The Dangerous Seduction (3 page)

Paul comes by a couple of hours later and is pleasantly surprised to find Ryan already well into the work he left him.

“This is great,” Paul says, reading through the synopsis he’s been preparing. “Definitely gives Emily a run for the money.”

“Who?” Ryan asks.

Paul waves a hand at the nameplate on the door. “Emily. She had this office before you. Intelligent girl but with an unfortunate case of foot-in-mouth syndrome. Joseph canned her about a week ago. I have to admit I was sad to see her go; she was a workhorse.”

“Oh,” he says, not sure what he’s supposed to say to that.

Paul chuckles. He’s an older guy, late forties, early fifties. He’s well put together and has a sharp, angular face that gives him the look of a New England professor.

“Keep doing stuff like this”—he waves the printoff in the air—“and nobody will even remember Emily’s name.”

“Okay.” Ryan hesitates. “Um, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but do people come and go a lot here? Estelle said something and there was this guy earlier—”

“Gerry,” Paul interrupts. “He was, until this morning, Joseph’s PR guy, but he fucked up pretty bad. Did you see that interview with McNeil in the
Post
yesterday? That’s exactly the sort of publicity we could do without. Makes the clients start wondering how hard we’re working for our fees. And even worse for Gerry, it makes them pick up the phone and start demanding explanations. One thing Joseph really doesn’t like is explaining himself to clients. Gerry should’ve been all over that, or at least he should’ve given us a heads-up. As you can imagine, Joseph wasn’t pleased with poor old Gerry.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Ryan says.

Paul gives him a shrewd look. “You’ve probably heard this before, but Joseph doesn’t give second chances very often. And he always knows what’s going on here. If you do fuck up then come clean, ’cause if he finds out you’re ass-covering then that’s worse than fucking up in the first place.” He taps his knuckles against the open door. “Thanks for this again. I’ll send over my paralegal in an hour or so with another box of files. If you could take a look through them when you’ve got time, that would be an enormous help.”

Ryan nods weakly, glancing down at the huge pile of papers already covering every inch of desk space. “Yeah, sure,” he starts to say, but Paul is already walking out the door.

T
HE
NEXT
few days are some of the busiest Ryan has ever experienced in his life, and he’s no stranger to being busy. Every time he finishes something, another heap of files appears on his desk or an innocuous e-mail from Paul appears in his in-box with the words:
Ryan, could you just…
and it’s another half day gone.

Still, he’s gotten through the week, and he decides to join a group of his coworkers at the bar two blocks down to celebrate still being upright by Friday evening. They toast him and give him drinks and congratulate him on getting through the first week.

“You wouldn’t believe how many people don’t make it that far,” Paul says, and Ryan can see by his expression that the guy really isn’t joking. “But I got a good feeling about you, Ryan.” He raises his glass and clinks it against Ryan’s own. “Keep doing what you’re doing and you’ll be dandy.”

“Thanks,” Ryan says. Paul smirks, elbows him in the side, and moves away, tossing down his whisky and then demanding another.

Ryan leaves as soon as is politely possible. It’s been a long week and he wants to see Daisy again. She’s cooking something in the kitchen when he gets back, and she greets him with a beaming smile, saying, “Didn’t think I’d see you back so early! How was it?”

He groans and slides forward to tug her into an embrace. She laughs and stops chopping garlic, dropping her knife onto the counter. He buries his face in her thick, dark hair and presses a kiss to the top of her head.

“Man, I am beat,” he says. “I want to sleep the entire weekend. Can I do that?”

She laughs again and pats his hands where they’re entwined around her middle. “Just stay awake for a little while, hon, I’m making enchiladas.”

He groans again and kisses her cheek. “It’s a deal.”

They eat with their dinners on their laps. Afterward, he crowds her back into the sofa and kisses the taste of garlic and burnt cheese from her mouth. She slides her hand over his tented crotch and flicks open his fly, her long, slim fingers caressing up and down his rapidly stiffening cock.

He fucks her there in the living room with their dirty plates piled up on the coffee table and the TV on in the background. It’s familiar and sweet and it feels like coming home—it
is
coming home. Afterward, he falls asleep with his head in her lap and her fingers carding through his hair.

