Blood Price (The Blankenships Book 5) (7 page)

“I ask,” Crane carried on, “Because your father and I had an understanding, regarding the factories in the North. He understood that there are entire communities that AEGIS essentially supports, and that without our support, those communities would go the way of the mill towns and the iron foundries. That is something I, personally, won’t allow that to happen.”

There was a long, silent moment as Alex traced his finger through the condensation that had gathered on the water glass. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Crane,” Alex said, putting the slightest emphasis on the honorific. “We seem to be misunderstanding each other. I came out here because you let me know there was a problem with the company that was too important to be discussed over email or the phone. Because you asked. But if you’ve asked me here to reaffirm some sort of deal you had with my father—I do apologize, Mr. Crane, but I am not my father. I’ll review what is happening in your factories, and I certainly strive to factor in our workers in any and all conversations.”

Wells finally moved forward, his hand resting on Crane’s just as Crane opened his mouth, clearly prepared to start to shout. “We’re not asking for guarantees,” Wells said, his tone more measured and careful. “But we’re concerned. It hasn’t escaped our notice that you want to take your company in a very different direction than your father did. And if you were to do that—well, it’s always cheaper and sexier, from an investment standpoint, to build new factories and facilities, instead of retooling old ones. We’re concerned. We want to be on your side.”

Alex sighed, and set down his fork. He leaned over and took Zoey’s hand, pulling her gently towards him. He pressed his lips against her cheek on the side of her face that they couldn’t see. “I’m going to deal with this,” he murmured. She felt the press of paper in her hand, and found a billfold of pounds. She tried not to goggle at the amount of cash she was fairly sure she was holding. “Have a gorgeous afternoon, and meet me back at the flat around dinner time?”

“Absolutely,” she replied, glad she’d been busy eating while they talked nonsense. She stood up as Alex turned back to the two men.

“Sorry, gentlemen,” he said, standing as well. “But I don’t like to mix business and pleasure, as the old saying goes. Shall we take this to the office?”

CHAPTER EIGHT

The first thing Zoey did was to find a kiosk where they sold international calling cards. She called Helen, who picked up almost as soon as the phone started to ring. “I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner,” Zoey said. “It was a long flight, and—”

“Are you having fun in London? Where are you right now?”

There was something wrong in Helen’s voice, something seriously off kilter. “Sha, you okay?”

“Peachy,” Helen said. “Where are you?”

Zoey looked around. “Near Parliament, I think. I can see Big Ben.”

“My brother’s there to see you, just like we talked about,” Helen said. “He’s down at the Tate. You see the signs?”

“Yeah—Tate Britain?”

“Exactly. He said he can’t wait to show you the Waterhouse.”

“Lady of Shalott is my favorite,” Zoey said, mainly to make sure she was understanding what Helen was saying.

The relief in her friend’s voice was almost frightening. “You’re going to love seeing it in person.”

“I’ll call you when I’m there, let you know what I think.”

“Nah, get in touch tonight, luv, okay?”

“Sure, Helen. Love you.”

“Cheers,” she said, and the connection dropped.

Zoey set out with her stomach in knots. She didn’t have the slightest idea what was going on, but so far, not a single good thing had come from her association with any of this crap, other than the relationship with Alex himself.

It was a decent walk to the museum that Helen had mentioned. Zoey had never been a huge art fan, but she’d heard of the Tate Gallery before. The walk was gorgeous, winding through grassy patches and small gardens, and the building itself was somehow welcoming in all of its brilliant white glory.

It would have seemed natural to go straight to the Pre-Raphaelite room, but some instinct told her Agatha Christie wouldn’t have approved. She wandered a bit, through a Warhol exhibit and some exquisite modern photography before she found herself facing the auburn haired women that the signs on the walls told her the Pre-Raphaelites had loved so much. And then she was stymied. She found The Lady of Shalott, probably the only painting she knew by name other than the Mona Lisa, and she studied it. She tried to remember the terms from the one art theory class she’d taken, pretending that she was examining the—what—brush work? The use of values?

Someone stepped up next to her, a small man with dark curly hair and a dark complexion. “Zoey?” he asked, and when she nodded, he reached out and gave her a huge hug. “Helen has told me so much about you! I’m so glad you came, and you had time to meet me.”

“Me too—” She said, and then trailed off.

“Michael,” he prompted.

“Michael! I’m sorry, I’m horrible at names.”

“I understand,” he said. “You found the Lady all on your own?”

“I—yes, I did,” she said. Were they speaking in code now? She had no idea. She didn’t think so—but then, she’d favored romance novels and spec fic over detective stories most of her life. Michael carried on, walking her around the room, talking about relationships between the artists, what the Pre-Raphaelites’ mission had been, and just generally lecturing like an art professor who’d had a lot of caffeine. It was clear he was passionate about the subject. Part way through, it occurred to her that if she wanted to sell whatever the hell it was that was happening, she’d do better taking notes. That was her natural state of being, after all. So she got out her notebook. “I think this could make a great travel blog,” she said. “Do you mind if I quote you on a few things?”

“Not at all, not at all!” he said.

