Skygods (Hydraulic #2) (54 page)

“Molly,” I’d pleaded over the phone, “I am so very sorry for bringing this down on TrilbyJones. I’ll make this right, I promise you.”

“Kaye, calm down, this isn’t the apocalypse we’re dealing with. You’ve always been resourceful in a pinch. Killer instincts, remember?”

There was silence on my end.

“Should I continue with the validation?” she asked.

“Please.”

Molly chuckled. “The good news is the profit you brought in with Samuel as a client equals five of our local accounts. Yes, we’ve earned every single penny of it and we’re all taking vacations the minute you return to Boulder. But in the long run, it’s been great for business. The downside is, the interns might have a mild case of mercury poisoning from all the sushi they’ve ingested. Back-to-back business dinners isn’t a good business practice. Now go get ’em, killer, before the lackeys eat their weight in raw fish…”

“Ms. Trilby?” Jerome’s assistant yanked me back to the present. “Mr. Buitre is at an important client luncheon and can’t be bothered.”

“Aren’t you going to ask if I’d like him to return my call as soon as he’s able?”

“Ah…um…I suppose.”

“Better yet, maybe I’ll just phone the restaurant and have a word with him at his client luncheon. Where are they dining again?”

Samuel’s eyes darted up, took in my rigid back and fisted hands, and quickly returned to the article he was scanning.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Trilby, I can’t…”

There was a time in my life when the idea of flying to New York City to confront a conference room full of PR executives about their lack of professionalism would have reduced me to one of those squishy invertebrates chilling in their reception room aquariums. But now, I was one spine away from booking a flight. Stupid Buitre.

“Forget it. Tell Mr. Buitre if I don’t hear from him by tomorrow, I’ll have to return to New York to meet with him in person. And Mr. Cabral
will not
be happy about it.”

“I’ll do that.”

I collapsed into the desk chair and swiveled, watching Samuel. Grinding jaw, squinting eyes…I waited for his outburst as he twitched over some tabloid clipping. Finally, he wadded it up and furiously chucked it across the room near the wastebasket.

“Kaye, hear me out before you say no.”

This didn’t sound good. He shoved two hands through his hair.

“I want you to resign as my publicist.”

I bolted up from the desk. “What? Why?”

“Firecracker, you have been amazing,” he said hurriedly. “You’ve worked so hard for me, and I love you for it. I couldn’t have a better publicist. But it wasn’t fair to ask you to take on this burden.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me! After all the sweat I’ve…um…sweat.” I narrowed my eyes. “Is this because you don’t want me to go back to New York?”

“In part.” He crossed the room and pulled out the chair next to mine. “This industry warps people, makes them do things they normally wouldn’t do. I will never hear from Caroline Ortega again, and I’ll live with that. But I’d be a wreck if that happened with us.”

“Hate to break it to you, but Caroline was warped before you became famous.”

“Nevertheless, I hate how it sucks you in.”

“It won’t, if you plan to cut down on your public appearances like you said you would.”

“Well, I don’t want to put you in the tough position of having to be my publicist instead of my significant other. I’d rather you were by my side as the woman I completely and openly adore. Let me take this off your shoulders.” He dragged his fingers along my jaw, his eyes softening. “This is, naturally, your decision.”

Yeah right, it was my decision.

The man was silky smooth, I’d give him that. Even so, I couldn’t help but feel sacked, and like the PR brew would go to muck if my hand wasn’t stirring it. “Who’ll take my place?”

“I think you can answer that yourself, little conspirator.”

“Nat and Patrick,” I conceded. “You’ll need a new agent, too.”

“Yes. Buitre has proven themselves to be untrustworthy.” That was an understatement.

“And if I want to remain your publicist?”

“Then we’ll find a way to make it work.”

He would, too. He wanted to make me happy. But I think he was beginning to understand what made me happiest. It was him. Not success, or adventures, or even a life free of burden. I remembered that having Samuel, even on his worst days, was better than not having him at all.

I knew when to bow out gracefully. Well, maybe not
grace
fully—two could play the smooth game. With a sultry smile, I found my way to Samuel’s lap and breathed slow air across his neck. His meds were wreaking havoc on his sex drive, but dang if I didn’t feel a stirring there.

“Fine. Mr. Cabral, I quit this lousy, stinking job. What do you think? Dramatic enough?”

His mouth dragged over my temple. “Very dramatic. I hope this isn’t how you quit your job at Paddlers after high school.”

I smiled against his lips. “Señor Valdez would have dropped a paddle. Samuel?” I trailed a finger over his bobbing Adam’s apple. “There’s one thing I want to do before I hand over the reins. Let me be the one to fire Jerome.”

“No.”

I rushed on before he could protest further. “Ever since I was a little girl, you’ve tried to keep me safe. Let me do the same for you.”

“Do you ever stop plotting and planning?”

“Nope.”

I could see the things he wanted to say:
That’s too risky. What about TrilbyJones? He’ll come after you. Let me do it for you.
But he simply shook his head, a corner of his mouth turning up. “How can I possibly stop you?”

Frickin’ Nancy Drew.

I checked the small recording device pinned inside the cuff of my jacket. Still there, still on. Jerome was ten minutes late. Either he was delayed by the thunderstorm dumping reservoirs of rain on Boston streets and rattling the windows of the low-lit sports bar…or he was making me squirm. I tried to eat a slice of pepperoni, but the only thing I could handle was the cold brewski condensing all over the Red Sox coaster until it was ruined. Friggin’ water stains, I’d been planning to snag that coaster for Samuel. I removed the mug and tried to salvage the cardboard souvenir.

