Page 30

ENGLAND

ONE WEEK LATER

NATALIA

Olivia stops the camera and straightens, giving me a thumbs-up. “Nice one. It’s a wrap.” Moving to the softbox light and switching it off, she says over her shoulder, “I’ll get this to Ajay and let him know the second intro of those three is the one you like best.”

“Thanks, Liv.” I head for the door of the small room we use for shooting ARJ Buzz episodes.

“Oh, Nefeli told me to have you stop by her office after we’re done,” Olivia adds, fussing with the camera to remove the SD card.

I almost ask what type of mood it seemed she was in. With Nefeli Laskaris, you never know, and I’ve been “on her list” since I claimed I tossed that USB stick into the bin.

I walk across the expansive main room of the ARJ offices, taking a mint from the bowl on editor Riley’s desk, high-fiving photographer Lachlan, and trying not to roll my eyes at Alexander, who’s perched on the edge of an intern’s desk, shamelessly flirting.

Nefeli hates the sound of knocking but also doesn’t want anyone to walk in unannounced. Her door is glass, fortunately, so the accepted procedure is to stand there until you’re noticed. She’s on the phone when I walk up, so I crunch the mint and wait.

After about two minutes, she twirls toward the door and flicks her fingers to invite me in.

She concludes her call and sets the phone down while taking her seat and waving at one of the tufted slipper chairs opposite the desk.

On it is a laptop, a fountain pen laid diagonally across a legal pad, a teacup on a saucer, and a succulent in a ceramic pot.

“You wanted to talk to me?” I ask.

She angles her head to peer through the bifocal part of her glasses and taps the keyboard of her laptop, then rotates it and scoots it my way. “Tell me what you see, love.”

I move to the edge of my chair. The smile on my face wilts as I’m faced with a page from a French Formula 1 gossip website. The headline reads, “ Un Repas Romantique pour Deux… Qui Est Cette Femme? ”

The photo: Klaus and me at L’Escale in Monaco, holding hands across the table. The smoldering expression on Klaus’s face says this is definitely a date.

I sit back, ruler-straight in my chair. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Don’t insult me, please. It may have been a while since I inspired that degree of lovesickness, but I can still identify it—the man is dead gone on you.”

“Just let me explai—”

“Enough,” she interrupts, flapping one hand as if repelling a cloud of mosquitos. “I don’t care if you’re fucking Klaus Franke, for God’s sake.”

My eyebrows dart up. “You don’t?”

“Is it unprofessional? Probably. Will it influence how you write about Emerald? Definitely. Can we use it to our advantage…?” She winks. “Possibly.”

I twist my fingers together, lowering them to my lap. “I’m not sure what you mean, but I don’t like how that sounds.”

She chuckles. “Oh, don’t be such a little puritan. The man is putty in your hands. Have your fun, but… don’t be afraid to capitalize on the perks inherent to this level of intimacy. It’s an all-access pass.”

She may not realize it, but pretty much since middle school, it’s been one of my biggest pet peeves to be called some version of “little puritan.”

Prude. Goody Two-shoes. Miss Priss. Wet blanket. Killjoy.

My nostrils flare. “The award-winning articles and books you’ve written didn’t come from sleeping with the right people.”

She leans her chin on one hand with a droll look. “No, but you’d better believe I once spent two grueling hours flirting up a storm with Henry Kissinger to get some useful tidbits about Kosovo. And that, darling, ended up being the basis of my book Dancing with Milo?evi? . Pulitzer Prize winner.”

The mention of my lifelong fantasy goal gives me pause before indignation prods me onward. “If I use my relationships to manipulate people for story details, my life would be littered with very short friendships. I think we’re done here.” I get up to leave.

“First of all,” she says coolly, “writers of every type—journalism, novels, screenplays, songs—mine details from the people in their lives. I wasn’t suggesting you shag the dear boy into exhaustion and go through his pockets for secrets, like some Mata Hari. Now sit down.”

I reluctantly lower into the chair.

“When I gave you this assignment,” she continues, “you mentioned Klaus Franke being resistant to interviews. An ‘all-access pass’ means he’s comfortable with you. He trusts you, so getting a good story will be easier.”

“He does trust me,” I retort. “And I’d never abuse that trust.”