T
HE
FOLLOWING
Tuesday evening, Estelle summons him to Joseph’s office. He puts on his jacket and checks his reflection in the darkened window of his office. He smoothes down his hair—it’s borne the brunt of his long, hard day and is looking particularly unruly and fly-away right now—and fiddles with his cufflinks as he walks across the office to Estelle’s workstation. She’s on the phone and raises one imperious finger to him, indicating for him to wait as she finishes up.

She puts the phone down and says, “Go on in. He’s waiting for you.”

He nods, giving her a halfhearted smile, and enters Van Aardt’s private office. It’s big, but not as fancy as he was expecting, not that he’s sure exactly what he was expecting. Maybe some art on the walls that he might recognize, maybe some first editions or fancy-ass furniture, just something that says, “I’m rich and powerful and impressive.” There’s nothing like that here. This office is boringly normal. There’s a dark-brown leather couch and matching armchair, with a coffee table in one corner; a fancy coffee machine sitting next to the table that looks well used; and the aroma of coffee lingering in the air. There’s a conference table in the middle of the room and a video screen built into one of the walls for conferencing. The desk is in the corner and it’s huge, holding both a laptop and desktop computer, every inch of space covered in files, Post-its, law journals, and newspapers. There are no personal photographs on display.

“Ryan, take a seat,” Joseph says, waving at the chair opposite his desk. Ryan sits down and waits for Joseph to speak again. Joseph reclines in his chair and watches him for what feels like a long time. “I’m being interviewed on
The Liza Show
tomorrow afternoon. It’s a last-minute thing, trying to clear up all of this mess.” He picks up the newspaper on the desk in front of him and tosses it to Ryan. It’s open on the interview with Jack McNeil, and McNeil’s photograph grins genially up at Ryan in black and white. “I need to have something big to hit them with, and I want you to find it for me.”

Ryan’s stomach flips over. How the hell is he supposed to find something? He hasn’t even worked on the McNeil case so far. Of course he knows about it; he researched it before he even interviewed for the job. He read up on the outcome of the government case, read the arguments McNeil’s attorneys were putting forward and the counter-arguments made by his ex-employees. He’s studied the case as much as he can, and even without being directly involved, he’s been able to keep track of things in the office. It’s the biggest case they’ve got on at the moment; it’s hard not to be aware of what’s going on.

Joseph is regarding him expectantly, waiting for him to answer, so he nods. “Okay, yeah. But I haven’t been working on the McNeil case so far; does this mean that I’ll be moved onto it now?”

“I want you to do this in addition to whatever Paul’s got you doing,” Joseph says. “I’ve seen the work you’ve been producing for Paul. I know you’re capable of this. Now don’t let me down.”

It’s a dismissal and Ryan gets to his feet, trying to work out just when he’s going to have time to sleep and eat if he’s supposed to be doing this special project for Joseph Van Aardt as well as all the crap he’s still got to finish for Paul.

“Ryan.” Joseph leans over the desk and picks up the newspaper with McNeil’s photograph on it and holds it out to Ryan. “Take this with you. I’m sick of looking at it.” The corner of his mouth twists into a grim smile and he nods as Ryan takes the newspaper from him. “Bring me whatever you’ve got by ten tomorrow.”

I
N
THE
end, Ryan works through the night. He’s not entirely sure what he’s supposed to be doing; after all, the brief had been… well, brief. Joseph wants something big, something he can use to fight back against McNeil’s recent media onslaught, therefore complex legal arguments and legal technicalities are not going to cut it. That sort of stuff would be okay for their court documents, but your average
Liza Show
viewer needs to know in plain terms who they’re supposed to be rooting for.

McNeil hadn’t been easy on his ex-employees in the
Post
interview. He’d painted them as ungrateful and selfish, deluded by slick, fast-talking, Manhattan lawyers like Joseph Van Aardt, who’d never done an honest day’s work in his life. McNeil insisted that he’d already been vindicated by winning the government case and was now just being victimized by the left-wing press. He provided jobs for honest, hardworking people. Of course he made enemies and of course he understood how his ex-employees might bear a grudge against him after losing their jobs when he was forced to shut down that branch of his company. But that was what happened in business, it was the reality of capitalism.

