Chapter 13
Alexia
I’d often heard that a man’s decorative style defined his personality, closely aligning his values and principles with his hopes and dreams. At least if his employer provided the opportunity as well as the funds for exploiting his decadent tastes.
I assumed if he didn’t have a decoration allowance his entire life was doomed, forced to suffer for ten to twelve hours a day in bland purgatory.
If the famous literary agent was suffering to any extent, he was doing so in the lap of luxury.
On this day, his opulent surroundings annoyed me more than they should or normally would.
After all, I’d picked the hefty lock so I could await his return in peace and quiet.
Why did I force myself to flirt with a nauseating man so I could slide into the security card only elevator?
When the steel box had jerked to a hard stop, I’d almost panicked since the mystery man was close to having his tongue down my throat.
But everything had worked out and here I stood waiting for two men to finish off their midafternoon cocktails and return.
So here I was sequestered in an office that should be housed in an art gallery. Sandra would love it.
In this case, the man holding court behind the walls was enough of a powerhouse that he could afford to allow his proclivities to shine. He hadn’t skimped when making his choices.
Every piece had been chosen with sadistic hunger in mind. However that wasn’t anything I’d admit to detecting because that would provide a clear indication of the wicked thoughts tickling the back of my mind. And the front. And the sides.
As I studied the space while I waited, I became amused at the selection of art on the walls.
I’d learned a good deal about the most popular trends in both graphic and fine arts, the artists’ works often encapsulating their personalities.
In this case, I gathered two important aspects about the painter, one being he preferred the use of extremely vivid colors.
All primal. Reds. Blacks. Blues. Yellows.
And perhaps even more important. The man was one hundred percent insane.
Instead of simply raw, primal sex in daring positions, the sexual partners were being murdered during the act. At least that’s what it would appear was happening. Then again, maybe I’d been reading too many of Maverick’s books. My naughty thoughts alone allowed me to chuckle. A rarity as of late.
Given how much I knew about serial killers and their use of their artistic abilities to soothe their abhorrent hunger for violence, I’d say the person penning his name to the oversized paintings was also violent. And should be watched.
As far as the man who’d purchased the pieces…
Perhaps I was making assumptions, but I could see why the man was friends with Maverick.
They were two peas in a pod, preferring their discussions to revolve around seriously twisted individuals who hadn’t even been born with a soul.
I had a feeling their conversations were highly evocative.
Maybe I should hide in the closet for a little while simply to enjoy whatever they had to discuss.
I smoothed down my skirt and took another glance at the sweeping views of Miami outside the floor-to-ceiling window. Where I’d thought Maverick had a spectacular vista, offering a protected highlight of the beach and party life, I’d been wrong.
The office was equipped with almost everything a top-level executive would need, including a sectional couch that could easily double as a makeshift bed for the night.
Just in case wife number three tossed out her wealthy philanderer of a husband for a night or a week.
Then there was the executive bathroom and not just a typical tiny hall bath usually positioned in between a kitchen and living room, but one housing a marble shower complete with two massive rain showerheads.
Perfect for soothing tense muscles after a difficult confrontation with the mistress’s current husband.
I had to laugh at myself. I’d developed an entire distasteful scenario for a man I’d never met. I hadn’t needed to spend much time snooping on the internet to learn everything I never wanted to learn about Maverick’s agent.
Why not grab a drink while I was waiting for their fabulous business lunch to conclude?
It was after two-thirty and I had the remainder of the afternoon off.
The corner bar was free floating, as dramatic as the artwork, and beautifully crafted with intricate details carved within the edge banding.
The granite triangle was a work of art all its own.
Even the crystal glasses were atypical, each piece one of a kind.
And the selection of liquors was to die for. When I grabbed some ice from the specially crafted icemaker, I couldn’t help myself, glancing in the refrigerator. Two bottles of Krug champagne, no doubt for use in celebrations of six- or seven-figure deals made.