“Well, kudos. Very ethical— rah rah .” She lifts her pencil-line brows in amusement.

“You look impatient. I’m sorry, have I become tedious?

Should I and my nearly fifty years’ experience in journalism go crawl into my box until one of you plucky know-it-all youngsters feels like dusting me off to ask a question? ”

I feel bad for getting snippy with her and look into my lap.

“I called you in,” she continues, “so we could circle back to the evidence you were sent on the flash drive. ‘Blueprintgate,’ as Alexander termed it.”

Oh God… did the story break somewhere, and I threw away the scoop? My panicked brain hunts for a defense. I grip the chair’s edge. “Nothing in those files seemed—”

“Don’t go to pieces,” Nefeli interjects.

“Your intuition was correct. Even if you were just protecting your beau.” Her phone rings.

She glares at it, then flicks the side button.

“It’s been three months, and no other news outlet has broken the story.

Even if the source had initially sent the material only to ARJ , after a few weeks of seeing nothing done with it they’d have tried someone else.

But that didn’t happen… ergo, we were the sole recipient.

The question,” she poses in a stage whisper, “is why did someone want you to have it?”

“They didn’t. They sent it to Alexander.”

Nefeli leans back with a reluctant-sounding sigh. “About that, love. I don’t want to start a war, but… the thumb drive was addressed to you. Alexander had a wee case of professional jealousy and took it out of your inbox.”

“Wait, what ?”

“Try not to hold it against him; the child has no impulse control.”

That miserable creep! Pretending it was a peace offering…

“You’re not doing him any favors by babying him,” I bite out. “He’s not a child.”

“Fifty pence for your unsolicited parenting advice,” Nefeli says dryly. “The question remains: Who sent it, and what was their agenda?”

“To make Emerald look bad. And because they noticed I’m doing interviews with Klaus.”

“But if the information is a load of bollocks, to what end?”

I don’t have the luxury of thinking it is “a load of bollocks” anymore. Clearly some sort of malfeasance occurred. Klaus is such an honorable person… I have to believe he was protecting an Emerald employee.

“So here’s a thought…” Nefeli goes on, tapping a nail against the edge of her teacup’s saucer. “Is it a red herring? Or as they call it on your side of the pond, a ‘snipe hunt’?”

She looks so smug, I want to scoff. Has she been reading too many suspense thrillers? In real life, there isn’t always a plot twist. Most answers are boringly straightforward.

“I can see the protestations on those lips,” she tells me.

“But I didn’t get where I am by having poor instincts.

I suspect this phony intel relates to the kerfuffle surrounding that new race location.

Blueprintgate might be nothing more than a cover for the real story.

I’d start beating the bushes, were I you. ”

I cross my arms, eyes narrowed. “So why don’t you investigate?” A slightly petty and mean impulse spurs me to add, “You used to love that stuff, in your day.”

She smiles slowly, not taking the bait. “Can’t be arsed, love. I already earned my stripes. Also?” She drops her voice wickedly. “ I’m not the one dating Klaus Franke. ”

When I take my leave of Nefeli and walk out into the main office, Alexander is still sitting on the intern’s desk.

I have the urge to blast this genteel fuckboy in the face with a squirt bottle as if he were a misbehaving house cat.

That’s a little impractical, so instead I catch him by the sleeve of his tailored sage-green suit and haul him upright.

“A chat in private, please?” I grit out.

“Ooh, someone’s keen for it,” he jokes, giving Gilly a rakish wink. “I’ll catch up with you later, pet.”

I pause to look back and warn the wide-eyed intern. “Don’t let this moron,” I tell her, jabbing a finger toward Alexander, “be your least rewarding experience at this job.”

As I plow toward Alexander’s office with him in tow, he extracts his crumpled sleeve from my grip. “Do you quite mind? This is Thom Sweeney.”

His office is modest—Nefeli has at least made a nod to not playing favorites—but has a much larger window than mine, with a better view. I shove him through the door like a mall security guard herding a shoplifter, then shut it behind us.

“You’re nothing if not true to form,” I begin, eyes raking over him with disgust.

