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“That won’t change my mind or Mr. Carver’s schedule,” the woman says tartly.
“We’ll see about that,” Trap says.
I take a seat and pick up today’sNews Journal.Offering the sports page to Trap, I dive into the Lifestyle section. I can’t say that I’m really interested in the latest advice columns or the most recent Hollywood scandal. There’s a review of a new restaurant in downtown Wilmington, and their salads sound interesting. Maybe we can head there for dinner, after we finish with Bart Carver.
Trap makes a big deal out of trading newspaper sections with me, shaking out the pages with a maximum amount of noise. The assistant ignores him.
That’s the same way she ignores our reading the front-page section and the local news. The way she ignores our helping ourselves to coffee from the single-serve machine in the corner. The way she ignores my request for the key to the women’s restroom and, later, Trap’s demand for the men’s.
I study the Delaware flag in the corner, wondering who decided it was a good idea to include two men, three farm crops, a ship, and a date on one single banner. I count the books on the shelves to my right, curious about the last time a lawyer actually looked up anything on paper, because I assume all of that is online. I flex my wrists, trying to decide if the makeup hides my bruises or makes them more obvious. That session in the Hummer really did a number on them.
Trap is edgier than I am, even though we’ve planned this excursion for a week. He checks his phone every few minutes. He gets up and paces. More than once, he stands beside the assistant’s desk, looming like a thunderstorm until her icy glare sends him back to his seat.
During the three and a half hours that we sit there, the assistant goes into Carver’s office six times. The last time, I look at the briefcase sitting by my feet. “Maybe if we let him know what we have,” I start to say.
But Trap shakes his head. “Not going to tip my hand.”
Technically speaking, it’smyhand. So when the assistant comes out and resumes her space at her desk—hands on keyboard, feet tucked primly beneath her—I get up and stand directly in front of her.
“Does Mr. Carver know we’re waiting?”
Her gaze slips sideways, toward her computer screen. Her jaw is carved out of stone. She might as well order up a billboard: She hasn’t said a word to her boss.
“Look,” I say, planting my hand on her desk. She glares at me with outright hatred, but I don’t give her a chance to speak. “You seem to be very good at your job. But if Mr. Prince and I walk out of here today without seeing Mr. Carver and he finds out that he had a chance to avoid… Well, it won’t be fair for the blame to fall on you. But I promise. It will.”
She doesn’t want to help me. But even more than that, she doesn’t want to pull together her resumé for another job.
She rolls her eyes and flings herself out of her chair like she’s a put-upon teen. But she disappears through the double doors for the seventh time.
“What was that?” Trap asks when we’re alone. “Some sort of mind control?”
I shake my head. “Simple psychology. I made eye contact. Spoke fast. Used some charismatic terms. And I leveraged her fear of her boss.”
“Remind me not to negotiate with you.”
“You have other ways of getting what you want.”
The instant heat in his eyes tightens something deep inside me. After our session in the car, I was afraid I would never feel this way again. Fighting a pang so sharp I can barely take a full breath, I say, “Stop it.”
“Stop what?” He pretends to be innocent.
“Not here.” I didn’t think it was possible to hiss two words without an S, but I manage.
“Why not?” he asks, like it’s reasonable to even consider making out—or more—right here. “Wait! Are you going to use your psychology magic tricks on me? We’ve got the eye contact thing down.”
We do. I should look away. I could pretend to fiddle with my briefcase. I could study the titles on those legal books again. I could close my eyes and count to ten—anything to break the bond between us.
But now that it’s back, I don’t want to break that bond. Not this second. Not here. Not ever.
“Mr. Prince?” The assistant is back in the doorway. “Ms. Key? Mr. Carver will see you now.”
“Thank you,” I say, because it’s another psychological trick to reward someone when they’ve done what you want. I’m pretty sure Trap isn’t feeling as generous.
As we move toward the doors, I feel his hand on the small of my back. It’s a little more pressure than necessary. A little more contact than I need, strictly speaking.
But I know what he’s saying. He’s offering support. And I don’t know how much I need it until we’re actually standing in Bart Carver’s office.
He’s shorter than I remember. Fatter. A slick of sweat shines on his upper lip.