If the plaintiffs win this new lawsuit and if McNeil is forced to give them the millions of dollars in damages they’re screaming for, then that could spell the end for the entire McNeil Industries Group. The factories in Texas, New York State, and Virginia could go under, and all those honest, hardworking people would lose their jobs.

Ryan sighs painfully as he reads through the interview. They have to counter these arguments, convince people that Joseph isn’t just another smooth, fast-talking lawyer out for his own percentage, but someone who’s fighting for the rights of the little guy.

Admittedly, quite a few of their fifty-two clients used to be senior execs at McNeil Industries before it imploded, but there are also secretaries and account assistants and receptionists involved in the suit, and they’ve all lost everything: not just their jobs but also their 401(k)s. Many heeded McNeil’s plea to invest more in the company, believing his fancy promises of McNeil Industries flourishing with the extra cash and bigger market share that would inevitably follow. Of course, a month later the share price plummeted and those same people saw their future security wash away. Their children aren’t going to college; they can’t afford to retire any time soon. And McNeil is the one to blame.

He hits pay dirt on a local Dallas website that covers the comings and goings of high-society Texans. He grins, muttering “Yahtzee!” under his breath when its front page yields a huge photograph of Mrs. Colleen McNeil, wife of Jack McNeil, coming out of a high-end designer store in downtown Dallas laden with bags and parcels from other high-end fashion stores. The article accompanying the picture helpfully points out her Alexander McQueen dress, Burberry boots, Chanel sunglasses, and Gucci handbag. He gleefully adds the link to the e-mail to Joseph and presses send.

It’s just after 5:00 a.m. by the time he’s finally done, and he heads downstairs to the basement to use the showers attached to the building’s gym.

He showers, relaxing under the steady, hot spray, letting it pound his exhausted, tight muscles. He wraps a towel around his waist and pads out to the row of sinks in the locker room when he’s done. He unwraps the disposable razor and shaving cream from the grooming kit he keeps in his locker and lathers up his bristly face.

He almost nicks himself with the razor in surprise when he sees Joseph Van Aardt wander into the room from the gym, dressed in sweatpants and a sweat-stained T-shirt, BlackBerry in one hand, crumpled-up towel in the other. He stops when he notices Ryan and their eyes meet in the mirror.

Joseph gives him a nod. “Good e-mail. That was exactly what I was looking for. Well done.”

“Oh, thanks, that’s great,” Ryan says, turning around. They stare at each other for a moment and Ryan checks his tired brain for something else to say. “So, you, uh… been working out? It’s early,” he says at last.

Joseph shrugs. “I don’t sleep much.”

“Oh, right, like Margaret Thatcher. She used to sleep only three hours a night. And Churchill too, I think.”

It’s kind of distracting talking to Joseph in this setting. He’s only ever seen him in expensive suits, all buttoned-up professionalism and executive impressiveness; now he’s wearing a tight T-shirt and training pants, his hair is damp with sweat, and his cheeks are still flushed from working out. He looks undone and unwrapped, but still seems completely unfazed, and just as aloof and intimidating as he is when he’s actually properly dressed.

“You have an interest in British prime ministers?” Joseph says.

“No, not exactly. I like biographies, and some people are really interesting, you know?”

“That is true.”

Ryan huffs out an embarrassed breath and feels the foam twitch on his upper lip at the puff of air. “Okay, well I’m pleased that the stuff I found will help you.”

Joseph doesn’t say anything for a moment, just keeps looking at him in a way that makes Ryan really conscious of the fact he’s only wearing a towel, his face is covered in shaving cream, and his entire chest and stomach are naked and exposed. He wants to clear his throat, say something else to release the tension, but his brain is not cooperating again. He wonders if everybody feels this tongue-tied in front of Joseph Van Aardt, or if it’s just him.

Joseph finally breaks the silence: “You should come with me later to the studio. The taping’s at four.” His tone is a little diffident and it takes Ryan a long beat to figure out that this isn’t an invitation or a suggestion, but a command. Still, though, the big boss is asking for him again—for his company this time. It’s definitely a good thing.