Two days later
Dawson Pharmaceuticals’ corporate offices, Lexington, Kentucky
The fourteenth-floor corner office of Dawson Pharmaceuticals’ CEO, Sterling Abbot, was chrome and glass and white tile, with a top-to-bottom mirror behind a wet bar built into the wall—a bunch of blinding sterility with all the warmth of a space shuttle. There weren’t any family photos, either, but plenty of pictures of a stunning bay thoroughbred tacked up on the wall opposite the bar. Lexington was the horse capital of the United States, and clearly, Mr. Abbot partook of the sport, most likely as a racehorse owner.
Two days ago, at Simón Bolívar International Airport, Ronnie had checked in with her boss while Tony called his. Both agencies agreed that splitting the fee for the successful recovery of the leukemia-curing formula was the fairest solution. It was also decided that both organizations should be equally represented to Dawson Pharmaceuticals by Ronnie and Tony presenting the formula to the CEO together.
They’d taken a commercial flight from Venezuela to Lexington, with a layover in Miami, and spent last night at the Lexington Hilton downtown. Separate hotel rooms. Only sleeping.
Jet-lagged out of her mind and emotionally exhausted from the mission, Ronnie didn’t have the energy for much more than a quick room service meal and lots of sleep. Who knew if Tony would’ve wanted more, even if she’d had the wherewithal. When they were on Gaetano’s deck drinking beers together, she’d asked him if he wanted to have sex for reals, but…he’d never exactly answered her, had he?
Now, riding up the elevator in the Dawson Pharmaceuticals high-rise, Tony turned his head slowly to look at her, a couple of upstart curls brushing the collar of his leather jacket. He met her regard squarely. “You’re staring at me.”
I am? Yes, she supposed she was. “You have a secret.”
One dark brow edged up. “You better not be doing a thing on me, Ronnie.”
“No.” She chuckled. “I just mean I noticed your hair is curly.”
He snorted then smirked. “I need a haircut.”
“Maybe you should hold off for a bit.” Until she had the chance to investigate further. Assuming there would be a further between them, and…who knew?
“Can’t.” He faced forward again. “Curls are pussy.”
She laughed. “On you, I think curls would give you a messy, just-been-laid look that would make any woman between the ages of eighteen and eighty want to get up on you every second.” She was pretty sure that would be the effect on her. She reached out and lightly smoothed some hair behind his ear.
The corners of his eyes narrowed. “You do know that we’re having a business meeting in about three seconds, correct?”
She stopped what she was doing and tugged sharply on his ear. “You play too hard to get, paisano, and you’re going to miss out on a golden opportunity.”
He laughed deeply, more a movement of his chest than a sound. “After this meeting, Ronnie, you and I are definitely going to fuck for reals.”
She grinned. “Oh?” How nice. She didn’t have to guess anymore.
As they entered the CEO’s corner office, Mr. Abbot came to his feet from behind a large steel desk—no doubt an expensive piece of furniture, but it resembled a doctor’s exam table to Ronnie. Likewise, the cost of the glass-blob objet d’art on the desk could probably feed a small African village for a year but looked to her like it’d been made in art therapy class. To each his own, she supposed.
In his mid-thirties, Mr. Abbot had brown hair, precisely parted and combed in strands, and he was dressed in a form-fitting navy suit that was some foreign brand, like Brioni or Boglioli or Burberry London, and therefore high-priced, like everything else. His dress shirt was so white it hurt her retinas.
“Mr. Santoro, Ms. Cardenas.” Mr. Abbot gave her and Tony a smile as fake and sterile as the surroundings. He came around to the front of his desk. “Congratulations on a job well done.” While he shook Tony’s hand, he cut a glance at her. “Glad to see nothing dire befell you, Ms. Cardenas.”
“Thank you.” Hmm, weird vibe. Was he not glad she was in good health? Why wouldn’t he be? What had she ever done to him?
“Dawson Pharmaceuticals—the world—is in your debt.” Mr. Abbot clasped his palms together like a coach ready to charge into the game. “We’re going to start production without delay.”
Ronnie smiled and nodded. Something was up with this man.
“I already have two checks cut.” Mr. Abbot indicated the spot on his desk where two checks were indeed lying side by side. “It’s my understanding that Baretta Investigations and Phoenix Agency are going to each take half the payment.”