The tour took about half an hour, though it seemed longer in her head. Suddenly he was done, giving her another hug and sending her on her way with an admonishment to avoid the sausage cart in front of the museum.

She sat on the steps for a moment, looking over the notes she’d made, and trying to find some kind of connection. There was nothing she could see, just a lot of rambling about artists. Maybe Alex would see something, though, or maybe she’d talk to Helen again tonight, and things would be calmer.

She put her notebook back into her purse, and her fingers bumped against something slim and plastic.

She didn’t pull it out of her bag to stare at it, and she didn’t peer into her bag to see what it was. Just from the shape of it. Her heart started to pound.

There was a note, though. She pulled her notebook back out, the paper with it, and opened the notebook as if she’d forgotten to write something down. She read the note instead.

Your laptop may be bugged. Open this on something that doesn’t belong to you. Just because you think you’re being watched… -H

It wasn’t Helen’s writing, but it was a phrase she loved. Just because you think you’re being watched doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

Zoey stood up and hailed a cab. “My laptop broke,” she told the driver, letting the southern accent come through strong and clear. “I need to go buy a new one. Can you take me somewhere to do that?”

CHAPTER NINE

The business meeting was more of the same. Crane continued to press Alex for some kind of guarantee about the factories in the north of England, and Alex continued to say—less and less politely—that he couldn
’t make any promises until he viewed full reports and complete information. Wells kept trying to intervene, but Crane talked over him and Alex ignored him until Crane finally seemed to lose his temper. He stood over Alex for a long moment, his hands clenched into pale fists, his teeth grinding together, until he stormed from the room.

Wells watched him go, then shook his head with a sigh.

Alex held his tongue for a moment, and then found himself snarling, “You think I should have handled that differently?”

The older man immediately put his hands up, palms open, a gesture asking for peace. “Joseph is scared, and with good reason. Frightening a man who is already afraid is rarely going to get you the result you want.” Wells seemed to weigh his words for a moment, and then said carefully, “I think your father knew that.”

The entire story wanted to pour out. The fear, which he’d still been unable to verify, that his father had been knowingly double-dealing in the Philippines conflict. The children, and the way he’d written his will, without speaking to Alex or Claire or anyone else, potentially to dilute what his legal children received. And the deaths. So many deaths. After Zoey had gotten out of the shower this morning, he’d found that he was scrubbing his hands like Lady MacBeth, frightened that the water couldn’t wash away the feeling of hot blood on his hands. He’d had to smile at himself, by the end of the shower. If he’d ever needed proof that he wasn’t cut out to be a man made in the mold of either of his parents, he had it.

“My father knew all sorts of things,” Alex said, eventually. “I am not my father.”

Wells seemed to consider the statement, and then nodded. “I wouldn’t want you to be, in the truth of it. Philip was an excellent businessman, a skilled capitalist, but he wasn’t a good man. But he built a company out of men like him, men with ambition, men who owe things to those who are behind them. If you’re trying to take that apart—” he shook his head slowly.

“You’ll be a threat to me? Is that where this conversation is going?” Alex put as much steel as he could manage in his tone.

Wells shook his head quickly. “I’m an old man. I’ve made my money. I don’t need to work, my children are through school and have careers of their own. Joseph, though? You’ll want to be careful of him.”

And Zhu, and Tanaka. And his own mother, and her henchmen. Perhaps Zoey truly was the only person he could trust. “Thank you for the advice, Mr. Wells.” Alex stood. “It seems things here are running just fine. I apologize for disrupting your day. If you or Mr. Crane need my assistance in the future, I’m sure you know how to reach me.”

He tried to ignore the look of dismay that crossed Wells’ face before the other man stood and reached out a hand to shake. “Be careful,” Wells said, one last time. Alex gave him an abrupt nod before he picked up his bag and left the building.

He could have caught a cab; he could have taken the Tube. He could have called a car, for pity’s sake. But the only thing that made sense in his mind was to walk. AEGIS UK was located in the old part of The City, where skyscrapers were mixed with buildings that were a thousand years old. His American brain boggled at it. People in New York City were impressed by buildings that dated back to the mid-1800s. Buildings of that age in Kensington weren’t even worth noting as old. He’d climbed to the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral on one of his trips here, and he’d had such claustrophobia as he’d climbed the last segment, where the tunnel had been made only just tall enough for a man of the time, which meant that he was walking hunched over and breathing carefully to stave off panic.

He kept his eyes down, his pace brisk; he wasn’t in a mood to deal with a mugger by letting off a tourist vibe. His hand rested on the top of his messenger bag, a quiet warning to anyone watching that he was aware, and not to mess with him. So far, it had worked.

As he walked, he thought about everything that was going on. Because it wasn’t just about him, anymore. Zoey could become leverage, or worse, a target to be used against him. He had no idea how serious things with them would become over time, but so far—so far they’d been serious enough. Plus, it was clear she’d been involved with Cindy. She was digging for information on the twins.

