“Because you’re in danger. Please. It’s too public. It’s not safe for you.”
Here was someone else telling her she was in danger! Was Bradford the one who sent the e-mail? Or was he the danger the e-mail had been talking about?
“Do you know anyone in Kreston?” Jo asked suspiciously.
“Kreston, out in the Bronx? What are you talking about? We’ve got to get you out of here, to somewhere close by. Quickly.”
Bradford’s eyes met hers, and she could see the panic and urgency there. His expression seemed sincere. Of course, he’d just admitted to her that their entire relationship had been a lie, so how was she to know if this was also an act or not? Maybe he was crazy, off the deep end. Or maybe he thought if he cooked up some sort of over-the-top drama, she would fall into his arms for protection and love—and they could ride off into the sunset together and live happily ever after.
“Why am I in danger?” Jo insisted. “I’m not moving from this spot until you give me an explanation.”
He sucked in a sharp breath, put both hands on her shoulders, and leaned forward until she could feel his lips at her ear.
“According to my sources,” he whispered sharply, “there’s something big going on at your family’s company. Rumor has it that you’re going to be…eliminated.”
“Eliminated?” Jo scoffed. “Like, fired from Bosworth Industries? How can they fire me? I don’t even work there.”
“No, eliminated, Jo. Like…killed.”
Jo felt dizzy, her view of the elegant surroundings suddenly dimming around the edges. Truly, Bradford had gone insane.
“What do you mean?” she asked, an incredulous laugh escaping her lips. “Why?”
“It’s not funny, Jo. Your life is in jeopardy. That’s all I can say right now. Let’s go somewhere safe and private, and I’ll tell you everything I know.”
Bradford gripped Jo’s upper arm and practically dragged her to a standing position. With her bad foot, she nearly fell back down, but his hold was strong. Suddenly, the situation had gone from absurd to frightening.
“I’m going to get us a room in the hotel,” he said intensely, glancing toward the eighth floor check-in area. “I think that’s the best option we have right now. I know you think I’m crazy or I’m kidding, but I’m not. Trust me on this, Jo.”
Trust me? The man who supposedly took money to marry her, courted her under false pretenses, and walked out of their wedding was asking her to trust him? Jo blinked, clearing her vision and clearing her mind. At this point she didn’t trust anyone—least of all him.
“No hotel room,” she said sternly, pulling her arm free from his grip.
He seemed surprised by her reaction, and then understanding crossed his features.
“I won’t try anything, Jo, I promise. You know I’m a gentleman. Thanks to your stupid Christian rules, I controlled myself for six months while dating you. I think I can handle sitting across from you in a private room for a few hours. I just want to talk. Considering the information I have, I would think you’d want to hear what I have to say.”
Your stupid Christian rules? So even his faith had been a sham, yet one more way he had pretended to be someone he was not, all for the sake of getting her to the altar. She felt like such an idiot. Danny had said all along that he didn’t think Bradford was sincere in his faith, and that if Jo married him they would be unevenly yoked. To say the least! If only she had listened to Danny from the beginning. How had she been so blind?
“Please, Jo. Come on.”
“Fine,” she said finally, gathering her things. “Get us a room. I’ll meet you at the elevators.”
“I think we should stay together.”
“I have to go to the ladies’ room,” she said sharply, pointing across the bustling lobby to the restroom doorway. “Unless you want to come in there with me, I’ll meet you at the elevators.”
“Can’t you wait until you get to the room?”
“No, I can’t. The line at check-in is way too long.”
He looked across the lobby and then back at her.
“All right, let’s go,” he said, glancing in all directions as he escorted her toward the restroom. “You can wait there for me, and I’ll be back as soon as I have a room key.”
“Fine.”
