The Billionaire's Revenge: Billionaire Brothers Billionaire Bachelors (Tycoon Billionaires Book 3) (4 page)

“You’d better call security,” Joseph said to Robertson. “And get this guy back behind bars.”

Matthew – who was cowering behind Robertson – darted into the office to make the call. Joseph realised he’d better keep the semi-conscious Bob talking while they waited the slow uncomfortable minute for the guards to arrive. But Bob seemed defeated now – he looked like a little boy who wanted to go home. The guards didn’t care about that though. They rushed over, grabbed him violently, and dragged him away – hopefully to the police station and back to prison where he clearly needed to stay for a long time.

Joseph turned to face the others. He noticed Matthew hadn’t reappeared.

“You okay?” he asked Eleanor, who was still sitting tensely on the couch.

She gazed at him with her mouth open. “Joseph… you...”

He wanted to throw her over his shoulder and ride off into the sunset with her by his side, but Robertson pulled him back to the stifling corridor with a hearty backslap. “Well, thank you, young man. I think you just about saved my life there.”

Joseph gazed at the gun. “Actually, it’s plastic. And I was only trying to save… anyone who might’ve gotten hurt.”

“You’re okay by me,” Robertson said gruffly.

Matthew crept into the corridor, straightening his tie as if
he’d
been the one saving the day. The atmosphere clanged with tension – the aftermath of the gun attack resonated in the air, smothering them.

“Er, Mr Robertson,” Matthew said. “This is Joseph Quinlan. He’s one of the musicians I manage. He’s rather popular with the young people.”

“I know who this is!” Robertson snapped. “I own a goddamn tabloid newspaper – I see his face on the front page every morning when I’m pouring maple syrup on my goddamn pancakes.”

Joseph scoffed. “Yeah, you’d need something to sweeten the bullshit you print.”

Matthew gasped. “Joseph! How dare you speak to Mr Robertson like that?”

Robertson laughed. “Don’t worry, Matthew. My life’s work has been called much worse. But don’t you forget who butters your bread, young man.”

“I butter my own bread, thank you, sir.”

He waved his hand. “Nonsense. No one had heard of you until we put you on the David Peterson Show – which – if you don’t know –
I
own.”

Joseph’s chest prickled with irritation. He didn’t know that.

“Listen, son,” Robertson said. “I know sometimes it must be hard having your private life splashed over the pages of the tabloids. But it’s for the greater good.”

“The greater good of who exactly?”

“Well, there’s me, Matthew, my bank manager, my shareholders… and you, of course.”

“So making up lies is all just part of the package?”

Robertson shook his head, growing weary of Joseph’s ingratitude. “We don’t make up lies. We report the news for the good of the people. The Truth will always be revealed – that’s what the free press is for. Or would you prefer it if we were censored – if the government told us what to print – like in China? You don’t want
that
, do you? My motto is ‘The Truth is King.’ Even when it’s
slightly
tweaked to make it more interesting. I’m running a business you know, not a charity.”

Joseph shook his head in contempt. He opened his mouth to disagree, but Matthew intervened. “Anyway, now that you two have met… Blair, shall we head back to our meeting? I’m sure Joseph has important work to do on his new album. He’ll be there at your birthday celebrations next week and you can see him in action. Mr Robertson was just telling me it’s going to be a masquerade ball – sounds fun, huh?”

Joseph shrugged. “I guess so.”

“See you around, Joseph,” Blair said. He threw Eleanor a glance. “Looking forward to that story, young lady.”

Joseph smirked as she fought against her expression of disgust. “Yeah, bye,” she muttered.

Robertson and Matthew retreated into the office and the huge door slammed, shutting out the likes of them.

She relaxed. “Jesus…”

“You okay?” Joseph asked, joining her on the couch.

She gazed at him pensively. There was something different about the way she was looking at him now. It was as if she respected him for the first time ever. “I’m okay – I think. Thank you for, you know…”

He chuckled. “Saving your life? No worries, babe.”

She smirked at his cockiness. “Luckily the gun was fake.”

