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But isn’t exhausting every resource exactly what she wants from me?
“Sorry, Alice. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
* * *
“Bloody hell. What on earth are you wearing?” Ellis scoffs, his eyes widening as I approach the picnic table where he sits beneath a giant umbrella.
I flip the tail of the crocheted scarf I borrowed from Lucy’s closet over my shoulder, not bothering to sit. “It’s called fashion. Look it up.”
I’ll admit, I’m already breaking a sweat beneath the thick, itchy material. But after four failed attempts to cover Marcus’s hickeys with makeup, and the discovery of two more marks on the side of my neck, it’s doing the job.
He scoffs, “Faux pas, more like.”
“I didn’t come here to mince words, Turner.”
Running the tip of his thumb across his bottom lip, he steeples his hands on the table. “Regardless of what you may think, I like you, Sinclair.”
“Bullshit.”
Ellis is the handsome type, sure. Any woman with eyes could see that. And he carries himself with such confidence, it’s difficult not to appreciate his good looks. But unlike Alice, I’m not so easily swayed.
“That right there, love.” His smirk dimples the sprinkling of gray scruff along his defined cheeks and jaw. “The balls you have to call a man out and do whatever it takes to get your story is what makes you great at what you do.”
I huff a mirthless laugh. “No amount of flattery is going to make me trust you. I know you’re up to something, so just spit it out already.”
Raising his palms in submission, he says, “I know the Matthews have become one of many interests forLusterover the years, which explains why I found you hiding in a bush several weeks ago.” He sits unnaturally still, putting me more on edge. “I also know that you’re the journalist who leads the gossip column which garners such incredible ratings for them.”
“Unsurprising, considering you got the last columnist fired.” A statement meant to throw him, though he remains unwavering.
“Yes, a low point for a starving photographer, and one I’ve come to regret.” Sitting back, his mouth drops into a frown. “Surely you can relate to climbing the proverbial ladder and the sacrifices it takes.”
All too familiar with these games, I almost laugh, but I pin a finger on the table instead. If I want information out of this cocky son of a bitch, I’ll have to squeeze it out of that overinflated ego of his.
Rule number four: When it comes to gaining intel, apply as much pressure as necessary to get your answer.
“Actually, I can’t relate. Because, at the end of the day, you’ll always be chasing a dollar sign while I’m chasing the truth.”
I can see the hard set of his jaw and the slight flare of his nostrils, and I know I’ve rattled him. For a dash of added flair, I smirk. “And since you respect my balls so much, why don’t you give them a nice little smooch before I go?”
His gaze narrows dangerously, but he’s got that look in his eye that says he’s seconds from cracking.
“See ya ‘round, Turner.”
It’s as I turn that he croons, “Sinclair.”
Got him.
I slowly twist over my shoulder to find a manilla folder clasped in one greedy paw. “About that trade.” Flicking it open, he flashes the first page of a document with a generic depiction of a human body and a red stamp of authentication across the bottom right corner.
“Is that what I think it is?”
He snaps it shut with a flick of his hand. “The elusive autopsy for one Leah Nicole Matthews.”
“W-where did you find it?” I stammer.
I must have majorly pissed off the universe for it to place my golden ticket in the hands of this asshole.
“My sources matter not. I’ve shown you proof of its authenticity. Now, here is what I want.” Taking his time stuffing the folder into his bag, he rises from the table and takes two generous steps toward me. “You give me a full-face image of Marcus Matthews galavanting outside of rehab, and in exchange, I will give you this report.”
