The Beginning of Always (20 page)

“Well, why not?” Businessmen and their loyalties always rested with the bottom line. Frankly, I was a bit surprised to hear Alistair skeptical about the possibility of such a large boon.

Alistair rubbed his knuckles over his jaw. “When you’re dealing with so much money and you don’t know where it’s going, or if there is so much smoke and mirrors between the buyer and the seller, you have to wonder where the cash flow is being directed. I can’t begrudge someone their frivolous spending, but I refuse to help war, terrorism, or mass killing. That stains the soul; no chase is worth that.”

He locked gazes with me, strength radiating off him in waves. “That’s what tonight is about. I need more information before we move forward. Solomon likes doing business over dinner, so here we are.”

This was a side of Alistair I hadn’t seen before. He was self-assured, confident, and surprisingly principled. There was integrity behind his words and I was impressed. I had imagined the city had changed him. I was happy to see otherwise.

I told him so. “I’m impressed. Big leagues, huh?”

“Like you said, we’re a long way from Michigan. He’s here, let’s go.”

Alistair wound his fingers around mine, our fingers lacing together. He tugged me out of the bar and I silently allowed it, following him.

When we emerged back into the lobby, I pulled my hand out of Alistair’s grasp and he dropped it without giving me a second glance. His attention was on the far side of the room, back at the staircases.

The view outside the panel windows denoted a monstrous spring storm, fat raindrops crashing against the moving cars and umbrellas swarming the sidewalks. Two unfamiliar men walked towards us, or more specifically one walked while the other rumbled. Both were older than Alistair and me by at least thirty years, but that was where the similarities ended. One was pin-thin and clean-shaven while his companion was a large corpulent beast of a man with patchy half-grown stubble dotting his many chins. The thin man was bald, giving a sterile air to his demeanor, while the large one gelled his thinning hair flat against his scalp. His small watery eyes were nearly swallowed by his generous cheeks. Thomas, in his smart glasses, scurried alongside the pair, mouth moving a mile a minute.

Alistair ate up the distance in large strides to this very amusing group of three. He nodded to Thomas.

“Solomon,” Alistair said simply, offering his hand.

The man gripped it and boomed, “Blair!” Alistair shook hands with the pin-thin partner, calling him Greg.

And just as Alistair took a step back to direct their attention toward me, Solomon beat him to the punch.

“Who are you?” Solomon said, stretching out the last word with a downward sneer of his puffy lips.

I immediately detested him and his greasy leering quality. I gritted my teeth in what I hoped was a passive friendly expression and I extended my hand. “My name is Florence Reynolds. I work for the
New York Journal
. We are currently running a profile on Mr. Blair.”

Beefy grunted a non-reply and grasped my hand with his. “Solomon Morgan.”

His palm was damp and was made of spongy flesh that swallowed my hand in its humid grip. We shook, web to web, and I immediately withdrew, giving an internal shudder.

Solomon threw Alistair a nasty look. “Why is she here? This is supposed to be confidential. I told you this information is worth its weight in gold.”

Alistair’s face was impassive. “She won’t print anything to give the deal away.”

“How can you guarantee it?”

“I guarantee it.”

A wave of déjà vu hit and I had an overwhelming urge to speak up and say there was no guarantee, but I bit my tongue. There was nothing to be gained from engaging in a pissing contest with what looked to me like two men who definitely cared the most about how far and high their streams went. I needed to keep the peace, so I nodded.

“This is strictly for understanding Alistair’s business practices and company. We will not include anything about the meeting until all the details of your deal go full-press elsewhere.”

Solomon glared and I stared back, unblinking.

After a short silence, he grunted to Alistair.

“Come on, the women are already at our table.”

The women, as I came to find out, consisted of Solomon’s and Greg’s wives.

Mrs. Solomon Morgan was at least five years younger than I was, with breasts large enough to function as ledges, and makeup dripping off her face. Jewels covered her more than clothing did, with a large diamond-studded necklace overflowing against her bosom and rubies the size of grapes weighing down her earlobes. Her dress was blood red and straining over her hips and curves, the hem ending just a hair below her crotch. Lush white-blond hair cascaded over her slim shoulders to the middle of her back.

