Page 24 of Sly Like a Fox (Romance Expected Dating Service #3)
Fenton
I’m still thinking about the brief time in the linen closet with Jenna when I follow Anklor in for a private meeting. I force my thoughts from the feel of her skin and her intoxicating scent to the dangerous task before me.
His study is everything I imagined and more.
The shrine to wealth and power reeks of corruption and arrogance.
The walls display expensive artwork that was probably acquired through questionable means while built-in bookshelves hold leather-bound volumes I’m sure have never been read.
Behind his massive mahogany desk, multiple monitors show financial data that represents years of criminal activity disguised as legitimate business.
This is the nerve center of his empire as well as the place where he coordinates the destruction of honest businesses and the intimidation of anyone who threatens his interests, including my father.
“Impressive setup.” I settle into the chair across from his desk while discreetly activating the recording app on my phone. “You clearly understand the importance of staying connected in today’s market.”
He moves to a bar cart and pours two glasses of expensive whiskey. “Information is power, as I’m sure you understand. The key to success is knowing what others don’t.”
He hands me a glass, and I force myself to accept it without letting my disgust show.
The whiskey tastes bitter, which has to be my perception, but I take a sip and nod appreciatively while noting the way he positions himself behind his desk.
Elevated and protected, with clear sight lines to the door.
Everything is calculated to provide psychological advantage.
“Absolutely. Real-time data analysis is crucial for making informed investment decisions.” I pull out my phone as if checking current market conditions. “Actually, let me pull up some recent commodity trends that might interest you.”
The movement appears casual, but I’m actually activating the remote access software I planted in his system weeks ago through the financial newsletter phishing email.
The connection establishes immediately, giving me backdoor access to his entire network while he thinks I’m researching investment opportunities.
“Excellent idea. I’m always interested in emerging market trends.” Anklor leans back in his chair, apparently comfortable with the direction of our conversation.
I navigate through his files while maintaining the facade of discussing portfolio diversification strategies.
The depth of criminal evidence available through his personal computer exceeds my highest expectations.
I find financial records documenting money laundering operations through shell companies, communication logs detailing bribes paid to judges and city officials, and detailed plans for bid-rigging schemes that mirror the methods used to destroy my father’s business.
“These copper futures are particularly interesting,” I comment while downloading files that contain evidence of Anklor’s entire corruption network. “The infrastructure spending bills should create significant opportunities.”
“Infrastructure has been very good to me over the years. Municipal contracts, development projects, that sort of thing.” His casual tone doesn’t hide the underlying message. “The key is understanding which projects receive favorable treatment from regulatory agencies.”
Every word is another confession and more evidence that will help ensure his conviction. I force myself to nod thoughtfully while internally celebrating the systematic destruction of his empire. “I imagine having good relationships with city planning officials would be invaluable in that sector.”
“Relationships are everything in this business. The right connections can turn a losing bid into a winning contract.” He swirls his whiskey, watching my reaction. “Sometimes, it’s about who you know rather than what you propose.”
The admission is so blatant that I wonder if he’s testing me or simply confident that his wealth and connections make him untouchable. Either way, his arrogance is providing the kind of recorded confession that prosecutors love.
I continue downloading files while maintaining casual conversation about market conditions and investment strategies. Each document represents another nail in his coffin and another piece of justice for my parents and all the other families he’s destroyed over the years.
The financial records detail systematic corruption that goes back at least a decade.
There are bribes disguised as consulting fees, kickbacks hidden in charitable donations, and intimidation campaigns funded through legitimate business expenses.
Everything is documented with meticulous detail that will make conviction inevitable.
But the files that make my hands shake with rage are the ones specifically related to Nelson’s Family Construction.
My father’s company appears in dozens of documents, all detailing the systematic campaign to destroy his business and all orchestrated by the man sitting across from me, sipping expensive whiskey while describing his criminal empire like a legitimate business venture.
