Page 6 of Blade’s Edge (L.A.S.T. Defense #1)

Emi

Sunlight glints off the windows of the steel-and-glass monolith that will soon be the Empress Hotel and Conference Center.

Blinded for a moment, I don’t see the errant rock in my path, and I almost go down for the second time in twenty-four hours.

Not the impression I want to make on the owner of Consolidated Investment Group.

This could be the biggest interview of my career.

But Eugene Fowler is distracted, his phone to his ear, talking in hushed tones. From the set of his shoulders, the conversation isn’t going well.Poor Eugene. If he thinks he’s having a bad day now…

I scan the expansive construction site, looking for the best place to set up. My cameraman, Kyle, points to the southwest corner of the half-finished hotel tower. “The light there should be perfect, Emi.”

“Great. Get some wide shots of the conference center—all the glass windows on the west side, the guys pouring concrete, and the signage—while I prep Fowler. He’s gonna need some ground rules.”

With a chuckle, Kyle hefts the camera onto his shoulder as Eugene turns and adjusts his big, silver belt buckle like it’s tied directly to his dick. Years of experience keep me from saying a word, though the urge to roll my eyes is almost overwhelming.

Breathe, Emi. If he wants to play at being a big-time Texan—even though he’s only been here two years—let him. It’ll make for a better story.

Heaven help me. He pinches the ends of his handlebar mustache with a wink, then ambles over like he owns the whole damn world.

“Mr. Fowler, it’s a pleasure,” I say with a smile wide enough, my lips would crack if I were allowed to let them. On-air reporters have to maintain decorum, after all. And certain physical standards .

Fowler's gaze trails down my body, pausing—of course—on my breasts. The white silk shirt and push-up bra do a damn good job of making me look a fair bit younger than my forty years. He stops again at the hem of my skirt—and my legs, bare from just above the knee down to my black pumps.

“Well, ain’t you just the prettiest thing,” he says as he leans in to peck my cheek.

I take a step back before his lips touch my skin, but keep the smile plastered in place.

“Why thank you, Mr. Fowler. But I can’t mess up my on-screen make-up.

” Gesturing behind me, I continue. “My cameraman, Kyle, will need about fifteen minutes to get some B-roll, and then we’ll get started.

While he’s working, let’s go over the questions I’ll ask you.

That sound good? Oh, and Cheri here is going to make sure you look perfect. ”

His beady eyes narrow. Did he think he was camera ready? Hardly.His cheeks are shinier than a newly minted penny.

After a beat, he gets himself under control.“Of course, little lady. You’re in charge.”

Yes. Yes, I am.

“When we’re on-air, I must insist you call me Emmylou or Ms. Marsh. Station rules, I’m afraid.” At his hardening expression, I quickly add, “You don’t mind, do you, sugar?”

He’s clearly not from Texas or he’d know “sugar” isn’t a term of endearment.

Anyone born and raised here knows it means “idiot.” But it does the job.

While I hate— hate— using the little tricks women in my position have been relying on for decades, I’m not above them.

Not for a story like this. And Fowler doesn’t know what’s coming for him.

As if God himself agrees with me, Eugene chuckles. “Not at all. I’m putty in your pretty little hands.”

Ick.

Cheri, the perky redhead who does my makeup, approaches Fowler with a container of pressed powder and a brush. “Mind if I just tone down those cheeks a bit?” she asks.

“You can do whatever you want to me, darlin’.” His wink turns my stomach. From the look on Cheri’s face, she’s right there with me. But she’s been in this industry almost as long as I have. She knows how to hold her tongue.

At least in Los Angeles, the guys had the decency to be a little sly about their chauvinism. They’d talk behind my back, occasionally let a hint of derision slip into their voices, but if I called them on it, they’d apologize faster than a duck on a June bug.

I’d give anything to return to the city of angels, but I’m stuck here until I get a story juicy enough to catapult me back into the national spotlight.

Turns out, leaving Los Angeles for a job in Texas—even if I had no choice—is a career-ending move.

Unless I get my ass in gear. One story big enough to make it all the way to the national news cycle and stay there for at least a month, and I’m back in the game.

Otherwise, I’m a “has-been.” An old has-been, even at only forty. In television news, that’s ancient.

But this story? I’m crossing my fingers and toes. Hell, I’d find a way to cross my eyelashes if that weren’t against company policy. If I’m right—and I’ve done enough research to know I am—this is my ticket back to the big leagues.

With my smile in place, I return my focus to Fowler and flip open my notebook.

The man’s big. At least six feet tall and carrying an extra hundred pounds on his bulky frame.

Hazel eyes, a close shave outside of the mustache.

And looking for all the world like he’s completely and totally in control. I wonderhow long that will last?

“So, we’ll start out with a little history of Consolidated Investment Group.

How long you’ve run the company, some of your past projects, and what inspired you to choose this spot for the Empress Hotel and Conference Center, okay?

” I glance down at the little notebook, then back up at him.

