False front, p.11
False Front, page 11
Caroline, Farrell, and Emma sat discreetly tucked into a corner table at 21, the former prohibition speakeasy and iconic New York restaurant. Technically, they were “on assignment.” Farrell was convinced that the mayor was strong-arming the president of the sanitation workers’ union into an unfair contract with the city. It was the fodder of eighties action movies, and Caroline and Emma loved it. So, when Emma got the text, they were quick to throw on their best little black dresses and provide some cover for Farrell, in exchange for an expensed meal. Occasionally, Farrell got recognized, but in his barely presentable tweed blazer, with two attractive women, he looked more playboy novelist than newsman.
Caroline sipped her red zinfandel and whispered loudly. “It looks like the mayor is the one getting the thumbscrews, not the other way around.” The mayor was looking at a bunch of photos the other man passed him. He had visibly paled.
“I’m going to see if I can peek over his shoulder.” Farrell scooted back and pretended to wander past the extensive wine collection that lined the walls, glancing at bottles. Caroline giggled and leaned into Emma. “I love being on a stakeout. We should have brought huge sunglasses and floppy hats,” she beamed. She continued talking about possible disguises, glancing over her shoulder at Farrell’s ridiculous attempt at subtlety, when Emma’s breath was stolen.
Nathan had come into the very small, very intimate bar holding the arm of a striking brunette. The waiter opened a prearranged bottle of Cristal upon their arrival and placed a flute in front of each of them. With her wavy shoulder-length hair and candy apple lipstick, she looked like a forties pin-up girl. Their fingers were intertwined on the bar, and Emma’s stomach churned. When he leaned over and started nibbling her neck, Emma rose to her feet. Rage and confusion propelled her steps. The woman saw her coming first. As she got closer, she saw that she was older than Emma had first thought—doing a damn good job of masking forty. She watched Emma approach with a satisfied gleam in her eyes. Nathan noticed her lose focus and detached from her earlobe.
“Hi,” she said quietly.
“Emma.” He seemed panicked for a second, but it wasn’t the panic of a man getting caught. Emma wasn’t sure, but she thought he looked . . . afraid. “What are you doing here?” The woman turned to the bar to sip her drink and check her phone.
“Having dinner with Caroline and Farrell. What are you doing here?”
“Emma, you need to excuse us.” He grabbed the woman’s hand and kissed it. “It was nice seeing you, but I believe I made the parameters of our relationship clear.” He kissed each knuckle of the woman’s hand and let the words sink in. ‘The parameters of our relationship.’ That was the awkward term he had used to explain wanting to date her exclusively. He was sending her a message; whatever this was, it wasn’t what it seemed.
“I will see you in the office.” His arm circled his date’s waist and he gave Emma a pleading but firm stare. Whatever was going on here, she needed to make this look good. Watching him fondle this woman was making her blood boil, but she certainly wasn’t going to make a scene, not when Nathan was silently screaming that there was an explanation.
She brushed down the front of her dress, glanced up at him, and shrugged. “Sorry to interrupt.” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat to cover it. “We were just leaving.” She nodded in deference. “Mr. Bishop.”
The brunette cooed, “Ooh, Mr. Bishop, I like that.” Emma ground her teeth together and glared at her as she turned away. “Nice meeting you,” the older woman purred. So, this was what getting the brush off felt like. No. This was what getting the brush off from Nathan felt like. Awful.
She rounded up Caroline and Farrell, and they made their escape. As they exited the room, three suited men clogged the doorway, smelling of cigars. Emma was shoulder-to-shoulder with the first man in the group, facing out while he was facing in, scanning the room. The man stilled, and the stem of his wine glass snapped in his hand. Emma couldn’t see his face, but his body simmered. She could guess what was in his sightline, but all the speculation was giving her a headache. All she really knew for sure was that Nathan was in a dark bar fondling another woman.
She couldn’t explain her heartache in front of Farrell. She knew there was more to the story, but that didn’t eclipse the fact that Emma had to sit there and watch Nathan make a meal out of another woman’s neck. Turned out she didn’t need a cover story. Farrell had been oblivious to the exchange and regaled them with the story of the photos he had spied the union chief trading with the mayor.
“They were shots of the mayor capturing all his worst attributes.” He grabbed his flat stomach and moved it up and down mimicking a beer belly. “He wants the mayor to try this diet drink he sells. It’s a meal supplement, you know, one of those pyramid schemes.” He cleaned his glasses with the tail of his shirt. “Actually, I should look into that. Talk about a great way to launder money.” He prattled on as what would surely be his latest conspiracy theory took root. Caroline squeezed her hand soothingly. Emma forced a smile. When they got to Hell’s Kitchen, Farrell insisted on putting the women into a cab—he liked to think the now upscale area was as dangerous as its name. JT was behind them in the Suburban, so Emma explained that she had called for an Uber and that it was pulling up. Satisfied, they went their separate ways.
In the back of the car, Caroline unleashed. “What the fuck was that?”
“I don’t know.”
“It seemed fairly obvious, Em.”