He sighed. “You give me compliments, you take them away.”

“No, Joseph, I didn’t mean–”

“It’s okay, just kidding. So why exactly does Bob hate Robertson so much?”

“I told you, he’s a disgruntled employee.”

“But most disgruntled employees don’t go around gunning down their former employer, do they?”

“He brought it on himself, Joseph. He was a rogue reporter. He broke the rules by using abhorrent techniques to gain the trust of his targets, and he deservedly paid the price. I’m not surprised Mr Robertson and his company distanced themselves from him. He’s clearly insane. As you saw.”

Joseph decided he’d do his own research on this when he got home later. He wanted to stay and talk to Eleanor – now that they were actually getting along. But they both glanced up as a stern-looking woman in a sharp suit strode down the corridor.

“Ms Davison?” the woman asked in a gravelly voice.

Eleanor looked terrified. “Yes.”

“Come with me. I need to take your fingerprints and a retina scan so you can gain security clearance for Press HQ.”

Eleanor quickly put on her shoes and grabbed her purse. “Right, okay. See you later, Joseph.”

She threw him a smile which was
almost
friendly.

“Yeah, see ya. Good luck – I hope you get everything you want.”

As Joseph watched her stride away, he realised he’d really meant it. Even though she was the technically the enemy now, he wanted her to succeed, because he wanted her to be happy. But he did wonder one thing… how long was it going to take him to seduce her away from her asshole boyfriend and possess her entirely – just for himself?

As Eleanor sat in the taxicab on her way to Press HQ, she was unable to get Joseph out of her mind. What he’d done back there – fighting an armed gunman – had totally transformed her opinion of him. It was true, she was desperately attracted to him anyway – he was handsome and charming, and she loved their daily exchanges of banter. But now she saw him in a completely different light. The way he’d leapt into action… he would’ve saved her life had the gun been real. And he’d been so cool about it. Her heart squeezed with affection.

But she knew it was pointless thinking about him. Any Joseph-based scenario would end in pain. If he didn’t like her, then she’d feel rejected. If he did like her, he’d only want a quick fling; and if he
did
want something more permanent (which was unlikely) she’d need to let him into her heart, and – after a disastrous three years with Matthew – she refused to ever let a man hurt her again. What she really needed was to get rid of Matthew and be single for a while. Now that she’d got what she wanted from him – a job with News Scape – she suddenly saw what she’d been doing for these last three years. She’d been using him, and she was ashamed of herself. She
had
loved him once… or at least she’d liked him a lot. But now that she’d used him to get this job, she was wondering whether
this
job was really what she wanted anyway…

The cab squeaked to a halt and she gazed out the window, realising she’d better get on with it now she was here. She took a moment to compose herself. The Press HQ building was like a fortress of doom. It was an old gothic mansion in the middle of the city, but it resembled a high-security prison from out here – or perhaps a sanatorium. The bricks were made of a creamy-beige stone, making it totally incongruous to the glass-and-steel skyscrapers all around. The turrets and peaked roof made it look like a fairy-tale castle, but it actually loomed like a horror house of terror. Eleanor half-expected a bolt of lightning to strike the highest tower – followed by maniacal laughter – but there was only grey drizzle above, and any noise from the heavens would be drowned out by the heart-crunching racket coming from the hundred-strong crowd of angry protestors who were currently blocking access to the stone steps. Luckily, there was a line of tough security guards preventing the protestors from entering the building – so Eleanor just needed to get through the crowd, and she’d be safe.

She paid the driver and slipped out onto the cold street, pulling her coat around her. This winter was cold and harsh, and she’d much rather be sitting on a sunny beach in Los Angeles right now. She had no idea who these protestors were or what they were protesting about, but they looked furious as they shouted chants about immorality. She sighed internally. It was freezing out here and she didn’t want to hang around on the sidewalk. Okay, she could do this. These people were just another obstacle that she had to overcome in order to achieve her dream. She’d already bulldozed through Matthew, so another few people to trample on should come easily. She pushed away her guilt at such thoughts and braced herself, then she stepped into the throng, realising that this must be how Joseph felt every morning, trying to get into the recording studio.