Greg’s wife was nearly the exact opposite. She was on the early side of middle-aged with faint wrinkles fanning gently across her face, but with the soft look of aging well. She wore a very simple knee-length black dress. She gave me a shy smile, using her fingers to brush back her straight bob.

Both women stood up at the sight of us, with Blonde and Boobs fluttering over to her husband and throwing herself against his body.

“Lover!” she purred in a throaty voice. “Oh, I missed you!”

Solomon beamed at her.

I fought my reflex to roll my eyes.

“This fine creature, gentlemen, is Cassandra,” Solomon said as he wound an arm around her slim waist. She pressed herself against him and tittered.

Greg’s expression didn’t change and he gave her the barest of nods. Alistair offered a polite hello and extended his hand.

Cassandra nearly fell over from the weight of her breasts as she leaned to take Alistair’s hands with both of hers. She clawed the tips of her nails against the back of his palm.

“Mr. Blair, it’s an honor,” she crooned as she petted him. I warred with an uncomfortable urge to swat her off. Alistair shook her hand, and when he pulled away, a fleeting edge of annoyance flitted across her expression.

But it was stamped out quickly when she flicked her eyes to me. Cassandra looked me up and down, in much the same way Gertrude had the first time, except Cassandra’s disdain was much more obvious.

“I didn’t know Blair had a girlfriend!” Cassandra cried loudly.

“I’m not a guest, I’m a journalist writing an article on Mr. Blair,” I said coldly.

Cassandra raised her fingers to her lips and giggled girlishly behind them. Her nails were at least three inches long and blood red to match her dress. “A journalist! How adorable.”

The way she said “journalist” was condescending and vaguely insulting, as if I was beneath her. What was I? A working-class pleb?

I bit my tongue and forced a smile on my lips. “Yes, a journalist.”

But Cassandra turned away, already bored and ready to put her attentions to something shinier and more expensive. This was going to be her husband, who was gingerly lowering himself into his chair, his cheeks reddening with exertion.

There was much attention and fawning over Solomon’s descent into his chair, so when Alistair brushed beside me and pulled my chair out for me, no one really noticed.

Except me, especially when he leaned close to me as I was sitting down.

“Don’t let them get to you,” Alistair murmured next to my ear.

I smiled wide as I rearranged my skirt over my knees. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said to the air before me.

Alistair gave a short snort of disbelief. He sat to my left, to the right of Solomon, and readjusted his seat closer to mine. Our knees brushed against each other, and even with two layers of fabric between the two of us, a jolt of heat still shot up my thigh where we made contact. I shifted in my seat so my legs swung opposite from him.

“Alright!” Solomon boomed, adjusting himself in his seat and crashing his elbows against the table. “Wine!”

Solomon proceeded to make a big show of harassing the waiter about the wine list, snorting loudly in disapproval as the poor guy suggested bottle after bottle. Finally, after a ten-minute aggravation, Solomon settled on two bottles he deemed “merely acceptable” and had the man bring them over.

As the waiter poured wine into our glasses, Greg’s wife delicately declining, Solomon clasped his hands and spoke to Alistair.

“I simply cannot wait any longer, I must know. Have you looked at the property details? Beautiful building, just a beautiful building.”

Greg spoke up. “Price is better than any we’ve seen, ever. This is an amazing opportunity for Blair Properties and Solomon Co. to collaborate on. The location is right in the heart of retail, any company could slip right in. All for seven fifty a square foot. We could just turn around and sell it for upwards of seventeen fifty.”

“I’ve read over the proposal you sent over last week. All the details do fall perfectly into place,” Alistair said.

“So?” Solomon grinned widely, toasting his wineglass at the table. “You accept? This will be a celebratory dinner!”

Thomas raised a palm to silence Solomon. “Not so fast. The details do fall perfectly, but too perfectly. Mr. Blair and I have concerns about the sellers.”

Thomas glanced at Alistair for approval, and Alistair nodded slightly for him to proceed. I sipped my wine casually, watching the back-and-forth like a tennis match, the menu forgotten on my lap.

I had to hand it to Solomon, the wine was delicious.

