Page 4 of The Roommate Subtext

“They investigate financial crimes.” His tone remained light. “I’m sure you’ll hear about it from your own financial team soon enough. Even a whiff of impropriety and these vultures swoop in to pick through the carcass. Pardon the expression.”

Maggie’s heart rate quickened, along with a queasy feeling in her stomach. That missed call from James felt far more ominous now. She didn’t have a good sense of her family’s financial history. Her parents had always been very private about money. It wasn’t until they’d died that she’d even learned how wealthy they were, and the breadth of their investment portfolio had been too much for her to fully understand. Their business manager retired immediately thereafter, and she’d been left in the thick of estate managers and lawyers and financial consultants. It had taken months working with a finance manager to get everything set up for her and Cora to live in moderate stability. She didn’t want to dig into the weeds of their past. She didn’t want to think that there might be weeds in their past.

“Financial crimes,” she repeated, almost to herself. “What will they find?”

Chauvel let the pen roll off his fingertips. “Probably nothing. I’ve been through this before, and I’ve got a team who specializes in making sure everything turns out all right. But in the meantime, you could be looking at frozen assets for however long they investigate. Weeks, months, maybe years, if it’s a federal situation.”

“Years,” Maggie parroted, her head spinning. She’d never had her assets frozen. She and Cora lived mostly on the dividends from their investments. What if that was all cut off? She forced her attention back to Chauvel. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I thought you and I could help each other out.” He smiled, but it didn’t put her at ease. “Like I said, I’ve been through this a time or two before, and it’s been essential for me to retain access to capital. I have some very useful connections. I’m sure I could pull a few strings to keep your assets liquid while this mess resolves itself.”

Maggie didn’t understand what that might entail, and she didn’t want to be in this man’s debt. “And you’ll want something in return.”

Chauvel considered her, his gaze alert and focused. Maggie resisted the urge to squirm. She wasn’t accustomed to the attention of someone like Arnold Chauvel. She glanced off to the side, to the neutral wall with framed neutral art next to a nondescript wall clock. She might as well be in a museum replica of American Business Office. Maybe that was the source of her discomfort: there were no personal touches anywhere in this room. Chauvel had no framed photographs of family members or friends, no newspaper clippings or diplomas, nothing at all to indicate this was even his office except the name plaque on the wooden door. Generic and impersonal.

“I want an article written. An exposé, sort of a pet project of mine. Needs some good investigative research.” He tipped his head to the side. “Tell me, Marguerite, have you ever heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel?”

She shook her head, mind still spinning off on tangents while she tried to focus.

Chauvel continued. “The Scarlet Pimpernel is the name—nickname, pseudonym, what have you—of an anonymous erotica writer and kink practitioner. We know he’s local to Boston, and that he’s been active in kink scenes in the past. I’ve been looking for someone to write a piece about him. I want you to find out who he is.”

Maggie frowned. “An exposé?” The queasy feeling intensified. “That isn’t something I really do.”

Chauvel waved his hand again like her words didn’t matter at all. “There’s a first time for everything in this industry. I want you to write about him, about the toxic relationship he has with women, about the inherently problematic nature of his work.”

This still sat uncomfortably with Maggie. “Toxic relationship with women? Is he abusive, or manipulative, or … is this like a harassment situation? Should this be handled by someone else, like the police?” Someone with authority. Not her, a freelance journalist. “I don’t know what you’re really looking for, or why it has to be me.”

The only indication of Chauvel’s irritation was a slight flare of his nostrils, his lips set in a thin line. “This is a subject of personal interest to me. A woman I care about had a … relationship … with the Pimpernel, and afterward, she was completely changed. He got into her head, and manipulated her into some truly terrible things, all in the name of what he calls ‘kink.’ Do you understand?”

No, she didn’t. “I write columns about everyday life. About dating, and relationships, and friendships … and travel, sometimes. I don’t write about kink. I don’t know anything about the subject.”

“But you know how to write.” He fixed her with a stare. “You know how to research your subject, and you have a trusted readership. And you’re motivated to do a good job, because we’re in a position to help each other.”

Maggie leaned back, exhaling slowly. A tit-for-tat situation. “And what if I’m not interested?”

Chauvel shrugged one shoulder. “Like I said, I felt this would be mutually beneficial. Frozen assets may not be an inconvenience to you. But I thought you’d at least see value in my deciding to support your sister’s research.”

Maggie frowned. “So you’re blackmailing me.”

“I am not blackmailing you.” All pretense of friendliness vanished, replaced by an icy coldness that must have been lurking beneath the surface the whole time. “I am offering my continued help in the various ways in which I support your livelihood and that of your family, and also offering additional help in avoiding future financial trouble. All you have to do is your job, which is to write for me, and I will pay you generously to do so.”

Maggie didn’t like this at all, and her mouth had gone sour, but she couldn’t see a choice at that moment. Chauvel held all the cards. He might be bluffing, but she doubted it. He didn’t seem like the sort of man to bluff, and that call from James was unlikely to be a coincidence. What choice did she have? If she refused, it might cost her her job … and worse, it could impact Cora. Maggie could deal with unpleasantries in her own life, but she worked her ass off to keep Cora shielded from the same.

Maybe it wouldn’t be terrible, writing this article. Maybe this Scarlet Pimpernel deserved it. “Just an article? About his flaws and faults?”

Chauvel nodded. “Yes, exactly. I want people to know exactly what he’s like. I don’t want to see anyone else go through what—what my friend went through. I want you to write about his toxicity. You can write about all the toxicity of kink, too, I don’t care.”

Maybe she could keep women from falling into the same trap as Chauvel’s friend. The entire situation felt gross, though, and she couldn’t tell if it was the topic or Chauvel himself, with his neutral office and business-polished demeanor. “This isn’t the sort of thing I usually write,” she said. “It will take a lot of background work. What’s your time frame?”

“I want the article to run in Below Boston before the holidays. Shall we say a month?”

Chauvel wasn’t being altruistic in his motives for getting this article written. He didn’t seem like he was altruistic about anything at all. But she’d seen guys like the Pimpernel before, guys who tried to coerce women beyond their limits, and if she could knock one of them off his game, that would be a win. “What are you offering?”

“I’ll pay five thousand for the story.” He dropped the number as easily as if it was pocket change, as if it wasn’t more money by a long shot than Maggie had ever earned for any one piece of writing she’d done. Maggie wasn’t sure she had any real ground to negotiate, but she never took a first offer. “Ten thousand.” It was a ridiculously high counteroffer.

Chauvel smiled. “Seven.”

“Seventy-five hundred, and Cora doesn’t know any of it.” Maggie extended her hand.