Eleanor was only five-foot-two and not particularly hefty, but she’d never been one to let anything get in her way. She strode forward with determination and pried apart a couple of protestors with her shoulder. They were engrossed in their chants of abuse towards
The New York Spin
so they parted easily, but as the crowd swallowed her up, it meant that there was now a wall of angry protestors surrounding her. Staying here would be dangerous, so she held up her hands like a battering ram and pushed as hard as she could, moving through the swarm like the prow of a ship cutting through the ocean. She spotted the sanctuary of the building ahead and sped up her pace, determined to get out of here before the waves dragged her under. She scrambled up on the stone steps and composed herself in front of one of the burly guards, then she pulled out her ID badge. The guard scrutinised the badge for what seemed like a silent eternity, and then he stood back and gestured for her to walk through the imposing red wooden doors that marked the entrance to her new life as a professional journalist. She stepped over the threshold and smiled, excited to be on the path to fulfilling her dreams. Her smile faded as she realised that there was now a set of glass doors blocking her way, like airport security doors. Eleanor realised she needed to swipe her badge on a wall-mounted pad, which made the doors swish open. She strolled into the marble foyer. 

The foyer was the epitome of calm compared to the chaos outside, and it was a contrast to the gothic building – it was modern and chrome, and the marble floor sparkled. It was as if the entire interior had been gutted and rebuilt, while retaining the superficial ‘shop front’ outside. There were several security guards in here too, standing still as statues – waiting for some action. She ignored the shiver of doubt that prickled down her spine and approached the corporate-looking woman behind the plush reception desk.

“Hi, I’m Eleanor Davison. It’s my first day.”

The woman threw her a plastic smile. “Right. Just look into this camera, please.”

Eleanor looked at the web-cam that was stuck to the woman’s computer, and it started to whirr. The receptionist typed something into her keyboard, then she smiled robotically. “That’s fine. Your retina scan has been approved.” She reached for the phone. “I’ll let them know you’ve arrived.”

“Thanks. Um… why are all those angry people outside?”

“Oh, you know, some people will protest about anything, won’t they?”

“Will they?”

“Sure. Please take a seat.”

Feeling as if she was in a dystopian sci-fi movie, Eleanor sat down on the beige leather couch and waited nervously for fifteen minutes until a frantic-looking middle-aged man appeared. He was balding with a bad comb-over, and he’d rolled up his shirt-sleeves to the elbows. He looked as if he was about to have a nervous breakdown from too much stress or too little caffeine. “Ellie, hi – great to meet you!”

“It’s Eleanor,” she said, shaking his clammy hand. He stank of cigarettes and coffee.

“I’m Gerald Stinger – I’m the editor for the team you’ve been allocated to. Come on, I’ll show you around.”

Eleanor followed him through a corridor and up some stairs. There were guards dotted around the stark stairwells, as well as red signs on the walls warning personnel to be vigilant of potential attacks. She could sense fear seeping through the walls back here, and the tension hit her hard as Gerald led her to the open-plan section where her new colleagues were frantically shouting into phones, and at each other.

It was more manic than the stock exchange. The corporate façade seemed to only exist in the foyer, and the décor back here consisted of blue carpet tiles, cheap plywood desks, and grubby walls that were adorned with framed photos of classic front-page scandals. There was one of Joseph Quinlan from a few weeks ago when he’d made an innocent remark about supporting gay marriage. The paper had gone insane, implying that he might be gay. Eleanor wasn’t sure how they got away with such allegations, but she had a terrible feeling she was about to find out. She inhaled a whiff of liquor as she strode past a man and woman who were arguing fiercely. No one smiled at Eleanor or even spoke to her. A few people glanced over and exchanged smirks. She knew what they were thinking: You won’t last five minutes here. Unfortunately, she was inclined to agree. She’d wanted to be a journalist all her life, but not like this. She wasn’t afraid of conflict situations, but these people were like rabid hyenas. She shook away her frantic doubts. It was going to be okay. She could handle this; she’d been through worse and survived. She just needed to get through Mr Robertson’s little test and she’d be working for the broadsheet in no time.

