“More like whiskey and tobacco,” Waylon said. “You still smoke cigars, Raul?”
Waylon was…Bubbles?
A light danced in the CTO’s amber eyes as he glanced toward Dyer. “Only when there’s good news.”
It was subtle, a curled edge, but Dyer smiled.
The promise of opportunity.
A roar cut through the conversation. The driver jerked the truck left, and Fletcher clung to the guardrail as they skirted by a pack of lions. The pride male rose onto his haunches, sabered teeth snarling.
Holyshit.
Exhaust plumed as the truck raced off. A slow, hesitant laugh parted Fletcher’s lips. She clamped a hand over her mouth to capture it, but adrenaline pulsed through her with every heartbeat. If she didn’t laugh, she didn’t know what she’d do.
“The welcoming committee,” Dyer said, a smile splitting wide open across his face.
He laughed with her, and then Melv laughed, and then Jackie and Raul and Deepti, down and down the ranks until they were all hyenas howling.
An engine buzzed overhead as the plane shot back toward the airport in Madagascar where it would wait in the wings. Leaving them alone for the next seven days. No scheduled meetings, no Slack messages, no stapled memos.
Just a safari paradise.
4
Lydell Manor was less of a house and more of a private resort. A tunnel of veiny baobabs led to an arrangement of polished-stone buildings that were dreadfully out of place among the elephant grass. The strict lines of columns gave way to manicured gardens, and tropical florals filled the air with a heady scent Fletcher wished she could bottle and wear.
More yellow-shirted staff members ushered them through a pair of arched acacia doors. Fletcher forcibly closed her mouth when her jaw fell open.
Glossy parquet floors guided them into a foyer with a grand piano and a three-story ceiling, and in the center hung an antique ormolu and cut glass chandelier that cost Dyer a fortune at a Sotheby’s auction. A sheet of accordioning glass paneled the far wall, and outside, there was an infinity pool with a swim-up bar, an outdoor sauna (as opposed to the indoor sauna) caged by climbing jasmine, and a pristine view of the savanna’s endless horizon. Late sun dripped down the grasslands, gold and bloodred.
If Fletcher’s camera weren’t buried in a trash can in Queens, she’d frame the horizon with imperfect symmetry, balancing the stretched neck of a giraffe with the parasol of an acacia tree. The colors would be breathtaking, all silhouettes and stark contrast.
Somehow, none of that was as surprising as the heads.
Beasts watched their entry. Ferocious, teethed things with beady, lifeless eyes. The heads of the same kinds of animals stalking this stripe of land had been stuffed and transformed into decor. A lion, mouth wide and teeth sharp, perched above the main entrance. Twin elephants flanked either side of the open landing. Three gazelles danced down the hall.
Hunted. Poached. Hung on display.
“Thisis why they had all those animals imported?” Fletcher muttered under her breath.
Beside her, Opal peeled her sunglasses off her face. “I know, right? All the money in the world, and this is how he decorates? Personally, I’d go for something a little less on the nose. Hell of a way for him to blow off some steam, though, I guess.”
Blow off some steam?Fletcher planned corporate retreats, not hunting parties.
Didn’t she?
Nausea brewed behind her belly button as she and Opal joined the others up ahead. Everyone else seemed content to funnel inside the house without second-guessing the decor, no matter how unsettling.
“A tour, perhaps?” Dyer announced to the room. He leaned on his cane with one hand, and a crystal lowball glass had manifested in the other. Suddenly, he looked nothing like the Dyer she knew and more like an Evil Old Rich White Dude.
Oh, god.Washe an Evil Old Rich White Dude? The animal skulls would beg to agree.
“My pleasure. Follow me,” one of the staff members called.
Fletcher knew the woman’s voice from countless calls coordinating Dyer’s trips to Lydell: Carlotta. Tightly woven braids had been balled into a knot on her head with a scarf looped around her ears. She smiled brightly and beckoned them down a corridor.
Everyone moved in packs. The C-suite led the way. Then, the Sales team huddled around Theo with Marketing tight on their heels and Molly from HR floating around between them. Trailing toward the back, Waylon kept whispering things to Joplin, who giggled in answer. The sound was chalkboard nails and teakettle whistles.
