I open the folder before snapping it shut again. As Ross pointed out, the pictures are risqué, but since Isabelle’s hands are down the front of my pants, they’re not exactly nudes.
Ross chokes on his spit when I mutter, “Give Hunter the SD card.” I’m not asking him to do this. I’m telling him it’s what he’s going to do. “Then write up the pap on a citation.”
“For what?” he asks, his voice a mix of shock and reverse. “As much as the paparazzi are vermin, nothing he did is illegal.” After nudging his head to the file in my hand, he mumbles, “That, on the other hand—”
“Occurred on private property.”
“Not that far out from the shore, it wasn’t,” pipes up the man sitting in the back of Officer Johns’s car. “Attwood Electric doesn’t own the Atlantic Ocean.” When my sideway glance warns him how close to the line he’s treading, he holds his hands in the air like he is in the process of being arrested. “Hey. I’m just doing my job. Images like that are front-page news. Their sale will put my kids through college.”
I should have realized this was about money. Whether it’s a shady mafia man clinging to a criminal entity that should have sunk years ago or the manager of a ma and pa corner store, every single transaction these days comes back to a monetary amount.
“How much?”
Hunterpfftsmy offer. “Don’t offer him a dime, boss. I can wipe images within a second of them hitting any server in the country before distributing every dollar he made from their sale to people more needy of the coin.”
“I’m not offering to buy these images. I have no doubt you will do as suggested. I want to know his hourly rate to follow me around for a couple of days.”
Everyone but Hunter looks lost.
“You want me to tail you?” the journalist asks, his brow high with shock.
I jerk up my chin. “As long as you agree to sell your images to bothRavenshoe NewsandHopeton News.”
The dollar signs flashing in his eyes dull. “They’re small fry. I could get a thousand a piece at a bigger publication. They’ll be lucky to hand over a hundred a pop.” My plan deepens when he dumps the cigarette he’s partway through smoking onto the ground, stomps out the glowing ash with his boot, then digs his camera out of the back of the patrol car. “Just this one was snagged by a Las Vegas publication last night.” He shows me an image of Isabelle and me leaving the 57 nightclub. Excluding Isabelle’s flushed face and wide-with-lust eyes, there’s nothing extraordinary about this image. “I asked for the sky, he gave me every fucking star.”
“Who?”
He stops gleaming like a chump. “Sources are kept confidential for a reason.”
I stray my narrowed eyes to Hunter. “I’ll get you a name within the hour.”
The journalist scoffs, having no clue Hunter never messes around.
If it’s electronic, he’ll find it.
I pull a business card out of my wallet before handing it to the journalist. “If you don’t want him going througheverytransaction you’veevermade, forward him your source’s contact details to this address.” I tap on the email address cited at the bottom of my business card. “Once you’ve done that, I’ll forward you the address of every establishment I plan to visit over the next two weeks. You can take as many pictures as you like and distribute them globally.” The dollar signs in his eyes are back stronger than ever. “But…” I wait to build the suspense, “… if I ever catch you taking a photo of this woman…” I turn his camera back to face him so he can take in Isabelle’s features long enough to burn them into his retinas, “… you will lose the ability to breathe, much less sell her image again. Do I make myself clear?”
The pap’s eyes stray to Officer Johns, who does a mighty fine job of acting ignorant when needed before he returns them to me.
Realizing Ross won’t be of any help, he works his throat through a hard swallow before bobbing his head up and down.
“Words,” I snap out. “Because even pests of the paparazzi know a verbal contract is legally binding.”
“Yes,” he pushes out in a flurry. “I understand.”
“Good.” I snatch his camera out of his hand before tossing it into Hunter’s chest. “Make sure every image is removed before returning it to him. If you can’t do that without destroying it, do that, then organize a replacement camera.”
Hunter hums, advising he understands me before asking, “And the ones I printed?” I answer him by tightening my grip on the manilla folder. “Understood,” he mutters under his breath with a concealed grin.
His chuckles are still ringing in my ear when I slide behind the steering wheel of my town car and slam the door shut. I had planned to go home and shower before my ‘date’ tonight, but with the safe in my office far more advanced than the one at my home, I take a detour instead.
Isabelle isn’t sleeping in these photos, but the loved-up look on her face is all the proof I need that they need to be added to my ever-growing collection of the images I have of her.
34
The staff take a wide birth around me when they spot my stalk through the back entrance of the Dungeon. I’ve been a grouch the past couple of weeks. My empire is running seamlessly, profits are rolling in, and the reporter who had no choice but to delete every photograph he had of Isabelle has been making a killing out of the almost daily dates he’s chaperoned the past two weeks, yet my mood is woeful.
It’s been on a downward spiral ever since my first ‘date’ got the jump on me. Since I was paying more attention to ensuring the paparazzi caught my date’s face, when I leaned in to farewell her with a cheek kiss, she angled her head in enough time for our lips to lock.
