by G. K. Parks
The curiosity got the best of me, and I looked in the shopping bag. Inside was a fabulous pair of Jimmy Choo’s with small diamond studs glistening off the straps. These I could work with as long as I didn’t have to run. Thoughts of my dream re-entered my mind, and I cringed at the possibility of having to run in stilettos. Hopefully, tonight would be nothing more than a fun night out, like he kept insisting. I tried the shoes on and walked around the room. Not as uncomfortable as I would have imagined. Finally, I noticed a smaller bag inside the shopping bag.
I took the dress off, hung it up, and put my clothes back on. I placed the shoes safely in their box, grabbed the third bag, and went downstairs in a huff. Sarcasm or anger, I debated, descending the flight of stairs.
Martin was in the living room, waiting expectantly. He seemed disappointed I wasn’t prancing down the stairs to model for him. Instead, I threw the small La Perla bag at him.
“Either you left your undergarments in the shopping bag by mistake, or this is sexual harassment.” What do you know, sarcasm and anger can coexist.
He didn’t even miss a beat. “If you rather I wear these, that can be arranged.” The arrogant son of a bitch smiled.
“Fine, we’ll go with sexual harassment then.”
“I just thought you might want to dress to the nines completely.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.” Our natural state of existence was bickering.
“How was the rest? Did it fit? Did you like the shoes? Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.” He really was unperturbed and quoting me no less.
“It’s fine for Bambi the Whore. The shoes, well, I can work with those.” A small smile crept onto my face as I spoke. He was pleased. “Really, though,” I said seriously, “tonight is not a good idea on any account. I strongly discourage attending.”
But he waved off my warning. “It will be fine. It’s a charity event. We rub elbows with the other affluent members of the community, put on a good face for the company, and do something philanthropic. It’s a win-win-win situation.”
It’s all fun and games until someone gets murdered; I didn’t share that thought aloud.
“Security is on high alert, right?” I double-checked, and he reassured me of this fact. “Okay, whatever you say, boss.” I wasn’t happy about the situation.
The rest of the afternoon was spent re-watching the security footage. I called Mark and Det. O’Connell but neither answered. I didn’t have anything new to tell them, but I hoped they had some news. Mark was likely at work. Maybe it was O’Connell’s day off, or he was afraid I might send him on another wild goose chase and just didn’t want to answer his phone.
Martin made himself scarce for most of the day, remaining on the fourth floor to primp for the evening or work on something. I was glad for the break. He was a difficult person to get along with, but at the same time, he was a difficult person to completely dislike. He was just frustrating, and after being forced to play his girlfriend all night, we would probably be sick of one another soon enough. It was a good thing he was giving me some space now. The less time we spent together, the better off we’d be; I tried to convince myself.
Unfortunately, I was getting restless. It was a little after four when I knocked on his bedroom door. There was no answer, so I walked down the hallway to his private office and knocked again.
“It’s open,” he called from his desk as he went over expense reports.
“Sorry if I disturbed you.”
“What’s up?” He put down the sheet of paper.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay here since I was thinking of going for a quick run.” It felt like I was asking permission, and I guess, in a way, I was.
He rubbed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. “Give me five minutes.” Apparently, he thought I was inviting him to go for a run.
“Okay.”
I went to the guestroom and put on some sneakers and tied my hair up. I grabbed my waist pack and put my side arm and cell phone in it. Never could be too careful. I was downstairs stretching on the floor when Martin came down. He had changed into a t-shirt, running shorts, and sneakers. My initial impression of him had definitely been accurate. He did have a runner’s body; although I had been reassured of this the morning he had gone swimming. I pushed those thoughts out of my mind.
“You don’t have to go if you’re busy,” I told him.
“Nonsense, I was staring at expense reports completely unable to figure out where the money went.” He stretched too. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bore you with work on your day off, Alex,” he teased.
We exited the back door, and he set the alarm system on the way out. We started out with a slow, comfortable jog, pacing nicely with one another.
“What do you mean you can’t find the money?” His work was one of the safer topics to discuss.
“Remember the Dubai acquisition?” We circled the house and headed for the driveway. “There is a specific account set aside for company acquisitions, but the money for Dubai isn’t in the account.”
“But if you already acquired Dubai, wouldn’t the money have been spent?” I didn’t have an accounting background, so my thinking was likely too simplistic.
“Not yet. We agreed upon the price, but we are still in the midst of finalizing the sale. Final payment has not been made. It’s kind of like buying a house. It’s a slow process with a lot of steps in between.”
“Do you think it’s just a bank error? Or maybe Mr. Denton expedited the sale?”
“I don’t see how that could be.” We picked up the pace slightly as we jogged from the end of the driveway and onto the private road. It was much cooler here with the trees providing ample shade.
“Do you think someone stole the money?” I didn’t know what else to ask.
Martin chuckled. “No. It was probably just misappropriated to another fund, but I have to go through all the accounts in order to figure out where it went.”