“You know, I think we could work very well together,” he says, apparently pleased with the direction of our conversation. “Someone with your technical expertise could be invaluable for managing certain...sensitive data requirements.”
“I’m always interested in challenging projects.” The words feel like poison in my mouth, but maintaining my cover means appearing receptive to his criminal proposals.
“Excellent. I have several immediate needs that require both discretion and expertise. Database management, transaction routing, and communication security.” He opens a desk drawer and retrieves a thick folder.
“These are some sample projects. Review them and let me know if you have questions about scope or methodology.”
He slides the folder across the desk, and I accept it with hands that don’t quite shake. This is it. Physical evidence of his criminal operations, handed to me by Anklor himself. The folder feels heavy with justice finally within reach. “I’ll review these. When would you need a final decision?”
“Soon. Let’s say forty-eight hours?” He stands, signaling that the meeting is drawing to a close. “I have other candidates, but I prefer working with people who understand that results matter more than methods.”
I tuck the folder inside my jacket while standing to shake his hand. “I understand completely. Discretion and effectiveness are my primary qualifications.”
The handshake feels like touching a snake, but I maintain professional composure while memorizing every detail of his criminal confessions. The recording will provide audio evidence, but the folder contains documentation that will be even more valuable in court.
Then I hear heavy, deliberate footsteps in the hallway outside that sound like someone approaching with purpose rather than casual movement. Porter Kane, most likely, coming to check on the length of our private meeting.
I have maybe thirty seconds before he reaches the door, and my download is only seventy percent complete. The decision between gathering more evidence and maintaining our cover happens in an instant.
I close the connection and pocket my phone while engaging Anklor in casual conversation. “You know, this reminds me of a golf course I played in Scotland last year. Amazing clubhouse architecture.”
Anklor’s eyebrows rise slightly at the abrupt topic change, but he responds with polite interest. “I’ve heard excellent things about Scottish golf. Which course did you play?”
“St. Andrews. It has incredible history, though the weather was challenging.” I maintain eye contact while listening to the footsteps pause outside the door.
Porter appears in the doorway, his massive frame filling the entrance as he scans the room with professional paranoia. “Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to make sure everything was going well.”
“Of course, Porter. Mr. Nielsen and I were just discussing travel experiences.” Anklor’s tone carries mild annoyance at the interruption but no suspicion.
“No problem at all,” I say with casual friendliness. “I was telling Mr. Anklor about some excellent golf courses in Scotland.”
Porter’s vision lingers on me for a moment longer than necessary, but he nods and steps back from the doorway. “I’ll let you finish your conversation.”
After he disappears down the hallway, I complete my performance with a few more comments about international golf before allowing Anklor to guide our conversation back toward business conclusions.
“Well, I think we’ve covered the essential points,” he says, moving toward the door. “I look forward to hearing your thoughts on those projects.”
“Absolutely. I’ll be in touch within forty-eight hours.”
We return to the main party area, where I immediately scan for Jenna. The sight of her safe and unharmed lets me breathe deeply again until I realize he’s staring at Jenna in a way that makes me uncomfortable… and potentially murderous.
We rejoin the women, and I put a hand on her back, shielding his view with my body and hoping it looks like a casual stance. She sways slightly and seems mildly intoxicated. I flash her a look of concern, but she winks at me. “Fenton, darling, I think we should head home soon.”
“She’s had a bit too much to drink,” Caroline whispers in a sympathetic way.
I nod, trying not to stiffen as Anklor moves closer.
“Actually, before you leave,” he says, shifting to examine Jenna and me with an unsettling smile that makes my skin crawl, “I wanted to extend a special invitation, assuming your answer is affirmative.”
I don’t have to ask what answer. If I say yes to working with him, something more is coming. My stomach clenches with dread.
Caroline appears beside him, her face bright with excitement. “Oh, yes, you simply must join us next weekend at the lake house. It’s going to be wonderful.”