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Lyle’s gaze was steely. “I never joke about business.”
“What investors? Who are these people?”
“That’s not your problem.”
“Not my problem? How do I know these investors of yours aren’t more dangerous than the thugs I’m dealing with now?”
“You don’t. Life’s a gamble. The way I see it, you could start demolition, ground-breaking and dredging before winter, or you could go broke and probably wind up dead.” A shrug. “Your decision.”
“Great choice.”
“One other reminder while you make your decision. My company only uses union labor. You’ll have to get the business agents on board with this project.”
John frowned. “It’s one thing to be union on your end. I’m not sure I can afford an entire project using union labor.”
“Again, that’s your issue, not mine.”
“I’ll have to straighten that out with the business agents.”
“Indeed you will.” Lyle paused, nodding at the waitress as she placed their breakfasts in front of them.
“Now I’m going to sit back and enjoy my breakfast,” he informed John as soon as they were alone. “I suggest you do the same. No more on this subject. You know where I stand. My demands are not up for negotiation.”
John’s jaw was working. “Fine. You win. Get me my permits.”
“I’ll have my lawyer draw up the papers.” Lyle calmly chewed and swallowed a bite of his omelet. “Once they’re signed and locked away in my safe, I’ll get you what you need.”
“How long will that take?”
“Not long.” A tight smile. “My lawyer gets paid by the hour.”
* * *
Claire had tossed and turned all night.
Her dreams were plagued by shadowy figures looming close by, threatening…someone. Or someones. Was it the team? Amanda? All of the above? She didn’t know. All she knew was that the vision incited a new dark energy inside her—one that was in addition to the eerie vibe she was already trying to make sense of.
Around dawn she sat up in bed, arranging herself in lotus position—her automatic pose for keeping her mind and her body open to whatever energy surrounded her. She loved the serenity of her East Village studio—her little oasis away from the Manhattan madness outside her window. Everything in her home was the antithesis of the congestion, wild pace and loud noise of the streets below. Her apartment was perfect—one spacious living room/bedroom, a galley kitchen and a bathroom. The large room was done in muted pastels, and consisted mostly of uncluttered space. Claire was a minimalist. It gave her room to breathe and to be. Even her furniture itself was open and airy, all natural wicker with pale aqua and sand-colored cushions. Ditto for her bedding. The walls were that same soft sand color, and they were adorned only by a few of her favorite landscape paintings.
She shut her eyes, letting the morning energy flow through her, hoping it would ease the tight knot in her stomach.
It didn’t. Too much wasn’t right. Something had definitely happened to Paul Everett. But it wasn’t death. It was something that conveyed mixed energies—positive and negative—to no energy at all. Maybe he’d barely escaped death? Maybe he’d briefly experienced it? No. Neither of those things felt right. Nor did they explain the perpetual binary energy surges she was experiencing. If Ryan hadn’t all but stated beyond the shadow of a doubt that the man standing on that street corner was Paul Everett, she’d wonder if perhaps he was in a coma, drifting in and out of consciousness.
But she wasn’t visualizing a hospital setting. Then again, she wasn’t visualizing anything at all. Damn, it was frustrating.
The shadowy figures unnerved her equally as much as the eerie flashes of Paul. Danger factored into this equation. She had to zero in on the how, the why, and, most importantly, the who.
Abruptly, another, more painful energy shot through her—and this energy was as clear as glass.
The baby. Oh, no, the baby.
* * *
Amanda was dozing beside Justin’s crib when his whining and restless shifting awakened her. She was on her feet in an instant, and she knew something was wrong the minute she touched him. He was hot. Very hot. And his breathing was raspier than it had been. His tiny chest made a rattling sound each time it rose and fell with a breath.
She raced for the door, nearly running down a nurse who was on her way in.
“Get Dr. Braeburn,” Amanda said frantically. “Justin’s worse. He’s burning up with fever. And his breathing is bad. Please. Get the doctor.”