“What do you know about them? Have you met with the current owners? The numbers are too ideal. It’s cause for suspicion.”

Greg nodded. “We’ve communicated, but they reassure us it’ll be a clean sale, no funny business.”

Thomas wasn’t convinced. “Look, we in the industry all know we always have to cover our backs, even more so after that whole ordeal with that building on Fifth and Fifty-Second. Being seized by the federal government and having the media report on Iranian ties is not good for any business.”

Solomon threw his hands in the air. “That was robbery! The US Government choking honest businesses for the sake of a front-page news headline. They wanted to look as if they were doing something about all the terrorism in the Middle East, so they stole that building from its rightful owners.” Solomon seethed his words, fisting his hands, in full rant mode.

“Those weren’t honest business practices, they were funding terrorists,” Alistair said. Thomas nodded curtly in support. I nodded too, the wine already hitting my sensibilities.

“We know you gentlemen have concerns and we intend to clear the air about them. However, this is time-sensitive, and if we don’t capitalize on this deal, they’ll just go to someone else,” Greg said.

Alistair sighed, then leaned towards Solomon, lowering his head and speaking slowly.

“Solomon, we can talk round and round about the possibilities here, but I came to dinner tonight in good faith. I’ve read the proposal. It’s not sitting right with me. I truly recommend for you not to do this. You don’t need this building. It can ruin you if it turns south. This is the kind of deal that can wreck a lifetime’s work. There are too many unknowns, too much smoke and mirrors and too many unanswered questions.”

Solomon’s watery little eyes blinked.

“You must be joking,” he said.

“Thomas and I have combed through the records. A bank and a company I’ve never heard of listed as owners? We tried to trace them, but it was a dead end to nowhere. It’s more than likely a shell company. That can’t smell right to you. Do your research—nothing adds up here. They’re trying to dump this on you to run with the cash.”

Solomon’s cheeks went red and he twisted his lips up on one side.

“Since when did you turn so soft, Blair? You used to like a challenge, a risk. No jump, no reward.”

“You know a good bet when it’s in front of you. Your vision is clouded on this, trust me,” said Alistair. He gestured towards Thomas, who produced a stack of papers from under his chair.

“We printed out our findings.” Thomas handed the stack to Greg, who tilted his head with a furrowed brow but accepted it regardless.

Solomon cast an incredulous look at Alistair, then for some reason redirected it at me with a hard glint in his eye.

“I came to you, Blair, because I thought you had balls, that you had the edge and energy for such a huge undertaking. What the hell happened?”

“Solomon,” Alistair said, his tone going low in warning. But that didn’t stop Solomon’s rant. He pressed on, yelling louder to drown out whatever protests any of us were to have.

“Is it this new woman in your life? Did she cause this dulling of the love for the game? It’s always a woman! I tell you, it’s always a damned female!” Solomon jabbed a fat index finger in my direction.

“Wait, what?” I said, confused. Where was this coming from?

“The day Alistair Blair is taken down by a woman! I never thought you of all people. Neutered before your time, before you were able to achieve the greatness we all saw in you.”

“Look, I’ll have you kno—” I started, but Solomon slammed a flat palm against the table so hard the flatware rattled.

“Shut up!” Solomon snapped. “Men are talking, women stay silent!”

Just as my lips parted to tell him exactly where to shove it, Alistair’s hand shot out and gripped Solomon’s wrist. The sight of Alistair’s strong fingers seizing Solomon’s pale doughy flesh was a contrast of their power and age.

Alistair leaned forward, his eyebrows low and jaw clenched.

Solomon didn’t appreciate the gesture. He twitched his body back, fighting to pull out of Alistair’s death hold.

“What is this about, Blair? Unhand me!”

“Apologize,” said Alistair. His voice was icy, calm, but a palatable rage radiated off him.

Solomon glared. I stared. Everyone else at the table gawked.

“Apologize?” Solomon spat it out as if it were a dirty word. Cassandra’s eyes drank in the scene, eager for the drama. Greg and his wife shifted nervously.

“Apologize to Ms. Reynolds.” Alistair’s directive was slow and strong.

“It’s alright, Alistair, just let it go—”