Page 15 of Billionaire Corruption

My father looked at me, a sly look in his eyes.

“I really can’t recall,” he said.

I didn’t believe him for a second.

Chapter 7

Grace

I am not sure how he got hold of my phone number.

But one afternoon, rather late, as most of my colleagues are getting up to go home, I got a text on my phone.

Meet me for a drink? x Paul

I had not seen him for days.

There had been no notes tucked under my keyboard or tacked onto my computer screen.

After our last meeting in his office, I had expected to hear from him again. Then our investigation seemed to heat up. My colleagues, who were pursuing the paper trail in the Cayman Islands pulled me in to help trace the money paid into some of the accounts and it was a complicated web of interlinking accounts. I was beginning to see that they were right to smell fishy business here. Even though I found it hard to think of Paul in that way, it seemed impossible that he didn’t know about any of it.

I looked at the message.

I didn’t know whether I should go.

One drink could lead to more and I already knew I was hopelessly attracted to him. I didn’t want to put myself in a compromising position. Also, I had a video call booked with my father that evening and I wanted to talk to him about Toby. But this was Paul, wanting to meet me away from the office and I found that I wanted to see him again.

Where?

He texted me the name of a bar in Harlem, which made me think twice.

Really, Harlem?

Paul didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who frequented places in neighborhoods like that. But I was intrigued, and it was close by.

I found it easily enough, it was one of those old-fashioned Irish sorts of pubs. Quite respectable, in a way.

Paul was sitting at the bar, he got up when I came in.

“You made it! What can I get you?”

I ordered a glass of wine, and we went to sit down at a table.

“You come here often?” I asked with a grin.

He told me it used to belong to his grandfather and told me how his family owned a chain of Irish pubs and bars all over town. His father had saved money for college by working in places like this one over weekends.

I was surprised to learn of his working-class roots. Paul was so upper class in every way, from his accent to his clothing, the cut of his hair, all of which spoke of privilege and the kind of wealth that is often passed down over generations.

“My father never passes on the opportunity to remind me how everything I have is because of his father’s hard work,” he said, a glint of irony in his eyes.

“The opposite is true in our family, I guess,” I said. “I wouldn’t say my father didn’t work hard but, somehow, he’s never managed to hold on to anything.”

Paul looked at me, interested to hear more, but I didn’t want to talk about my family.

“So, how’s work?” he asked with a smile.

I met his eyes. “Things are really moving in a direction,” I said, and I saw his smile waver. He leaned forward, moving closer to me. The smell of his after shave wafted towards me, there was something else in there as well. Something clean and fresh, like soap. He smelled delicious and I was completely distracted for a moment.

---