this plan work.”

He grunts with disapproval. “You mean now that you think you know what’s on the video, you think you can make this plan work.”

That’s a bit more accurate, yes.

“I mean, you’re just making an educated guess, Ben. And if you’re wrong, you’re basically fucked.”

“Just worry about your phone call,” I say, changing the subject. “You’re sure you have the phone number?”

He groans. “I do. I’ve already read it back to you.”

He’s not used to someone giving him directions. That’s probably one of the reasons he stopped being a cop and became his own boss as a private eye.

“And you’ll use an untraceable phone,” I say.

He waves me off. “Yes. Yes, already. Don’t worry, Ben. I’m capable of making one damn phone call.”

I nod. We are quiet for a moment. At least Sean seems to be enjoying the excitement. Me, I have acid burning a hole in my stomach.

“If your plan doesn’t work,” Sean informs me, “you’re done. They’ll arrest you and bury you in a hole. You can make all kinds of wild accusations, but you won’t be able to prove them.”

All that is true, of course.

“And that assumes you survive, the odds of which are fifty-fifty at best, in my opinion.”

Never tell me the odds, Han Solo said in Star Wars as he navigated around the oncoming asteroids.

“Then my plan better work,” I say.