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“No, she doesn’t know who I am.”
“
You’re fucking with me?”
Pete stepped in front of him. Legs wide, the stance he used to make himself shorter, more in your face. He was waiting for a reprieve. He wasn’t going to get it.
“You’re not fucking with me! God. Will, what possessed you to do something so dumb?”
“That’s not the dumb part.”
“You kissed her didn’t you?”
Pete had a talent for wild logic leaps that were spot-on.
“Look at me, Will.”
He obliged. Better to get this over with.
“Oh fuck. What did you do?”
He pushed off the desk, went to the window, and looked out across Zhongshan Road. This early in the morning Lover’s Walk was loveless, no canoodling couples and only a smattering of tourists.
“Nothing she didn’t want too, but she can’t do the interview now.”
“Why not? Oh fuck. Don’t fucking tell me. Oh fuck. You slept with her. Will—I’m... Holy fuck.”
“Yes, that about sums it up, Pete.” If this wasn’t a bloody awkward moment it would be amusing to see Pete so thrown.
“At the airport?”
“More or less, and a suite at the Pen.”
Pete was beside him at the window. “You had her pulled out of the immigration line-up and falsely detained, then got yourself falsely detained with her, and did God knows what with her, for how long?”
“Five hours.”
“Five hours! Then you got her a suite at the Peninsula and fucked her.”
Will took a breath, about to cut off Pete’s reaction and get down to business.
Pete said, “Don’t speak,” giving him a stop sign hand gesture. “And you did all this without giving her your name.”
“Yep.”
“Too fucking right the interview is off. What the hell were you thinking?”
“Wait till you meet her. She’s the kind of woman could make any man forget anything.”
“You’ve done some crazy stuff but this is right up there with certifiable. She’s a journalist. What happens if she writes about it?”
“She can’t ever know. Besides, she’s not a ‘my steamy night with’ kind of journalist.”
“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. You don’t reckon when she comes across a photo of you and some media baron opens his chequebook, she might think differently and talk, or have friends who are that kind of journalist.”
“What photos, Pete? You’re the guy in the photos.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
