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I’m also fucking aware the ass is displayed in the cream skin-tight pants and knee-high boots to draw the eye—or camera—from the rest of her.
That’s hidden behind a soft greeny-brown flowing top, her hair and face behind a hat.
Because they got a shot from the front, too, huge sunglasses, pale mouth.
And I couldn’t tell you if she’s a blonde or brunette, if she’s twenty or a well-preserved fifty, but I know this particular sighting, taken yesterday, was designed to be seen.
By me.
The grainy one? I can’t tell a fucking thing about the star of that little image, except she got caught by the lens, and was hidden, anyway.
“Maybe,” I say, “I’ve got a fan.”
“Or a stalker. Or…”
I cut Damon a dark look, knowing exactly where his words are leading.
“Whoever it is,” I mutter, swinging my boots to the ground and rising. “She’s a professional.”
He remains quiet. Of course, she’s a professional. She’s evaded being photographed clearly. She’s always in the shadows, in a crowd. With a hat, probably a fucking wig. I don’t know.
“Sent by Jac?” Damon asks.
“He’s not my only enemy.”
The words sit in the air, like they’re mocking me.
I don’t bother checking to see if Damon follows when I leave the office, heading down the curved stairs to the second landing, and into the Art Deco sitting room. I like this floor more. It’s still ridiculous in the cost of things and full-on time machine tour of rooms, each with their own era, but it’s more my mother, and at least the pieces chosen were done to create a mood.
I call this oneGatsby Stonedsince it’s got a slight romantic and subdued, laid-back feel with the Twenties glamor.
The plans for the upcoming gala are on the expansive coffee table, and I don’t spare them a look as I get my jacket.
“Hendrick…”
I guess he did follow me.
“Yeah, I get it, Damon, I do. He’s the big one, and on paper, he’s the biggest threat,” I say. “But in reality he’s nothing I can’t handle. And if that piece of arrogant shit thinks he can get to me or anything of mine through having me followed, then good luck to him.”
Damon just folds his hands. “He’s coming to the gala.”
Rubbing a hand over my eyes, I sigh, then I pull on my suit jacket, and go to the wet bar. Damon’s a rum man. He likes it golden, honeyed, with a hint of citrus. Cuban. Me? Give me the best of Japanese whiskey, darkly sugared with that bitter edge of toffee, and warmth of spice. I pour us both a drink, hold one out to him.
He mutters something under his breath. Then he takes the proffered drink.
“Everyone’s coming to the gala, Damon,” I say. “It’s a fundraiser for underprivileged children. People love that shit.”
“Spoken like a true humanitarian.”
I raise my glass to him in a mock salute.
He just rolls his eyes. “I’m just saying we up the security. Around you, around here, around your place, and especially on the night of the gala.”
I tap my hand on the coolness of the glass.
“Jac fucking Miller doesn’t follow me. He doesn’t send people to follow me.” I take a swallow. I don’t need to point out the Quinate members exist in a carefully balanced state of grace.
It’s the only way to stop the world imploding into chaos and bloodshed and death. It’s the only fucking way to rule and to get business done.