Gerald halted and spun to face her. “Right, Ellie, this is your desk. Did you have a story in mind?”

Eleanor’s head swam with confusion, desperate to keep up. “No… I hadn’t really thought about it.”

Gerald pulled up a tatty chair. “Sit down; don’t look so scared. I’ll explain… give you the induction, right? You’re in my team, which means I want you to succeed.”

“Thank you,” she said, sitting.

“Don’t thank me. I’m paid on commission – we all are. If my team does well, I get rewarded. We’re all in competition with each other – especially us and the team across the hall. We hate them. And I don’t mean that in a jokey corporate way, I mean it. We hate them. They steal our stories, we steal their contacts… Robertson’s set us against each other and now we have all to play the game, or we’re out.”

She felt like a smudge of algae. “It sounds like hell.”

“It is hell, Ellie. And you’d better get your shit together quick, because there’s no room for losers here – not in my team. I could fire you for whatever. We’re all desperate for the front page. If you don’t give me that, then your career’s over. Get it?”

Eleanor swallowed her fear. She felt as if she was drowning. But she steeled herself and sat up tall. “Right, okay. Er… is there a story you could… I mean, it’s my first day. Can you at least point me in the right direction?” She winced. “For the team?”

He leaned towards her. “I can give you some tricks of the trade and a lead – how’s that?”

“Okay. Yes please – that would be... thank you.”

He scratched his head. “Alright. You heard of the soap star Pierre Dupont?”

“Umm… He’s in that thing about cops working undercover, right?”

“Right, well, he’s a good-looking guy; popular with the ladies you’d think, huh?”

“I suppose so.”

“
And
he’s married. So I’ve got a feeling he might be in some trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

Gerald smothered her with contempt. “That’s for you to find out, Ellie.”

“Can’t you give me a clue?”

“No, because I’ve no idea what secrets he’s guarding. But he’s sure to have some, huh? So you just go ahead and send him a little message – you know, tell him you’ve discovered his dirty secret; tell him you want to meet up and discuss it. And if he meets up with you, you know he’s got something to hide. And you know he’ll be desperate to do
anything
to stop the world from finding out.”

Eleanor’s sense of reality imploded. “Frame him?”

He scoffed. “If that’s what you wanna call it.” Gerald grinned proudly. “Hey, I’ll bet you’ve never heard the term ‘blagging’, huh?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Well, that’s what we call what I’ve just described. We pretend we’ve got some info on the target and ‘blag’ our way into getting them to confess. It’s something we all swear by. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”

“I do, yeah. Blagging. Right.”

“But it’s not the same as lying, okay, because you
are
actually reporting the truth.”

“The truth…” she nodded slowly.

“Although if you do get really desperate, you can always just write something scandalous and add his name in after. Sometimes I do that. Write the quotes before I’ve got my story, then match them up with the guilty target. And bribery has its place, of course. You know, drop in on our competitors and see if they’re in the mood to receive a nice envelope full of cash in exchange for their top story. You’ve got to do whatever you can to get that front page.
That’s
the most important thing I can say to you.”

Eleanor was speechless. There didn’t seem to be any investigating going on here at all. It was all bribery, corruption, and lies. But – of course – things would be different at the broadsheet. The sensible newspaper. Wouldn’t they?

Gerald drummed his fingers on the table. “Oh, just one more little tip – you’ll like this: if you need any medical information about a celebrity, just call up their hospital and pretend to be a specialist. They usually give it out over the phone. And then you can contact the celebrity in question and ask them if they’d
like
you to publish that info, or would they prefer it if you suppress it in exchange for some other gossip. Genius, huh? People are dumb. I love it. I’ve got some of my best stories that way.”

Eleanor cleared her throat. “Er, isn’t that blackmail?”

“Bless you, Eleanor. Welcome to the world of tabloid journalism. Now I suggest you get on with that story. As I said, if you don’t come up with the goods, you’re out.”