Conversation was getting more difficult as we continued to increase our speed. We made it down the private road, almost to the connection to the main thoroughfare, when I announced through my huffing and puffing we should turn around. Thankfully, he was in complete agreement.
“Race you back?” he asked, and even though I was slightly winded, I was too competitive for my own good.
“Okay.” We both ran full-out back to the house. He got there before I did and was unlocking the door when I came up behind him. “You have longer legs,” I protested as we went inside. “And you’re a guy. It’s an unfair advantage.” My complaining amused him.
He went to the fridge and retrieved two bottles of water, handing one to me. “Thanks for getting me out of here and away from the paperwork. I know I give you a hard time about just relaxing. I need to follow my own advice and do the same.” Post-workout Martin was much more amiable than everyday Martin. I would keep that in mind. He glanced at the clock; it was close to five. “I’m going to shower and give you some time to get ready.”
He went up the stairs to his room while I drank some water and stared out the window. Was Martin always so isolated from people, hiding in work, or was he doing this because of the threats? Granted, I shouldn’t be the one to talk since I tended to hole up in my apartment far too often. Deciding I needed to get ready, I made my way to the stairs, glancing at the La Perla bag still sitting untouched on the armchair. Just in case, I retrieved the bag and headed up to my room.
Eighteen
I checked my reflection in the full-length mirror. The dress fit nicely, and the shoes complimented it perfectly. I curled my hair and clipped half of it up. I put on more makeup than normal and tried to decide if there was any place to strategically hide a weapon. I’d just have to hope security was on their toes tonight. Worst case, I could brain an attacker with the heel of my shoe.
Trying to make sure I didn’t trip on either the dress or the shoes, I descended the stairs slowly. Martin was already downstairs, his back to me. He was on the phone, speaking with s
omeone. I tried to eavesdrop to see if it might be Mark or one of the detectives calling, but I quickly realized it was someone from the accounting department at MT.
“If you can fax over the statements, that would be most helpful.” Martin paused, and I could hear muffled sounds coming from whoever was on the other end of the conversation. “Yes, I know it’s Sunday night.” Another pause. “No, I will not be in the office tomorrow. I’m on vacation.” He was agitated, so I busied myself with checking my phone for any missed messages. “Okay, thanks. Have a good night.” He hung up.
I turned partially away from him, listening to my voicemail inform me there were no new messages. When I turned back around, he smiled.
“You look absolutely breathtaking.”
Right back at you, I thought. He wore a charcoal gray suit with a slight silver sheen and a light lavender shirt accented by a coordinating striped silk tie and matching pocket square.
I blushed slightly and hoped he didn’t notice. “Thanks. I guess you have good taste in women’s fashion.” I couldn’t help but joke; that’s what nerves did to me. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”
My compliment delighted him. He glanced briefly at the empty armchair and then back at me, but he remained silent. “Shall I call Marcal and have him bring the car around?”
I shrugged. “Whenever you’re ready.”
He smirked, and I could see the devious thoughts swimming around in his mind. “I’m always ready,” he looked at his watch, “but we have some time. I need to check on a fax. Want to make yourself a drink in the meantime?”
“I’m working.” I thought he was going to argue, but he decided better of it and continued out of the room and into his office to check the fax machine.
“Want to make me one, sweetheart?” he called, attempting to be charming, but I resisted.
“Actually, if you could do me a huge favor and not get shit-faced tonight, that would be great.” I sounded passive-aggressive. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a teetotaler, nor do I really care what you do on your own time. It’s just, if things go haywire, I want to know you’re functioning well enough to get out of the way of anything.” I wasn’t entirely sure what the anything could be, but given his recent history, anything seemed to be the appropriate word.
He came back into the living room, carrying a few sheets of paper. I wasn’t sure he heard a word I said. He frowned at the papers and put them down on the kitchen table. “I’ll deal with this later.” He looked up, perhaps seeing if I had poured a drink for him. “Agreed,” he conceded.
* * *
The ride to the hotel was uneventful. Marcal and Martin made small talk, and Marcal asked how I was enjoying staying at the manor, his term for Martin’s compound. This was the first real conversation I had with Martin’s chauffeur, and I discovered he had a wife and two daughters. He and his family went shopping for my dress which his wife picked out.
I glanced at Martin. “I thought you were up on women’s fashion, secretly staying up late to watch fashion shows and subscribing to all the magazines.” Martin chuckled, and I turned to Marcal. “Tell your wife she has exquisite taste, and I appreciate you taking the time out of your day to do this.”
Marcal waved off the gratitude. “It’s not a problem. Mr. Martin’s always been good to us. We don’t mind helping him out.” Maybe I was the only person who wanted to slap Martin on an hourly basis.
The car pulled to a stop at the hotel entrance. Cameras were going off everywhere as I watched warily out the tinted window for anyone suspicious. This entire thing was surreal. The valet came toward the door, and I looked nervously at Martin.
“Just try to play the part.” He seemed worried I wouldn’t blend in, but I was more concerned with someone shooting him.
