False front, p.6
False Front, page 6
“He was wasted.”
“That doesn’t make him smaller.”
“True.”
JT sent a text, and they walked the half-block in companionable silence, broken when JT murmured, “Huh.”
“What?”
“Mr. Bishop is vetting you.”
“Mr. Subtle in the town car?”
“The car is registered to his company; well, Bishop Security, it’s a subsidiary.”
“Why take pictures?’
“Spank bank collection.” JT dodged her punch to his upper arm.
“Huh.” JT continued to stare at his phone.
“What?”
“It’s just . . . the car is registered to Bishop Security, but there is no Bishop Security. There’s no website, no search engine hits . . . well, one hit. Bishop Security is mentioned in the retirement announcement of Charles Bishop in 2002. Says he started the elite subsidiary after 9/11 for specialized projects.”
Emma huffed. “That tells us nothing.”
JT clarified. “Means it’s in-house. Explains why they don’t have any Yelp reviews.”
“How did he know where I was?”
JT waggled his phone in his palm. “I assume he has your contact info. With his resources, he probably knows what color toenail polish you’re wearing.”
Emma just rolled her eyes.
They stopped in front of her building, and JT waved goodnight. The night doorman, Ray, held the door as she slipped in and called it a night.
Upstairs, Emma changed into a pair of gray cashmere lounge pants and a worn NYU T-shirt and crawled under her duvet. She had been raised to be paranoid, suspicious of everything. A guy taking her picture rarely escaped her notice, even if it was just some creep at a bar. She was disturbed by the idea of her image being out there, in someone’s phone or on their computer, but accepted it. JT was right; she probably was a welcome addition to some perv’s spank bank collection. Shit happens. Emma let it go, and her thoughts once again drifted to Nathan. She didn’t know this Nathan Bishop, this warlord, man-whore, tycoon. She knew a boy who pretended not to notice when she sat on his shoe, wrapped around his calf, as he walked around like nothing was amiss. Nathan Bishop, CEO scoundrel, was a stranger, but the thought that he was keeping tabs on her, for whatever reason, warmed her.
Bergdorf Goodman was a zoo on Friday. Emma wasn’t a shopper and she hated crowds, but she was climbing the walls in her apartment waiting for her meeting with Nathan. She waved off an enthusiastic salesgirl and browsed halfheartedly. Across the room near the jewelry cases, a woman caught her eye. Tall, exotic, and graceful, she pointed out an item to the extremely attentive salesman helping her. Alex. As if sensing Emma’s gaze, she lifted her head slightly, like a lion sniffing prey, noted Emma’s presence, and moved down a case or two. Emma made her way to the exit, but before she could steer to another path to avoid Alex, she swung around.
“Emma, is it?”
“Yes, hello,” she said coolly.
“Did you enjoy your little interview?”
“Yes.” What is she playing at?
“Nathan’s a master.”
“At what?”
“Handling interviewers.”
“Well, I wasn’t handled, if that’s what your concern is.”
Her lips lifted in a calculated smile.
“Not at all. I was merely pointing out that Nate can be difficult to probe. He always has the upper hand.”
“Good to know.”
“And when he tires of you, he sends me the 911 text, and I come and rescue him.”
The salesman cleared his throat. He had been standing behind her for the entire exchange, holding a hideous pair of cufflinks.
“He’ll love those. I’ll take them.” Alex returned her attention to Emma. “Just a little thank you for him.”
“Thank you?” Emma took the bait.
“An ex tried to make me leave a club with him last night. Nate stepped in.”
Oh, she was good. In two sentences she had painted herself as a desirable woman, a damsel in distress, and the object of Nathan’s attention. Emma wasn’t fooled for a second.
“Here’s the thing. When I first saw you, you were looking at bracelets, the cuff with the opal, I believe. It wasn’t until you spotted me that you moved down to the cufflink case. Then you sought me out to tell your story. That tells me a lot.”
Alex grabbed a thick strand of hair and ran her fist down the length of it. She was rattled. Good.