Jo’s mind raced as they walked. She really did want to hear more of what he had come to tell her, just not in a private place where he might be able to do her harm. The look in his eyes was growing more intense, almost crazed, and that was scaring her as much as the things he’d been saying. Considering the limited choices available to her at the moment, Jo decided her safest option was to get away from Bradford for now and get to her father as quickly as possible. Kent Tulip was a cold and calculating businessman, yes, but Jo also knew that he would never, ever physically harm her or allow harm to come to her. It was possible that he had a lot of explaining to do, but at least she knew she would be safe with him. Fortunately, his office was also in Manhattan, only about ten or fifteen blocks away. From there, perhaps she and her father could talk to Bradford together, maybe even over the phone, and hear the rest of his claims.
At least then Bradford wouldn’t be in a position to harm her.
Once they reached the bathroom doorway, Bradford nodded at Jo, pulled out his wallet, and headed for the front desk. She went into the restroom, turned back, and peeked out to watch him walk away. She waited until her view of him was blocked by the elevator bank.
Then she hobbled as fast as she could to the escalator, wishing she could throw off the cast and simply run.
Danny waited in the Métro station for his train, though the place was much more quiet and empty than before. He was still trying to wrap his brain around what had just happened. A contract photography position with Haute Couture? For $175,000? For an unknown? It made no sense.
In the end, Chester wouldn’t take Danny’s no for an answer. He said merely that he’d give Danny a few days to think about it—and that he would call him before he headed back to the States. Danny didn’t care how long the guy gave him to make up his mind. No meant no. Danny wasn’t even going to consider it. Maybe.
“Attend! Danny! Attend!”
Danny looked up to see Luc quickly coming down the Métro stairs toward him. From his heavy breathing it appeared as if he’d been running, cell phone clutched tightly in one hand.
“I was hoping your train hadn’t come yet,” Luc said, coming to a stop in front of him and holding out the phone. “Georgette called, looking for you. She said it was urgent.”
A cell phone was a luxury Danny had given up when he moved to Paris. He couldn’t afford the monthly fee, and even if he could, cell phone rates for international long distance were prohibitive, and he didn’t know that many people locally who might be calling him anyway.
“Georgette?” he asked, taking the proffered phone from Luc. “Why?”
“She didn’t say. I told her to give me five minutes and I would try to catch up with you.”
Georgette Tatou was their boss, a smart and efficient woman who helmed the photo department at the Paris office of Scene It. She rarely worked past six o’clock, but tonight she was probably still busy making final arrangements with the photographer or the magazine’s liaison for the photo shoot. Danny just hoped that nothing had gone wrong with any of the details that had been left to him. He’d been so careful about everything. His stomach clenched at the thought of having made a mistake.
“Just press there and then there,” Luc instructed, pointing to the buttons that would return the last incoming call. Danny did as Luc instructed, another thought suddenly occurring to him as soon as it started ringing.
“Does she know about Chester and Haute Couture?” Danny whispered to Luc, his thumb over the speaker holes, feeling slightly guilty even though he had done nothing wrong.
“Not from me,” Luc replied, shaking his head. “But she knew we were dining together tonight. She figured calling me to find you
was, how do you say, ‘worth a shot’?”
Danny heard a click and then the voice of his boss.
“Luc? Did you find him?”
“Georgette? It’s Danny. Luc told me you were looking for me.”
“Bon soir, Danny,” Georgette replied, pronouncing it—as most Parisians did—Dah-nee. “I’m sorry to call all over town and track you down like this.”
“That’s fine. What’s up?”
“J’ai une question: How quickly can you pack and get to Gare de l’Est?’
“The train station? Why?” he asked urgently, hoping beyond hope that her question meant what he thought it meant.
“Because Rémi’s wife went into labor three weeks early. Congratulations, Dah-nee, you will have to take his place as liaison on the photo shoot.”
3
Fifty-seventh and Madison,” Jo told the driver as she slipped into the backseat of a taxi. She was going straight to her father’s office to get herself to safety—and to have the truth spelled out for her once and for all. This whole thing was ridiculous.
The cabdriver flipped on the meter, slid a baseball cap onto his shiny brown head, and pulled away from the hotel. As he did, Jo scooted down low in the seat and watched out of the back window. Other cabs were also pulling away from the Marriott, so she had no way to know if she was being followed or not.