After Groovy Adventures Kevin’s tip-off, I wasn’t shocked when Jerome’s assistant called to inform me Mr. Buitre was traveling to Boston for an in-person chat. “I’ve booked a small meeting room at The Mandarin Oriental for your convenience.” Luxury hotel. Crap, I’d still be on his turf.

“I can do you one better. Please inform Mr. Buitre I will meet him for lunch at Papa Baffi’s Pizza and Sports Bar.” I rattled off the address Ace gave me.

Now, I rubbed bleary eyes and studied the patron in the booth next to mine. His head was lowered over his plate, and he had on a backward ball cap. I tried to read the logo—a baseball, and something Bluefish? The waitress came and I sent away my barely eaten pizza slice. Beacon Hill Bluefish, maybe? Sounded like a little league team. I spun the coaster and pondered how Ace’s phone call to Jerome went this morning. Explosive, I hoped. We needed him spitting nails for this confrontation.

Minutes later, a sour-faced Jerome Buitre slid into the booth on the bench across from me, blocking my view of the ball cap. His hair and gray suit were rain-speckled, his tie knotted around his neck, tight even for Jerome’s standards. He was utterly out-of-place in this dive, and I realized Ace just might be a strategic genius.

“If your contract was with me instead of Samuel Cabral, I’d have fired you,” he hissed.

“Hello, Mr. Buitre.” Hoo boy, he was mad. Polished and polite were out the window.

“Where do you get off having Caulfield Law Firm threaten to terminate my contract if I
interfere
with Mr. Cabral’s current media crisis? The man was in the psych ward, for Christ’s sake! How is he supposed to confirm his publicity wishes via writing?” Nice one, Ace. Contract loophole. “We’re his agent, his PR machine. We control his career! You are ruining everything we’ve worked for, Ms. Trilby.”

“
Controlled
his career. Past tense. That’s why I’ve been trying to call you, Jerome. I’m sorry to inform you that Mr. Cabral considers his contract with The Buitre Group null and void and has chosen to cancel your services, effective immediately. I have it in writing, right here.”

As I set Samuel’s written wishes between us, our booth grew deadly silent, invaded only by faint clanking of beer mugs and forks against pizza plates. The silver-tongued ferret was gone, and in his place was a snarling, pissed-off pit bull. The warm, red glow of the suspended lamp above our heads nearly made him look demonic. A demonic, snarling, pissed-off pit bull. Ugh, I was getting nervous.
Don’t show fear, Kaye.

“Pray, tell me, how have we broken faith with Mr. Cabral?”

I pulled a stack of tabbed magazines from my messenger bag. I tossed them on the table next to the other paper. “You’ve been leaking details of his personal life to
HollywoodDays Magazine
for years without his consent, using the pseudonym Larry Rothschild. You violated your non-disclosure agreement.”

“Their reporting certainly lends Mr. Cabral that tortured artist sheen, doesn’t it?” He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t waste my time, Ms. Trilby. You can’t prove it was me.”

“Ace is working on it.” That was a bluff, because Jerome was right. We couldn’t prove it was him—only the mysterious “Larry Rothschild.” But he didn’t know that.

He leaned forward, his breath stinking of stale coffee. “You don’t comprehend this business at all, do you? You sit in your high seat of judgment, snide and ignorant because in your miniscule backwoods sphere, you’ve never had to dirty your hands. But even
you
should know that all publicity is good publicity. Mr. Cabral’s books will only carry him so far. If he wants to keep his high profile career, he’s got to be what the small people talk about around the water cooler.”

I shook my head. “He’s never wanted the spotlight. He just wants to publish his books. But you never understood that. Caroline didn’t, either.”

“Until her imbecile move with Togsender, Caroline was a brilliant PR strategist. You know why she was brilliant? Because I mentored her. You’d do well to heed my advice instead of scorning it, Ms. Trilby.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. I’m glad she wised up and bailed.”
Focus the conversation.
“If we’re finished here, the only thing left is to sign the termination papers. Ace will meet you at your hotel, later this afternoon—”

Suddenly, Jerome grabbed my forearm, holding me in the booth. Crap, that hurt. My eyes flew to his.

“You think I’m going to let your pathetic little agency steal my biggest client, just like that? I’ve been busy, too, these past few weeks.” He released my arm, then took a file from his briefcase—a list—and shoved it on top of my magazine stack.

I scanned the paper: Rocky Mountain National Park…Colorado Caving Club…Boulder Fine Arts Center…Longmont B&B…It was TrilbyJones’s client list. No bombshell there. Yet, as I stared at those names, I couldn’t help but feel Jerome had me between locked jaws.

“I believe you recognize these businesses. I can assure you, if you think you can persuade Samuel Cabral away from Buitre, I can do the same to each and every one of your clients.”

Play it cool, Kaye. Don’t freak out
. Easier said than done, considering that, beneath the table, nerves had my knees clapping like castanets. “You really believe these mom-and-pop businesses would rather have a big New York agency handling their PR than someone local?”

“Of course. We have the connections you lack and, if the price is right, the choice is obvious.”

I snorted. “Then you know nothing about rural America, Mr. Buitre. My clients wouldn’t touch The Buitre Group with a ten-foot pole. Heck, half of them ski with my father.” A corner of my mouth slithered up. “And the other half ski with me. That’s all the connection I need.”

But Jerome, with his thick skin and even thicker skull, wouldn’t back down. “They would hire us if they thought TrilbyJones was no longer competent. Financially, professionally—use your imagination.”