course, one had to assume she had any emotion.
"Please, come in," Jazelle said, stepping aside. "Mr. Edwards is expecting you."
With a phone to his ear, Edwards sat behind a black lacquered desk roughly the size of Miami. He lifted his hand, motioning Eve to sit in a plush black leather chair, then held up a finger indicating he'd be with her in one minute. McClain sat in her chair's twin beside her.
While Edwards finished up his call, Eve took in Jeremy Clayborne's inner sanctum. The office on the nineteenth floor was a study in chrome and glass elegance and priceless artwork. To the west, through floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows, was the most amazing view of Lake Worth. To the east, the Atlantic, all raw power and white swells, crashed against the eroding Palm Beach sand.
And directly in front of her was a man who, by virtue of speaking as Jeremy Clayborne's mouthpiece, wielded more power than the heads of many small foreign countries. If she'd passed him on the street, however, she'd never have taken a second look—unless it was to shake her head over his comb-over.
It was a little hard to get past. Harder still to figure. Jeremy Clayborne's right-hand man—Jeremy, the new millennium's answer to Howard-trust-no-one-Hughes Clayborne—was most likely wearing a five-thousand-dollar Armani suit and five-hundred-dollar imported Italian loafers, but wouldn't spring for a decent hairpiece. Or plugs, for God's sake. This was West Palm Beach, Florida. Cosmetic enhancement capital of the world. Edwards had to be one of the highest-paid flunkies on earth, yet there he sat, a testament to wealth and power with a flipping bird's nest on his head.
"I apologize for that," Edwards said, disconnecting and rising to refill a cup of coffee from a small, sleek kitchen area toward the back of the office. In his wake, the scent of some spicy, pricey cologne mingled with the sterile air produced by a state-of-the-art air-conditioning system.
"It's all right. You're a busy man."
Edwards gave her a pointed look as he returned to his desk. Eve had to concede that with the exception of that ridiculous hair he wasn't a bad-looking man. He was about five-ten, a little on the stocky side, but in good shape. He had decent skin, pleasant features, and nice hazel eyes.
In all fairness, it was quite possible that if she worked for a wing nut like Clayborne—a man who had in the past three years morphed into an anal, distrustful, agoraphobic recluse— she supposed she might develop a few unusual peccadilloes of her own. Like a comb-over.
"Let's make this short and to the point, shall we?" Edwards said in a clipped, no-nonsense cadence. "I have no idea why you requested an audience, Ms. Garrett, but the very fact that you did raises all my antennae."
"I'm concerned about Tiffany," Eve put in before he could completely roll over her. "I was hoping—"
"Let's get something clear," Edwards interrupted coldly, part corporate gunslinger, part authority on everything in the world. "Tiffany is no concern of yours. Which brings me to the reason I granted this meeting. I want to make it clear to you, Ms. Garrett, that whatever feelings of attachment you have to Ms. Clayborne are misplaced and unappreciated. Mr. Clayborne could not have made that any more clear after the debacle in which you and you alone were responsible for placing Tiffany in harm's way."
"Mr. Edwards, I underst—"
"Ms. Garrett," he interrupted again with a hard look, "let me restate. You are here for one reason and one reason only. I wish to remind you in person that you are to stay away from Tiffany. You are not to contact her, not to call her, not to concern yourself with her in any way, shape, or form. If you do so, you will find a law enforcement officer at your door with a no-contact order."
Not to mention that Tiffany would pay a price, too. Eve had received a phone call from Edwards three months ago warning
"Please, come in," Jazelle said, stepping aside. "Mr. Edwards is expecting you."
With a phone to his ear, Edwards sat behind a black lacquered desk roughly the size of Miami. He lifted his hand, motioning Eve to sit in a plush black leather chair, then held up a finger indicating he'd be with her in one minute. McClain sat in her chair's twin beside her.
While Edwards finished up his call, Eve took in Jeremy Clayborne's inner sanctum. The office on the nineteenth floor was a study in chrome and glass elegance and priceless artwork. To the west, through floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows, was the most amazing view of Lake Worth. To the east, the Atlantic, all raw power and white swells, crashed against the eroding Palm Beach sand.
And directly in front of her was a man who, by virtue of speaking as Jeremy Clayborne's mouthpiece, wielded more power than the heads of many small foreign countries. If she'd passed him on the street, however, she'd never have taken a second look—unless it was to shake her head over his comb-over.
It was a little hard to get past. Harder still to figure. Jeremy Clayborne's right-hand man—Jeremy, the new millennium's answer to Howard-trust-no-one-Hughes Clayborne—was most likely wearing a five-thousand-dollar Armani suit and five-hundred-dollar imported Italian loafers, but wouldn't spring for a decent hairpiece. Or plugs, for God's sake. This was West Palm Beach, Florida. Cosmetic enhancement capital of the world. Edwards had to be one of the highest-paid flunkies on earth, yet there he sat, a testament to wealth and power with a flipping bird's nest on his head.
"I apologize for that," Edwards said, disconnecting and rising to refill a cup of coffee from a small, sleek kitchen area toward the back of the office. In his wake, the scent of some spicy, pricey cologne mingled with the sterile air produced by a state-of-the-art air-conditioning system.
"It's all right. You're a busy man."
Edwards gave her a pointed look as he returned to his desk. Eve had to concede that with the exception of that ridiculous hair he wasn't a bad-looking man. He was about five-ten, a little on the stocky side, but in good shape. He had decent skin, pleasant features, and nice hazel eyes.
In all fairness, it was quite possible that if she worked for a wing nut like Clayborne—a man who had in the past three years morphed into an anal, distrustful, agoraphobic recluse— she supposed she might develop a few unusual peccadilloes of her own. Like a comb-over.
"Let's make this short and to the point, shall we?" Edwards said in a clipped, no-nonsense cadence. "I have no idea why you requested an audience, Ms. Garrett, but the very fact that you did raises all my antennae."
"I'm concerned about Tiffany," Eve put in before he could completely roll over her. "I was hoping—"
"Let's get something clear," Edwards interrupted coldly, part corporate gunslinger, part authority on everything in the world. "Tiffany is no concern of yours. Which brings me to the reason I granted this meeting. I want to make it clear to you, Ms. Garrett, that whatever feelings of attachment you have to Ms. Clayborne are misplaced and unappreciated. Mr. Clayborne could not have made that any more clear after the debacle in which you and you alone were responsible for placing Tiffany in harm's way."
"Mr. Edwards, I underst—"
"Ms. Garrett," he interrupted again with a hard look, "let me restate. You are here for one reason and one reason only. I wish to remind you in person that you are to stay away from Tiffany. You are not to contact her, not to call her, not to concern yourself with her in any way, shape, or form. If you do so, you will find a law enforcement officer at your door with a no-contact order."
Not to mention that Tiffany would pay a price, too. Eve had received a phone call from Edwards three months ago warning
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