“That’s affirmative,” Tony said, producing an envelope from the inner pocket of his leather jacket. He handed it to Mr. Abbot. “Here you go, sir. The promised formula.”
The CEO took the envelope and laid it on his desk. “And this is…the sole copy of it? Correct?”
“No, sir,” Ton replied. “We made an additional copy for safekeeping.”
Unlike the scientist who invented the formula, Ronnie and Tony had an abundance of street smarts.
Mr. Abbot’s off-putting smile made a reappearance, full of fake southern hospitality and sterile as a scalpel. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask for all copies. Dawson Pharmaceuticals was offered exclusivity, after all.”
The first inklings of something being off flickered across Tony’s brow. He exchanged a glance with her.
Yeah, weird vibe, right?
Tony kept things smooth and light. “Baretta Investigations will keep the formula locked away, sir. You don’t need to worry.”
Sort of a lie: she and Tony both had pictures of it on their phones.
Mr. Abbot’s expression chilled. “That won’t be acceptable.”
“No problem.” Ronnie took the envelope containing her hotel bill out of her purse and approached the desk, concentrating on keeping her breathing even, on hiding the icky sense that every word coming out of this man’s mouth was astronomically wrong. She set the bill next to the formula. “This is the copy.”
“Excellent.” Mr. Abbot returned to his position behind the desk. “Two of the company’s lawyers just need to go over a few final particulars with you then we’re done.” He pressed an intercom button. “Diane, please send in Peter and Brock.”
Lawyers? Weirder and weirder, and enough of this weird. It was time to find out what was actually going on. She blazed a corporate smile at Mr. Abbot. “It was Baretta Investigations’ pleasure doing business with you, sir. I hope you’ll consider us in the future.” What question to ask? Find out about his horse. “By the way, I never formally introduced myself.” She shifted over and extended her hand. “Veronica Cardenas.” She pronounced her first name minus the Spanish accent.
Mr. Abbot shook her hand. “A pleasure.” His grip was cool.
“A beautiful horse you’ve got there.” She indicated the pictures of the thoroughbred behind her with a small head movement. She kept shaking his hand.
Genuine pleasure washed over Mr. Abbot’s face. “He’s my pride and joy.”
“What’s his name?” She sent a pulse of energy through her hand into Mr. Abbot’s. Are you being upfront about the formula?
“Bare Deception.”
Ronnie’s blood went cold. Deception. She abruptly stopped shaking and stepped back. Her stomach filled with glue and oil and lots of other nasty flavors.
“What’s going on?” Tony asked casually. He knew what she’d just done but was still playing it smooth.
She drew a couple of constricted breaths. “Mr. Abbot is lying to us. He doesn’t plan on manufacturing the formula.”
The CEO’s brows rose. He didn’t deny it, though. He didn’t try to threaten them, either, or promise riches, or make fist-shaking ultimatums. He simply spread his hands in that smirky, arrogant way of the super-rich, presenting himself as the man he was—a man who bought and wheedled his way into any situation he wanted into, and out of any number of troubles, and had no reason to believe he couldn’t continue to do so.
“Dawson Pharmaceuticals,” Mr. Abbot explained blithely, “earns billions every year on chemotherapy drugs. And this formula”—he made a shoo-away gesture at the envelopes—“is merely an array of herbs. Any amateur with a childhood chemistry set could make it. For peanuts. No, no.” Mr. Abbot dipped his chin and gave them a look that he’d probably practiced in the mirror for hours to get so condescending. “We can’t have that now, can we? This formula must be buried. Along with everyone who has knowledge of it.”
The door swung open, and two men entered the office. They were no doubt Peter and Brock, except Peter and Brock sounded like a couple of polo players, and the men who strode inside now resembled linebackers for the Pittsburgh Steelers.
Then everything started happening too fast.
The linebacker with a single, long eyebrow swung an immense fist at Tony, the uppercut nearly tearing Tony’s head off his shoulders.
Ronnie screamed. Then stopped screaming…stopped breathing, even, when the second linebacker grabbed her from behind, wrapping burly arms around her ribs and squeezing with the force of a boa constrictor. And not just any boa constrictor…the kind that would be in a Godzilla movie.
She wheezed and kicked. Popcorn snapped apart across her vision as she watched Linebacker One swing at Tony again…