The drive to Bosworth Industries was quick and uneventful, thank goodness. Jo paid the driver, glancing backward to make sure no other cabs or cars were also pulling to the curb. She didn’t see any, so she climbed out and moved as quickly as possible into the massive building.
The lobby was busy, though she didn’t notice anyone who seemed particularly threatening. She made her way to front desk security. It had been so long since she had been there that she didn’t recognize either of the men behind the desk.
“Help you?”
“I need to see Kent Tulip.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m his daughter. I don’t need an appointment.”
The man reached for the phone, no expression on his face.
“Just a moment, Ms. Tulip. I’ll let them know you’re here.”
He spoke into the phone, and it didn’t sound good. Finally, he held out the receiver toward Jo. It was her father’s secretary, who said that he was out of the office today at a ribbon-cutting ceremony in nearby North Ulton, but that he should be back around 5:00 PM.
“You’re welcome to wait for him up here,” the woman said. “Our employee lounge is quite comfortable.”
Jo told her no thanks and instead asked for the specifics about where her father was, exactly, knowing that if there were a train leaving from Grand Central soon, she could probably be at North Ulton within half an hour at the most. Jo thanked the woman and then handed the receiver back to the guard. Back at the door, the coast seemed clear, but as she stepped outside, she gasped. Bradford was just climbing out of a cab, and he spotted her before she could turn and run.
Danny rolled up a T-shirt and crammed it into his duffel bag, glad that he was an expert in packing light. With all of the camera equipment they were bringing, there wouldn’t be much room for clothes and toiletries. Fortunately, Danny had no qualms about getting grungy or wearing the same gear for days in a row. He had a feeling that the great photographer Kalunga Bashiri was more concerned with the quality of his work than the cleanliness of his clothes anyway, at least once they got to Africa and set to work on the main part of the story.
Tentatively titled “Refuge of Hope,” the article they were photographing focused on a successful group of European doctors who temporarily turned their backs on their cushy lives in order to donate months at a time working in third world refugee camps. Mr. Bashiri had already traveled to Bangladesh with a project team from Doctors Without Borders, and he had come back with some compelling photos of the work they were doing there in caring for the displaced peoples of Myanmar. Now, the plan was to go with a group from a similar organization, Global Mobile Medical, or GMM for short, down to a much larger camp in the Democratic Republic of Congo in Africa.
First stop, however, was to spend a few days at GMM’s headquarters in Zurich, Switzerland, to show all of the preparations that went into such a trip—not to mention photograph a few of the doctors in their fancy offices and expensive homes for a neat juxtaposition of environments. Danny knew he might need to dress professionally for all of that, so he begrudgingly added a sports jacket, one dress shirt, three ties, and a pair of loafers to his bag. Thank goodness he had worked with Rémi, the liaison he was replacing, on creating the itinerary. Danny was aware of each stop they’d be making.
His only regret was that he wished he were back at home in the States right then, so he could go down into his basement and grab some old issues of Scene It for the plane ride, to study more closely some of Mr. Bashiri’s past work. Bashiri was one of Danny’s all-time favorite photographers, a master of the 4 × 5-inch view camera, known primarily for his photos in and around Africa. Now that Rémi’s wife was in labor and Danny was taking his place on this trip as the magazine’s liaison, he realized that getting some one-on-one time with one of the most talented photographers in the world was the opportunity of a lifetime, not to mention a real God thing.
“You were reinforcing my decision with Haute Couture, weren’t You?” Danny prayed out loud, grinning, as he rolled up another T-shirt. “You sure don’t waste any time!”
Sometimes God’s will was difficult to discern—and sometimes it might as well come with flashing lights and big horns. Danny had no doubt that his fate was securely in God’s hands and that the big money he’d been offered today was a temptation he’d needed to resist in order to find his way to more God-ordained opportunities. Working as a liaison between Scene It and Kalunga Bashiri, Danny was probably going to learn more about photography in the next two weeks than he had in four years of college. Somehow, that had to be worth way more than a salaried position at a fashion mag.