He could see two paths forward. He could walk away from AEGIS, cash in his shares and call it a day. He’d have plenty of money to live on, and he’d be able to write his own ticket at any number of companies, or simply hire an excellent investor and live off the interest indefinitely. Become one of the lazy rich he’d been raised to hate. But he’d be safe. And truthfully, in some circles, knowing that Philip Blankenship’s heir had walked away from the company might be enough to send them belly up. It would at least put a serious damper on their activities.

The other path was the dangerous one. It meant pressing forward as he was doing, coming clean to Luke and asking for his help to uncover what the hell was happening at AEGIS. Even if that meant putting himself, Zoey, and his corporation at risk. Because if he walked away from what he believed was happening, if he let these forces win because of fear for his own safety—he wasn’t sure he’d be able to live with himself after that.

But it wasn’t just his risk to take, and that was the part that was tearing him up inside. It had been a very long time since he’d really needed to consider other people when he chose how to run his life. He found that he didn’t really want to worry about other people. Except that he did, very much, want Zoey close to him. Which meant that she had a say.

His thoughts chased themselves in that spiral as he walked back to the building on Regent Park. He followed them with each footstep, looking up almost surprised when his brain registered that he was about to walk past the building where he’d stayed.

He swiped a card to unlock the front door and took the stairs, instead of the elevator, up to their flat. He opened the door with his key, and walked inside, dropping his bag and kicking off his shoes with a bit more gusto than he usually used. “Zoey?”

She appeared in the door of the master bedroom, one finger touched to her lips in a request for silence. She waved at him with her other hand, gesturing him towards her.

He followed, curious, even as his brain continued to spiral.

The covers on the bed had been made, but they were rumpled now. It looked like Zoey had been sitting on them, and there were notebooks, papers, handwritten notes everywhere around her.

“What—” he said, and she jumped at him, her hand clamping over his mouth, her head shaking back and forth, her eyes big and scared. That was what got him, truly—the fear in her eyes.
She kept her eyes on his as her other hand pointed at her ears, and then swirled around at the ceiling.

It took him a moment to really understand what she was getting at.
Someone is listening.

His first instinct was to scoff, but it was—it was so likely that it hurt. He nodded slowly, telling her that he understood, and hoping like hell that whatever surveillance was happening was only audio.

She took his hand and led her over to her laptop. No, this wasn’t her laptop. Her laptop was battered and bruised, a couple years old. This was a brand new model. She sat down in the middle of the paper storm and pulled the laptop into her lap; he sat down next to her and watched her open a document and begin to type.

I got a copy of what was on the drive. I bought this computer, because I was told that mine could be monitored. I wiped the drive before I started, reinstalled the OS, and haven’t allowed it to connect to the Internet.

He nodded. She started typing again.

The stuff on Cindy’s drive—either she was completely insane, or there’s something going on here, something that goes a lot deeper than I realized.

Zoey kept typing, and he just stared. According to her rapidly typed notes, Cindy had gathered evidence that Philip had been interfering in the lives of all five of his bastard children, and had said, as early as Alex’s 10th birthday, that he would do everything he could to keep his legal children from inheriting the bulk of his fortune. That he’d referred to Olivia as “that cunt” and refused to see her if he could help it. But that was just the beginning. There was proof of Philip’s double dealings, proof of his activities with Zhu and Tanaka, proof  that he’d been the bastard that Alex had always thought him to be—and so much worse.

Zoey hesitated for a moment in her typing.
There’s more.
He made a “go ahead” gesture, and she sighed.
Was there any hint of foul play in Philip’s death?

Everything in him chilled down and coated with a fine layer of frost. He took the laptop, closed it, and bore her down onto the bed with him, kissing her fiercely, making the quiet sounds of approval that she usually liked so much. After a moment, she moved with him. Whether she was playing along or responding to his touch, he didn’t know. “My business in London is done,” he said. “The problem was easy to sort out, once I was here. Do you want to stay a few days, or do you want to head back to the city?”

“My editor checked in, actually,” she said. “He has a couple of assignments ready for me, if we go. And I got a couple of emails about potential interviews, after Claire’s party.”

“I’ll schedule the plane,” he said. “Go ahead and pack your new things, all right?”

“Of course.”

He squeezed her hand, and tried to believe that he could keep her safe. He didn’t know where they could go and talk, freely. He wasn’t sure that anywhere was safe.

No; that wasn’t true. He had one idea. As Zoey slipped out from under him, he pulled out his cell phone and called Luke Pyramus at his office. Luke answered on the second ring with a gruff “Hello?” that was nothing like the soft voice he’d cultivated in school.

“Luke,” Alex said, slowly. “It’s me.”

Luke’s tone shifted from gruff to fully pissed off. “I thought you were done sending lawyers after me.”

“I am,” Alex said. “I need a favor. Can you meet me at my place—” he checked his watch, “In about eight hours with that bug poison we talked about?” He had to stop himself from crossing his fingers, hoping that Luke would figure it out.

Luke laughed, though, and the relief in his voice seemed somehow more extreme than Alex had expected. “I love how you rich shits get cockroaches just like the rest of us,” he said, and Alex took a deep breath. “I’ll stop at the corner store and meet you there.”

“Thank you,” Alex said.

“That’s what friends are for.”