“Oh, really,” she stalled. She needed to regroup.
“Yes. It tells me you’re nervous.”
She laughed. “O-ho-kay,” she mocked.
“Please don’t worry. I’m just here for the interview, then he’s all yours. My only interest in Nathan Bishop is what he can tell my readers.” Emma tried for sincerity, going for a truce. Kind of.
“Probably for the best. He doesn’t do frigid.” Direct hit. “See you around, Emma.”
Emma felt like someone had let the air out of her tires. She couldn’t let her win. She was being petty and competitive and even risky. And at that moment, shejust didn’t care.
“Alex?”
She swung back around with a cover girl smile and a raised brow.
“Yes?”
“He can’t stand being called Nate. Everybody who’s close to him knows that.”
She froze in her spot, bags in her hands, that same perfect smile on her face. Emma spun and left before Alex could snap out of it and pushed her way out onto the sidewalk with a satisfied grin. Suck it, bitch.
Tox stared over Twitch’s shoulder at the monitor as she replayed the video surveillance from last night.
“North’s girl’s got some moves.”
“It’s pretty standard self-defense,” Twitch countered.
“Come on, Twitch. I know black belts who couldn’t execute a takedown that well.”
“Maybe she is a black belt. Or an instructor.”
“You find anything like that in her background?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean anything. People pay cash for lessons, or they’re included in a gym membership. You’re reaching on this, Tox.”
“Okay, put a pin in it for now, but mark my words, she’s up to something.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I’ve known North a long time, and this woman . . . it’s like somebody assembled her with his dream girl parts. Makes me itchy.”
“Far be it from me to question an itch. I’ll keep looking, but I don’t expect to find much.”
“We’ll see.”
Nathan’s doorman gave Emma a suspicious once-over when she stood in his lobby that evening but relented after getting a second look at her. She was in torn jeans, Chucks, and a grey NYU sweatshirt, her hair in a high ponytail that trailed down her back. The strap of her pale pink bra showed where the neck of the sweatshirt had been stretched out from use. The whole Bergdorf’s excursion had soured her on getting dolled up, so she went with comfort. After checking his computer screen, the doorman gave her a warm grin.
“Not a lot of gals visit Mr. Bishop dressed like that.”
The doorman returned his reading glasses to the perch on his nose. He had a long scar that cut from his brow to his jawline on the right side of his face. Other than that, with his snowy hair and kind smile, he could have been a grandfather in a children’s book.
“I’m special,” she quipped.
“Oh, there’s no doubt about that. He’s expecting you. Go on up.” He gave her a finger gun and indicated the elevator with a nod of his head.
“Thank you . . .”
“Leonard.”
“Thanks, Leonard. I’m Emma”
“Have a good evening, Emma.”
Leonard returned to his detective novel, and Emma stood in front of the elevator doors in a quandary. It could be hours before someone returned to this building to use the elevator, and even then, Nathan had the only apartment on the top floor. She hadn’t thought this through. The doors slid open, and she stood frozen in place. They closed again, and she stared at her knotted fingers. When she felt a hand on her shoulder, she jumped and spun to face Leonard, who had appeared behind her.
“This way.”
She followed him around a wide corner, and he entered a code by a door that he pushed open to reveal a stairwell.
“Better?”
“How did you know?”
“My wife. She was stuck in an elevator in the Chrysler Building for six hours when she was a kid. Hates the damn things.” Emma gave him a grateful smile as he continued. “Go on up until you see the door marked ten. I’ll watch you on the security feed and unlock the door remotely.”
She walked past his extended arm and turned back to him.
“Leonard?”