Eager to share his exciting news with Jo, Danny glanced at the computer on the desk in the corner. He didn’t have time to go online—or even to call her, for that matter, to give her his big news. He decided he would try to phone from the train station if he had the chance, no matter the cost of the long distance. Pinching pennies was one thing, but telling Jo about this amazing opportunity was something that shouldn’t have to wait.
In the meantime, he was going to be lucky if he made the station on time. It depended on the traffic, not to mention the nerve of the driver the magazine sent over. As if in answer to his thoughts, a horn sounded outside, and he peeked out the window to see a small Volvo waiting at the curb.
Pulse surging, Danny tossed in a few granola bars and then grabbed his own Nikon DX1 for personal use. No doubt, he’d be too busy coordinating details to take many photos himself, but he wanted to be ready and able, just in case. He then locked up his flat, raced down the steps, and waved at the Volvo, surprised to see Luc sitting behind the wheel.
“Bon soir, Danny,” he said with a grin when Danny opened the door. “Guess what? Georgette has decided that I am to go on the trip as well.”
“Really?”
Danny tossed his duffel bag onto the backseat next to Luc’s neat leather suitcase and climbed in the front. As soon as he shut the door, Luc took off, squealing away from the curb at top speed. Maybe they would make it to the train in time after all.
Danny was surprised that Luc was coming along, mostly because it seemed like such a duplication of effort. They essentially held the same position at the magazine; why did both of them need to go? He asked the question as tactfully as he could.
“Georgette is concerned about the language barrier in Switzerland,” Luc explained as he turned onto the main road and sped through the night at top speed. “I speak German, so I will be on the first leg of the journey to translate. After that, though, you and Bashiri will be heading to Africa without me, assuming your visa can be expedited in ti
me.” He flashed a smile and added, “Your poorly accented American French should be passable enough for the Congo.”
“Gee, thanks. But, really, why don’t you just make the whole trip instead of me? I hadn’t even thought about the language issue. If you speak all these different languages, wouldn’t it make more sense for you to be the liaison? Especially since the doctors that are going probably all speak German?”
Luc shrugged, easing around another car and shifting into fifth gear before replying, “You are right. That would make more sense. But most of the doctors are probably multilingual. If they don’t know English, they will at least know French. You will survive.” He blasted the horn at a slow-moving truck and then swerved around it.
“Besides, Georgette said that Bashiri asked for you specifically.”
“He did?” Danny asked, his eyes wide. “Me? Specifically?” Unbelievable. Had Bashiri seen Danny’s work? Did he sense a fellow artiste? Did he recognize the burning ambition in Danny’s soul, the raw talent that yearned for recognition? “How do you know?”
“Georgette told me that Bashiri said he had never seen anyone pack a set of lenses with such care. He was also impressed with the amount of weight you were lifting while loading the truck. They are calling you a liaison, but I have the feeling that ‘pack animal’ is more like it. Get ready to feel like a burro, mon ami.”
Luc laughed, but Danny didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He realized that this evening’s offer from Chester Parks had pumped up his ego to the point where he was ready to believe that even someone like Kalunga Bashiri could be impressed with his talent. Instead, this dream opportunity had come about only because Danny had a few muscles and knew how to handle good equipment.
It figured.
“What’s the problem, Danny? Do you not want to go?”
“Of course I do. In fact, I want this more than I’ve wanted anything since I’ve been in Paris.”
“Certainly more than a high-paying job at Haute Couture, eh?”
Danny felt a flush of embarrassment. How could he explain to Luc his reasons for turning that down? More than likely, it was Luc’s dream job, and considering that he was the one who set up the meeting between Danny and Chester Parks in the first place, he was probably more shocked about the outcome than Chester had been. Danny realized that maybe an apology was in order.
Elementary, My Dear Watkins Page 4