Page 21 of Stealthy Seduction
She spotted the man seated at the corner table she had reserved for the meeting and made her way toward him. As she moved past tables, she picked up snippets of conversations. None of them made any sense to her.
She touched a fingertip to the crystal, sending it swinging lightly between her breasts.
“Mr. Drysdale,” she breezed out in a voice filled with false cheer as she reached the table.
The man dressed in a dress shirt and tie pushed away from the table to greet her. She took his hand, drinking in everything from his shrewd green eyes to his suit jacket draped over the back of the chair and the gold cufflinks glinting under the lights.
“I’m Callie Northwood.” She pumped his hand in a firm shake before slipping into her seat across from him.
This was the donor’s power of attorney. Hartwell and Associates had contacted him at her request, but she could already tell that pulling information from this man wasn’t going to be easy. She saw the secrets locked behind the steel vault of his eyes.
Still, she felt compelled to dig deeper because it was associated with Syria.
Ever since that traumatic event, she’d chased down every shred of knowledge about the country, the people and the stories no one dared to put into words.
Her therapist would tell her it wasn’t healthy, that she needed to find a way to cope with the trauma.
Instead, she slapped a smile on her face and made small talk with the person who acted on the anonymous donor’s behalf.
As soon as she shifted the topic to what she really wanted to know, Drysdale responded to her questions with basic answers that told her nothing.
She settled back in her chair, hoping to disarm him more with her relaxed body language, even though she felt far from relaxed. Curling her fingers around her glass of pinot noir, she offered him a small smile.
“Why does a person wish to keep their role in the charity—a charity that does wonderful works for the community—a secret?”
He flicked his gaze over her as if he’d already answered this question a dozen times. “Some people don’t need to get anything out of people knowing, Ms. Northwood. Some people don’t need a pat on the back for the things they do.”
“Ah.” She took a sip of her wine, more to cover the unsteadiness wisping through her like smoke. “I wonder if the person is so influential—for instance, a celebrity—that influence might be good for others. Generate more interest to bring in even more donations.”
“Certainly those with influence could do so.”
He was very good at this game. In fact, the guy was evasive as hell and clearly didn’t wish to be here. He’d barely touched his drink before, but lifted it to his mouth now. “Of course, if a lot of people know you have money, people come out of the woodwork to get some.”
Izzy forced another smile, recognizing a dead end when she hit one. The man across from her was a professional wall built to keep information in and reporters out. She’d gotten all she was going to get, which was essentially nothing.
“Well, Mr. Drysdale, I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.” She closed her notebook and slipped it into her purse, the movement practiced and smooth despite thedisappointment churning in her stomach. “I know your client values their privacy, and I respect that.”
“I’m sure you understand.” He reached for his jacket, sliding it on with efficient movements. “Some stories are better left untold.”
The comment sent a chill down her spine, but she kept her expression neutral. “Of course. Shall we walk out together?”
“That’s fine.” He stood, straightening his tie. “After you.”
They made their way through the restaurant, exchanging polite pleasantries about the weather and the quality of the food neither had eaten. Normal conversation that felt anything but normal given the tension humming beneath Izzy’s skin.
The evening air nipped her face as they stepped outside, and she drew her long camel-colored wool coat around herself to cut the chill. What she wouldn’t give for some hot tub time at the SEAL base now.
The street was busy with the usual dinner crowd—couples strolling hand in hand, businesspeople hurrying to catch buses. All the comfortable chaos of a city evening.
“Well, thank you again.” Izzy paused and extended her hand for another professional handshake. “If your client ever changes their mind about speaking…”
“I doubt that will happen.” Drysdale’s grip was firm, final. “Good evening, Ms. Northwood.”
He turned to head down the sidewalk toward the parking garage, his stride confident and unhurried. Izzy watched him go for a moment, her journalistic instincts buzzing with frustration. Dead ends were part of the job, but this felt different. More deliberate, constructed.
She was reaching into her purse for her car keys when she heard the beat of footsteps.
She whipped around again and saw two men sweatshirts with the hoods up closing in on Drysdale, quick and with purpose.