“Yes, Emma?”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
It was 3:58 when she pushed through the door to a broad, open hallway with the elevator doors to the right and the double doors leading to Nathan’s apartment to the left. Between the two was a circular table holding a Kangxi porcelain bowl filled with floating lotus blossoms. The teak floors were bare, and the walls were papered in a subtly textured slate grey. The lighting was muted. The serenity of the space had her stopping to take a slow breath and compose herself. Emma was always late, usually by design. She was only ever prompt for her father because he would panic, and Caroline because she would pull Emma’s hair if she made her sit somewhere alone. Everybody else could wait. With Nathan, though, she was the one who couldn’t wait. She was excited for their date—she knew it was foolish, but in her mind, it was a date. There was no way around it. Plus, she got the distinct feeling people did not keep him waiting, and she wanted to please him. She knocked softly.
He pulled open the door without looking her way or halting his phone conversation. He walked purposefully into a large living room. The apartment was a Manhattan Classic Eight. A large center gallery opened to a bright living room. The space was distinctly masculine without being a bachelor pad. The chocolate suede couch and matching wingback chairs surrounded a coffee table made from a repurposed stable door. The Aubusson rug was a mix of rich gold and dark wine and stopped before two sets of French doors which led to a terrace balcony. Off in the corner, on a small pedestal, a Frederick Remington bronze depicted a raging bull. Nathan’s voice was firm and infused with a current of anger that kept Emma in the doorway. He was wearing a suit, a gunmetal gray three-button number that looked like Tom Ford had tailored it personally, which puzzled her as he was working from home, but her unasked question was explained by his next utterance into the phone.
“I just met with my guys, and that’s not their version of things.” He paused listening. “All right. Keep me updated.” He ended the call without pause and pinched the bridge of his nose. Emma wondered if he had forgotten she was there. Then he turned and looked at her. She tried to appear reassuring, smiled, shoved her hands into her back pockets and shrugged. Nathan just stood there and stared.
“Fucking perfect.” He shook his head slightly with amused disbelief.
There was that word. Perfect. And for the first time, it filled her with something other than dread. She didn’t look perfect, far from it, but she knew the second she saw him why he’d said it.
Under normal circumstances the term triggered something ugly; occasionally it almost made her physically sick. But the way Nathan had said it . . . . It wasn’t a general declaration about perfection; rather, it was about Emma in this particular moment. He meant she was perfect for him. He picked up his phone.
“Greta, cancel Refuge. Have them send up two medium-rare strips with twice-baked potatoes,” he glanced at Emma. “Spinach or artichokes?”
She gave him a raised brow that said, are you kidding?
“Artichokes. And that chocolate thing I like. Yes, that. About 6:30.” He ended the call. “Give me five minutes.” He disappeared down a hall, tugging at his tie. She tentatively took a step in.
“Make yourself at home, Emma.” He spoke over his shoulder before turning a corner.
She took a few minutes to scan the room again. On her second sweep, she spotted it. She knew what it was the second she saw it, and her heart stopped. Her dad had a copy of it as well that he kept by his bed. Hanging on a wall in Nathan’s living room was a montage of framed family photos. His oldest brother Henry’s wedding photo, a picture of their family at Christmas, his brother James holding his Pulitzer Prize, a shot of Nathan with his uncle Charles, a former Secretary of Defense and CEO of K-B. Then there was that photograph. It was a picture of Nathan and Emma—correction, Nathan and Emily—almost completely from the back, one-quarter profile. Nathan was standing on the empty beach in Nantucket with her on his shoulders. She had just turned four, Nathan, nine. The sun was setting, and the sky was pure pink. Nathan was pointing to the ball of fire dipping below the horizon, making sure Emily didn’t miss the moment when it disappeared. With his other hand, he was holding her tiny, bare foot. Her head was resting on her hands that were nestled in his mop of hair. They were both utterly at peace. It was the most beautiful photograph she had ever seen.
Emma swiped at the tears streaking her face and tried, tried to get it together before Nathan came back and found her looking like a crazy person, a nosy, crazy person. Well, she was a reporter after all. When Nathan did emerge—exactly five minutes later—Emma had moved to the window and was staring out at what was no doubt a twenty-million-dollar view of Central Park and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. When she turned to face him, she had to catch her breath.
Grey thermal shirt, faded jeans, barefoot. Just wow.
“Wine?”
“Is that what you’re having?”
