Page 21 of Dirty Little Secrets
I tell her about the impossible analysis and the lunch.
She sighs. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll stop at the hardware store and get you a drill—and some Vaseline.”
Kristina walks off for her vending machine at the break room, and I glance down at my blouse. I should’ve asked if she had a spare or a quick run to grab something more decent.
The elevator dings. I keep typing. “Kristina, do you have a spare jacket? Or time to grab me a shirt so Mr. Drazen and his clients aren’t gawking at my bra over oysters?”
I look up. It’s not Kristina.
It’s him.
I cross my arms over my chest. He’s buttoning his shirt, hiding the X tattoo at his collar.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Drazen. I thought you were someone else.”
“Since you have time to chat and worry about your attire rather than complete your assignment, you can go to Mike’s office and retrieve the completed analysis to bring to with you. That should give you plenty of time to become presentable.”
Did he just say the file is already done?
“Do you think you can manage that small task?”
What I want is to unplug the stick up your ass. “I can.” I stand. “I’ll meet you at the restaurant.”
“I don’t believe that’s what I asked.” And he walks back into his office.
I grab my things, catch a cab to Goodwill, and buy the cheapest blazer and blouse I can find. I don’t care if they match.
Back at Mike’s office, I get the file. Head back to my desk, to shut down my computer.
Drazen’s door is locked. I knock twice. Nothing. I glance at the time and panic—he should already be at the restaurant.
I race to the elevators, clutching the folder.
An hour later, I barge into the seafood restaurant, sidestep a couple, and rush the hostess. “I’m with Mr. Drazen’s party.”
She gives me a once-over, checks the reservation, and nods. I must look a mess.
She leads me through the main dining area. The smell of seafood hits me hard. I swallow it down hating the smell of fish.
At the back table, three sets of eyes turn to me. I lift my chin and smile. “Gentlemen, apologies for being late. You know how New York traffic is.”
“It’s nice of you to finally join us,” Drazen says. His tone is like sweet poison.
I slide into the empty seat and place the file next to my plate. The man to my right is pure Italian—tailored suit, gold pinky ring. The one across is American, but not local.
“Well, isn’t she worth the wait,” the Italian says. “You’ll be presenting the analysis?”
I glance at Drazen. “Yes, sir.”
“Call me Vinny.” He gestures to his right. “And this is Darryl McDavid.”
On the way here, I had the chance to skim the McDavid file. Their business model doesn’t make sense. There is no mention of what’s being shipped or who brokers it. The only connection I could make is that Vinny is listed as an investor.
The waiter comes, I play it safe and order water. Rain patters the window. The A/C kicks in and I shiver. My nails snag on the tag of my blouse. I tug it loose, hoping no one noticed.
“At least you beat the rain,” Darryl says.
I wait for Drazen’s jab. But surprisingly, there isn’t one.