“I know this sounds crazy, but I think there’s an explanation.”
“Em, he’s like a fucking NBA player—of course he has an explanation! His dick fell out of his pants and got stuck in her.”
“I think he was giving me a signal.”
“Yeah, a get-out-of-here-so-I-can-fuck-my-date signal.”
“Look, we’re journalists. We’re not supposed to judge until we have all the facts.”
“Yes, and we are women. We are not supposed to live in denial when our significant other has his tongue down someone else’s throat.”
“I know.”
“Come on, let’s get a slice. You didn’t even let me eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Oh, hell no. I am not letting Nathan Bishop steal your appetite along with your heart.”
“Fine.”
Caroline called it a night after two slices and two episodes of a plastic surgery reality show. It was after midnight, but Emma was nowhere near sleep. She sat on the balcony and stared at the night, the growl of traffic dimmed only slightly by the ten stories between. Her phone buzzed across the end table.
Mr. Wonderful: Let me in.
Emma: I did let you in and you abused the privilege.
Mr. Wonderful: It was absolutely not what it looked like and I think you know that.
Emma: Yes.
Mr. Wonderful: Go out on your balcony.
Emma: One step ahead of you.
Mr. Wonderful: As usual. Look over the edge.
Emma stood and crossed to the edge and peered down to the sidewalk. Nathan was standing there, arms spread, tie loose, shirt untucked. He looked winded, like he had run there from midtown. In his fist, he held a bouquet of awful flowers. His expression was pleading. And adorable. She shook her head and disappeared back into the apartment as she texted.
Emma: You have five minutes.
She called down to let the doorman know Nathan was expected. A minute later, the doorbell rang. She had barely cracked the door when Nathan burst through. Without preamble, he grabbed her and kissed the shit out of her. Any normal person probably would have rejected him, slapped his face, yelled, but Emma understood. He needed to feel her. She needed to feel him. She gave him a minute to settle. He stroked her face.
“Don’t disappear on me,” he pleaded.
“I’m right here.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
“I’ll try.”
“Thank you.”
He pulled her to the couch, but before he sat, he said, “Do you have anything to drink? I don’t allow myself alcohol in situations like that, and I could really use it.”
Situations like what?
“Um, I have some scotch I keep for when my dad comes, and I think there is some beer in the fridge.”
He poured himself a generous glass of Glenfiddich and downed half of it before he sat. “You understood, didn’t you? My code?”
She eyed him warily. “I think so.”
“Good.” Another gulp. “Okay, Emma, I’m telling you this as my girlfriend, not my interviewer, just so we’re clear.”
“Understood.” Girlfriend.
“That was business.” She arched a brow, but he plowed on. “I can’t go into detail. Everything is extremely sensitive, but let’s say I owned a candy company.”
“I think I would prefer that.”
“At times I would too. Now pay attention.” He tapped her nose with his index finger.
She sat up straighter and met his gaze.
“My candy company wants to buy this new candy product from a supplier who is making big claims, but there are a couple of problems. One: the man who has the candy doesn’t want to sell it to me. He wants to auction it off to the highest bidder. Two: the other potential buyers and I don’t know exactly what the supplier is selling yet. Is it a hybrid cocoa bean? A new flavoring? A recipe? A method of transporting candy?”
“Seems like information you’d need to make an informed purchase.”
“Exactly. The woman in the bar is the wife of the owner of a rival candy company that also wants to purchase this new product. And because of his reputation as a frequent buyer of all different sorts of candy, I thought he might have more information about this particular product than is generally known. I’d met her before in past, eh hem, candy negotiations, and she had made her interest known. So, I decided to use that to find out what her husband knows.”
“And she’d tell you because you’re hot? I don’t think I understand the candy business.” Nathan just shook his head.
“The owner of the chocolate factory isn’t an honest businessman. He buys his beans from sketchy people and sells his chocolate to even worse. We needed to use every tactic available to get information on this . . . candy.”
“I guess I never really realized that your business, the candy business,” she amended, “could be so, I don’t know, covert.”
“It’s not usually so cloak-and-dagger. This particular transaction is an exception.”
“A very glamorous exception.”
“Emma, that was all for appearances.”
“Did she know that?”
“Sort of.”
“And she was okay with that?”
“Definitely. I think she enjoys pissing off her husband.”
“Did you discover anything interesting about this candy?”
“Possibly. Anya, that’s her name, said her husband had a secret meeting several weeks ago and was muttering about it after. She said she asked him if everything was all right, and he assured her that it was, that the information was unexpected but useful.”
“So maybe it’s not the kind of candy you think it is.”
“Or maybe it isn’t candy at all.”
“And she just volunteered this information.”
“Quite.”
“How?”
“I’m really quite charming when I want to be.”
“Did you sleep with her?”
“What? Emma, no. It was a job. Tox and Chat were outside in a car listening to the whole thing. You probably walked right past them when you left. I meant what I said. If I didn’t want exclusivity, I wouldn’t have asked for it. And I expect the same of you.”
“Okay.” She blew out a breath.
“Okay?”