He relaxes, smoothing a hand down his jacket and shooting his cuffs. “Been eyeing my ‘form,’ Evans? I’m flattered.” His gaze angles to the door. “Flip that lock, and—”

My growl of frustration is practically an animal’s snarl. “ Rrrggghhh! Turn that flirting shit off, can you? Like, ever? For one minute?”

He leans on his desk and tilts his head in feigned remorse. “My apologies.”

“The memory stick you gave me in Italy. You stole it from my inbox. I can’t believe I fell for your stupid compliments saying you think I’m a terrific journalist! As much—”

“Natalia,” he cuts in softly.

His usual smug glamour has been replaced with an expression that for once doesn’t seem engineered to showcase his charming smile. It’s almost… vulnerable?

I fold my arms. “What.”

He rakes one hand through his auburn hair, then blows out a breath, upward to adjust the picturesque lock falling over his brow.

“The compliments I gave you when I handed over the USB stick were sincere. And the dig I took at your professional qualifications last year during our date were… not .” He picks up a paperweight made of magnetic spheres and digs into it with a fingertip.

“I was embarrassed by your rejection and still wanted to hurt your feelings. It was immature and sullen, and I’m genuinely sorry. ”

I’m pretty sure he’s not manufacturing his candor right now, because I catch the faint change to his speech that I notice only when he’s at his most unguarded. The childhood Northern accent tugs at his vowels—I hear it on “sullen.”

I let the silence hang. My aunt says it’s unforgivably rude not to accept an apology, but then again, she’s never met Alexander Laskaris.

“You know you’re awful, right?”

He peeks up at me through dark lashes. “I’m sure you’ll be shocked to learn you’re not the first person to say so.”

I’m not letting him off that easily.

He offers a sad smile that’s mostly confined to his dark gray eyes. “I took the USB stick from your inbox in a fit of pique. I’d just heard that you got ARJ Buzz , and… I’d already told several people the job was mine.”

“Ah. Female people,” I surmise with some amusement.

His lips scrunch into a sulky frown. “You’re enjoying this too much, but yes . And surely you know how much men love to be laughed at by women.”

I give him a pitying, big-sisterly look. “Oh, for God’s sake, Alex. Why do you care what people think of you? You’re too rich and pretty to be this insecure.”

He smirks. “You think I’m pretty?”

“You know you are, idiot,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“But seriously… what’s with the disguises, the chameleon thing you do?

Trying to carve out the perfect key for every lock.

Even the posh accent you wear like armor—you think I haven’t noticed your real one?

With all your obvious gifts and privilege, it’s like you think it still isn’t enough. ”

His helpless chuckle is like a long-held breath finally released.

“I don’t think I have a real accent. Even as a boy, it changed for my father, my tutors, the kids around our village.

But you’re no different, Evans. I scrub Northern England from my voice; you’ve scrubbed the Southern US from yours—proper Broadcast American, that.

So who are you ?” His eyes narrow with mirth.

“Don’t pretend you have it all sorted. Has Herr Franke ever met the real Natalia Evans, or are you still figuring out who she is? ”

His question tumbles into an empty space inside me, bumping around in the darkness. “I’m… I’m a fundamentally honest person, Alexander.”

“That,” he counters, pointing at me, “answers a question altogether different to the one I asked.”

Getting to my feet with a sigh, I move toward the door. “I have nothing to hide. And thanks for the apology, but I still don’t trust you.”

“But you like me just a little bit,” he teases. “I’m not all bad. Give me a chance to prove it.”

With one hand on the doorknob, I pin him with a look over my shoulder. “Wanna prove it? Leave Gilly alone. Oliver in graphic design has a crush on her, and I think she likes him back. But you’re confusing her, and you only about ten percent mean it.”

He takes a slow breath. “All right. But for my valiant sacrifice, I get upgraded to ‘acquaintance-plus’ in your eyes, if friendship is right out.”

“Oh, Jesus— fine . As long as you never ask me for a date again, ever.” I turn the doorknob, then pause. “Also, if you hear any credible intel about the human rights issue with that new grand prix location, let me know, okay? I’m looking into it.”

“Deal.”

As I exit, I can’t help thinking that it feels odd to have an alliance with Alexander. But his mild sleaziness might come in handy.

Because unfortunately, I can’t ask Klaus about any of this.