I gritted my teeth. “Fine. Let’s just get inside as quickly as possible.”
He shrugged, and I had a feeling as quickly as possible, in Martin speak, meant posing for a few photos. The valet opened the door, and Martin stepped out and waved briefly to the crowd of onlookers, mostly press, before turning and offering me his hand.
“Inside quickly,” I hissed, taking his hand as he helped me out of the car.
“Smile,” he whispered, beaming brightly at the press. He put his hand on the small of my back to guide me inside.
A few people, likely reporters, shouted questions to him. Things like are you really going on a vacation, is the leave from work because of the recent bomb scare, how long have you been dating this mystery woman, and are you traveling to Dubai for the recent acquisition. But he shrugged them off, and once we reached the entrance, he addressed the crowd.
“A public statement will be issued in the coming days, but tonight, let’s focus on the good we are doing for those less fortunate.”
He led me inside the hotel. As we passed through security checkpoints, I noticed hotel security and a few LEOs in the lobby.
“You’re one hell of a public speaker.” I admired his cool, collected demeanor.
“Just part of the CEO persona.” He dismissed my compliment and offered his arm as we walked toward the ballroom where the banquet was being held.
The room was decorated exquisitely with numerous large, round tables skirting the edges. There was a bar at the back, a podium and stage set up at the front for speeches and toasts, and a dance floor in the center of the room. This felt like a very elaborate wedding reception or Bar Mitzvah. Martin led us through the room to one of the head tables.
Almost everyone greeted him as we passed with nice to see you and glad you could make it. He would stop momentarily to introduce me, only to see someone else and politely maneuver away, as we continued to make the rounds. We eventually made it to our table. He was in his element, but I couldn’t stop scanning the room for possible danger.
A familiar voice came up behind us. “It’s lovely to see you, James, and you brought Alexis, how wonderful.” The voice belonged to acting-CEO Blake Denton.
“Mr. Denton.” I turned, trying to appear pleased to be here.
Martin stood and shook his hand. “How is everything?” Martin was asking mainly about the office. Just business as usual for him, and he said I couldn’t relax.
“Things are great,” Denton reassured him. “The office is fine. No major crises to report.” He smiled. “You realize I’ve only been in charge since Friday afternoon. It’s Sunday, and the office is closed on the weekend.”
Martin looked a little sheepish but said nothing. I wondered if he was going to discuss the accounting discrepancy, but surprisingly, he kept his mouth shut. A server walked past with a tray of champagne flutes, and Martin motioned him over and took two, handing me one.
Denton took the hint. “We’ll catch up later. Lovely to see you again, Alexis.” He disappeared into the throng of guests.
I looked at Martin, slightly confused. He scooted his chair closer to mine, despite the fact no one else was seated at our table or anywhere near us. “Are you having fun?” he asked. Once again, I wondered if he had multiple personalities.
“It’s fine. Things seem secure.” What exactly was I supposed to say? It’s not like we were on a date. “Why do you seem wound so tightly?”
“I’m not. Things are great.”
I didn’t believe him for a second. Things were fine until Denton appeared. “So why do I feel like Denton makes your skin crawl?”
“He doesn’t. Everything’s fine.”
I dropped it but filed it away to ask about later. We sat in an uneasy silence for a few moments.
“Shouldn’t you be networking or whatever it is people like you do at events like this?”
“And shouldn’t you be acting like you’re into me instead of casing the room?” he retorted, so I laughed and touched his arm.
“You’re so funny, honey.” The sarcasm dripped from every word, and he shook his head. Luckily, our awkwardness was cut short by the announcement to take our seats.
Speeches were made, and information was giv
en about how much money was raised and the good it would do. Martin got up somewhere in the middle and gave a brief speech about the efforts of his company and thanked his employees for their continued support. Luckily, no shots were fired. He concluded by mentioning he was going on a sabbatical of an unknown duration, but during his absence, he was positive Mr. Denton would continue to ensure Martin Tech made the same charitable contributions. Once he finished, Denton took the stage to deliver a speech of his own.
“I thought you were having a press conference or issuing a statement?” I whispered when he came back to the table.
“No need. The press is covering this. They’ll pick it up and run with it. The PR department can deal with the fallout and issue the official statement tomorrow morning.” He was determined to be okay with the situation, but I couldn’t help but think of the drunken man from Friday night pitying himself or the angry man in the office proclaiming he was nothing without this job. I reached over and put my hand on his arm. He looked down at it and then at me.
“Just playing along.”
He put his hand over mine, and we sat through the rest of the speeches, toasts, and self-congratulations. When the formal portion of the evening was over, the house band began to play. People moved around, chatting in small groups, or dancing. Martin got up and led me to the bar.
“Scotch and soda, lots of ice,” he ordered for himself and waited for my order.
“Lemon drop martini?” I asked the bartender. One drink couldn’t hurt.
He prepared our drinks, and Martin put a fifty in the tip jar. A group congregated behind us.