“Yes. Okay.”
“That’s it?”
“What else is there? I either believe you or I don’t. If I don’t, we are over, and if I do, it’s forgotten.”
“And the verdict?”
“I think you know.”
He pounced then, kissing her with relief. She laughed into his mouth.
“I don’t know why you’re so relieved. It seems like a lot of people trust your word.”
“You just don’t get it, do you?” He brushed her hair out of her face. “It’s your belief in me that matters.” She kissed him again, but then pulled back.
“One thing, though.”
“Anything.”
“If you ever suck on another woman’s ear again, work or not, I will not be held accountable for my actions.”
Nathan couldn’t hide his elation at her possessiveness.
“Understood.”
Nathan and Emma sat cross-legged on the floor of his office, the remnants of Carnegie Deli pastrami sandwiches between them. Nathan had just finished telling her the story of his Bronze Star, under the proviso that Emma did not include it in the story. She hadn’t taken notes, just sat and listened, rapt, as he told the story of how, from ten miles away using comms and satellite maps, he had guided a SEAL squad out of an ambush in Afghanistan. The SEALs had just rescued a group of captive women and were about to be surrounded by hostiles. Nathan calmly and carefully led them through mountain passes and cave systems to the exfil site. It was how he had earned his call sign “North.” He had been their compass.
“I ran out to the helo to help with the women. They were dazed, probably drugged. I started pulling off their headscarves and they were terrified. Some were western. Some were . . . young.”
“Why were you pulling off their scarves?”
“To show them we weren’t like their captors. The scarves weren’t meant as a religious observation—they were to conceal them. These women were slaves, Em, I was trying to show them we were getting them to safety.” He paused for a moment, lost in thought. “Also, I was looking . . .” he changed tack, and they both knew it, “. . . to see if they were injured, if they could travel.”
She chewed on the end of the pen and looked up into his haunted green eyes. He was just staring at her. Tell him. The thought gnawed at her.
“Come here.”
“Whatever for, Mr. Bishop?”
“Em, come here.”
She started to crawl over to where he sat. It was sexy as hell. She prowled onto his lap and looped her arms around his neck.
“I thought you said no hanky-panky at the office.”
“No, I said no funny business at the office. Hanky-panky is within my discretion.”
“And what about shenanigans?”
“Absolutely.”
“Dipping your pen in the company ink, Mr. Bishop?”
He kissed his way down her neck. His hand gently cupped her breast, and when she didn’t pull back, he squeezed, sending a jolt of arousal right between her legs. She arched into him.
“Technically, you’re not company ink, but I have every intention of dipping my pen. Although come to think of it, ‘pen’ is rather insulting.”
He paused for a moment and brushed the backs of his fingers on her cheek. “Do you remember me?”
She nearly passed out.
She wanted to scream yes! and hug him and tell him what had happened to her, but she had been trained to be careful, to never show her hand.
“Remember you?”
“I saw you once. A couple of years ago at a bar. I thought maybe . . . I’d made an impression. You certainly did.”
Emma felt a stabbing sadness at the misunderstanding and having missed a moment with him. When her gaze met his, it was clear, and her smile was bright.
“Sorry. I go into defense mode at bars sometimes. I don’t like handsy guys. Present company excluded”
“Understandable. You are beautiful. And I don’t mean on the inside. You’re beautiful on the surface where it counts.” Emma laughed, and Nathan returned to kissing her neck.
“Then we’re not even. You’re beautiful on the inside and the outside. I’m a mess on the inside.” His hand ran over her breast and she stiffened. He stilled.
“First of all,” he paused to brush her hair from her face, “I’m not as pristine on the inside as my widely exaggerated tales of naval valor might suggest. Secondly, why do you say you’re a mess?”
Emma felt the need to, if not confess, at least prepare him for the minefield that was her inner life. She didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate. She went against every bit of training she had ever gotten, rested her head on his chest, and said, “Something happened to me.”
He didn’t say a word. He just stroked her back. Tears were sliding effortlessly down her face and dripping onto their jeans. She had never confessed this, even the small part she was admitting, to anyone. “When I was very young, something bad happened to me.” He firmed his hold and continued to soothe her. “I don’t remember much, but . . .”
“It’s okay, Em.”
“It’s why I don’t, um, date much. Or notice guys in bars. Then the one time I actually got up the nerve to date a guy . . .”
“What?”
She could feel his body locking tight, tamping down anger. She thought better of dumping another tale of woe on him.
“Nathan?”
“Yes?”
“Will you kiss me again?”
He answered the same way he did the last time she’d asked.
“It would be my pleasure.” He held her face in both hands. “Even if it is to distract me.”
End of discussion.
They traded some college stories, and she was learning some more about his business school years when his phone behind his desk trilled. His brow furrowed when he glanced at the screen.
“Em, I have to take this. Can we talk later?”
“Sure, I’ll get out of your hair.” He was too distracted to kiss her or sign off, so Emma gathered her things and headed to the door. She only heard him say one thing before the door shut behind her: copy that, standing by for Cerberus.