Everything had been expertly chosen with opulence in mind.
With a drink in my hand, I took a deep breath, glancing at my watch. They were due any time. With a smile on my face, I skirted the man’s desk, pulling out his huge desk chair. When I settled into it, I melted into the buttery soft leather.
Did the highly respected executive actually try to accomplish anything when sitting behind his desk? Maybe he barked orders instead.
I sat back, shifting in the seat until I was perfectly comfy. As I studied his furniture, I had to admit I was impressed. He’d bypassed IKEA and the typical office supply centers, selecting true one-of-a-kind pieces. Even the three rugs in the room were conversation starters.
Hearing voices, I made myself at home, planting my legs on the corner of the man’s desk.
This was all about making a point, although I wasn’t entirely certain what that was.
Although I was beginning to believe Sandra was correct.
I wanted Maverick convinced that the real killer was still out there.
Not because I wanted fame and glory or because I was fearful for my life, which I had every right to be.
I was terrified the bastard would strike again. Copycat or not, even Maverick had mentioned that those who fed off the violence and bloodshed had no method of permanently ceasing their actions.
Unless they were imprisoned or killed.
In my mind, there was only one decent option for handling the Python Killer.
Vicious images danced in my head.
The door opened and I leaned back, closing my eyes as I shifted the chair back and forth.
“I have the contact right here, Mav. The terms are excellent. An initial five book rollout with potential for three more if the series does well. A two-million-dollar advance for the five with fifteen percent royalties.”
As soon as the stranger to me announced the deal, both Maverick and I snorted in disagreement. Evidently, my disgusted exclamation was louder as evidenced by the immediate silence on the other side of the open door.
“Hello?” the same man asked as soon as he walked into his office, his expression incredulous.
I wasn’t certain if he was ready to call for security, but given the thick bulge between his legs, I could clearly see he was interested in learning more about the intruder.
After taking three long strides toward his desk, he stopped. Now he was highly anxious.
In deference, Maverick had entered the room and was now standing with his arms folded, leaning against the wall as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Plus, there was a shit-eating grin on his face.
I knew all about the man standing in front of me wearing a mask of annoyance to hide his desire. What a bad boy since he was on his third wife. If they continued to get any younger, the next one would be younger than his daughter. To say I thought the man was smarmy was an understatement.
Carter Blackstone was a snake in Armani, a self-made millionaire off the backs of unsuspecting clients who always started out starry-eyed in the world of publishing. The smart ones wised up quickly.
“Who are you?” Carter asked when I didn’t readily offer up my reason for invading his office. He was also increasingly irritated that I’d commandeered his desk, his nostrils flaring and certainly not because of my vanilla-scented shower gel.
When Maverick opened his mouth to provide an answer, I threw him both a harsh look and a wave of my hand while taking extra time to stand. “Jasmine Jeffries, media consultant and attorney representing Mr. Callahan.”
Carter was genuinely confused, scratching his head while he turned briefly toward his client. “What happened to Stone Wallace?”
The way I purposely took a step closer, allowing my pointed heel to smack down against the expensive hardwood floor once again grabbed the man’s attention.
“I’m here now and it’s obvious why Mr. Callahan made the change. You’re screwing him, Carter. Up one side, down the other, and twice on Sunday.” With my hip stuck out, I folded my arms to make a point, even tapping my foot just enough so he could hear.
“I beg your pardon?” Carter narrowed his eyes, the lust drifting ever so slowly into raging venom. Little known fact. I did adore fucking with people. I knew my way around the laws to win at charades turning naysayers into believers every time.
“Let’s not mince words. The deal you just offered your number one client is offensive.
There is no other word for it. Mr. Callahan has made you a very rich man.
Enough so you can afford your two hefty alimony payments, although given the way your current wife spends money, I’d say a third might be more difficult.
Nevertheless, find the extra cash elsewhere. ”