The neatly printed text on the page is mostly for show—and to give me something to look at before I flutter my eyelashes at the disgusting ass in front of me.

That move should spur him into answering any question.

“Whatever you think is best,” he says, his voice oozing with charm as he casually brushes Cheri’s ass with the back of his hand.

She adds just a bit too much powder to one of his cheeks in retaliation, and God.

I love her. She knows just how far to take her revenge.

“As long as I can mention the shindig we’re throwin’ to raise money for the new youth center next month. ”

“Oh, of course, sugar.” Like I’d forget that . It’s the whole reason I’m here.

“We’re all ready to go Emmylou,” Kyle says as Cheri pins the wireless microphone to Eugene's suit jacket.

“Now remember, Mr. Fowler, this is a live interview, so try to keep the cussing to a minimum,” I offer with a sweet smile. “Otherwise, we’ll have to bleep you, and we certainly don’t want to do that.”

Eugene chuckles and tugs at his dark suit coat. “I’m sure we’ll be just fine, little lady.” With another wink, he adds, “Ms. Marsh.”

Kyle gives me the silent countdown, and I take a slow, centering breath.

You can do this. Don’t back down.Get him to crack, and you’re golden.

“This is Emmylou Marsh reporting from the future site of the Empress Hotel and Conference Center. With me, I have Eugene Fowler, owner of Consolidated Investment Group, and the driving force behind the development of the Empress.”

For two full minutes, we stick to the script Fowler expects, and he’s getting comfortable—both with me and with being on camera.

“This site was rather controversial, Mr. Fowler. For months, you had protestors demonstrating outside the fence every single day.” Kyle pans the camera for a wide shot showing the mostly empty fenced lot devoid of all but a handful of construction workers and a few passersby.

When the camera refocuses on me and Eugene, the man’s smile has faltered slightly, but he’s still on his game.

“Now that we did, Ms. Marsh. We had to tear down a youth center on the northeast corner of the property, and the community was understandably upset. But that building was infested with black mold. In fact, it was condemned not long after we broke ground. It was a miracle none of the kids came down with serious health problems.” Fowler straightens his tie, his chest puffing out with pride.

“In a couple of weeks, I’m hosting a charity event at the Metro Hotel on Grand.

All the money we raise will go to build a brand new, state-of-the-art community center four times the size of the original.

A small percentage of the profits from the Empress Hotel will fund staff and supplies for the center so any child in the city can attend its programs for free. ”

“That’s quite generous of you, Mr. Fowler.”

“I think so, little lady. But it’s also the right thing to do.”

Flipping a page in my notebook for effect, I narrow my eyes at Eugene. “The right thing? That’s interesting. Was it the right thing to pay off the health inspector who condemned the old youth center? To the tune of fifty thousand dollars?”

Fowler’s cheeks turn splotchy. “Now listen here, Ms. Marsh?—”

“You also donated another thirty thousand to the city planner who approved your permits for the Empress. Isn’t that right?”

He’s full-on crimson now. “You have no basis for these wild allegations! This is libel!”

I stifle my snort. “Don’t you mean slander, Mr. Fowler?

Libel is for print media. But you’d still be wrong.

Alan Trowing, the building inspector, sent me copies of his bank records, screenshots of the text messages the two of you exchanged, and photos of the cash you gave him.

The serial numbers are clearly visible. Should I contact your bank and ask them if the bills were withdrawn from your account?

Or perhaps the account of one of your associates? ”

“Fucking bitch,” Eugene snarls. “What the hell are you playing at?”

Despite the adrenaline flooding my veins, I manage to keep my expression neutral.

“Playing? I’m not playing, Mr. Fowler. I’m simply reporting the facts.

You only obtained the permits for the full complex because the community center was condemned.

And when you did get those permits, you paid less than a quarter of what most developers would have been charged. I can show you the receipts.”

“Now look here, missy. This was supposed to be a publicity piece on the Empress Hotel. You’ve turned it into a trial without judge or jury. I refuse to listen to these unfounded allegations one more second!”

He yanks the microphone off his lapel, pulls the battery pack from his pocket, and throws them right at me. The shock as they hit my side makes my placid expression falter for a second, but I catch the jumbled mess before it hits the ground.

“You’ll be sorry, bitch,” Fowler growls under his breath as he storms away.

Did he just...threaten me? Damn. I wish he hadn’t taken the mic off.

“Well, that took a turn,” I say, no longer smiling as I stare directly into the camera.

“Over the next three nights, tune in for a special investigative series on Eugene Fowler, the Empress Hotel Project, and the corruption we’ve uncovered surrounding Consolidated Investment Group.

For Channel 5 Evening News, this is Emmylou Marsh reporting. ”

Kyle gives me the all clear, and Cheri’s at my side two seconds later. “Are you okay, Emi?”

“I’m fine. Stop fussing. We need to get back to the station. I want this story dialed in tight. A corrupt land developer throwing his mic at the on-air reporter and threatening her ? This is going national. I can feel it.”