“I’m having a scotch.”
“Single malt?”
His brow quirked up. “Yes.”
Emma hated wine—bad associations—and she had tasted single malt scotch once or twice. Her dad drank it. It was warm and spicy.
“I’ll have what you’re having.”
This time when he said it, she could barely hear it. “Fucking perfect.”
They sat next to each other on the couch and chitchatted for the next hour. This conversation was seamless. There were none of the awkward bumps and jolts from their first encounter. Emma stopped trying to lead the conversation and just let it unfold. They didn’t force it. They didn’t need to. She asked him about joining the family business. He told her about his four years in Naval Intelligence—what he could. His grandfather had insisted he have military experience—but not combat experience—before Nathan came to work for him. Nathan admitted he was apprehensive but felt compelled to serve. He said he almost considered a career in the military.
“I’m glad you didn’t. I would have worried about you.” She spoke the unconscious thought aloud. Nathan looked at her completely unruffled, almost pleased.
“That’s a nice thing to say.”
She thought about stumbling out some explanation, qualifying the comment, but the look on his face halted her. He didn’t think it was weird or awkward, so she left it. He set his glass on the table, the single ice cube slowly disappearing.
“What you said the other night at The Gotham.”
“I’m sorry for that. I was just so stunned.”
“You had every right to be stunned. My behavior was, well, as you said, unbecoming.”
“That was too harsh.”
“I needed to hear it.” He laughed to himself. “It took me hours to step back and see that from your perspective. I looked like such an ass.”
“I guess that happens when you’re irresistible.”
“Ah, but you resisted.”
“You seem to have recovered.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” He gave her a weighty stare, and she nervously reached for her drink as he blew out a sigh. He scooted a bit closer.
“All I could think when you were on your way over today was that I had more work. I mean, I was happy you were coming over, but I just felt,” he sighed, “out of gas. Then I opened the door to this.” He grabbed her ponytail at her nape and ran his hand down to the end. “It’s like you answered my prayers.”
Her answering smile spoke volumes. As if he didn’t want to betray her trust, he moved back a little and settled his hands on his knees, rubbing them gently over the worn denim.
“So. I’m an open book, Emma. Fire away.”
“That’s a horrible expression for a soldier to use.”
“Sailor, not soldier. Okay, shoot.”
She burst out laughing, barely swallowing a mouthful of scotch before it sprayed everywhere.
“Favorite flavor of ice cream.”
“Peppermint, but it can’t be green. It has to be white. Real. With crushed up red and white peppermint candies in it. There was this little ice cream shack on the water near my childhood home in Connecticut. My brother, James, used to walk me there when I was a kid. The. Best. Peppermint ice cream. Ever.”
Emma remembered the place clearly—Half Shell. It was where they’d been headed the day she was taken. She didn’t know if he saw something in her face, but his next comment stunned her.
“There are some photos . . . I don’t . . . here, come with me.”
Nathan took her hand and led the way into a spare room. Inside the sparse, clearly unused bedroom was a walk-in closet, and inside that were stacks of banker boxes: files from the look of them. He pulled a small box from a shelf.
“I don’t want these used for the story, but it may help you . . . paint a picture. Be right back.”
It was a true testament to the size of the closet that her anxieties hadn’t kicked in. She started flipping through pictures thrown haphazardly into the box. There was no order to them at all, but she knew she would find photos of herself. They were together all the time as children; mainly because she was glued to his hip. She followed him everywhere, but he never seemed to mind. The thing Emma did find surprising as she moved through the box was the lack of photos of his father. Nathan’s father had been the CEO of Knightsgrove-Bishop and a political kingmaker until his death two years ago. Emma once caught her own father muttering to himself about Henry Bishop, calling him an ‘ugly drunk’ despite the fact that they had been neighbors, and Emma assumed friends, for years. She had a vague recollection of peeking around a door in the Bishop house and interrupting Mr. Bishop shaking Nathan by the shoulders, but the memory wasn’t clear. As a child, she’d just thought he was mean.
