I respond to V.
Mount: Who the fuck is this guy?
V: Don’t know.
And I know V sure as hell won’t ask anyone because he hasn’t spoken in over a decade.
I grab a screenshot of the guy’s face and shoot it to J.
Mount: I need a name and background on him. Now.
J: On it, boss.
My second-in-command’s computer skills are off the charts. After what I paid for an MIT education, they should be.
It takes less than three minutes before I get a response.
J: Check your email.
I pull up the secured app, and each word I read pisses me off even more.
My phone vibrates with a new text.
V: You want me to get her?
Mount: No. I’ll handle this myself.
I’ve been trying to wrap this dinner up as fast as humanly possible, but I feel with each second that passes, there’s another strike against me. Or worse, against Jeff.
Scar has to be waiting outside. I wasn’t supposed to work late.
Mount will know.
I’m not naive enough to think that there’s any way in hell he won’t have Jeff’s name, address, Social Security number, and complete bio by the time Scar delivers me back to my cage.
Mount will probably even know what brand condom Jeff used when he screwed me—terribly, I might add—in the back of his dad’s Caddy when I was seventeen.
“I’ll take another look at the presentation your assistant sent in advance, and will wait for you to let us know when you’re ready to rock. I think this could be really great, Keira. We could use another attraction off Bourbon Street for people who don’t just want to party. This would be educational, and they can taste some fantastic hometown whiskey.”
He raises his glass to mine, and I force the smile to stay on my face as I clink my glass with his, sending up a prayer for his safety as I down the contents.
“I hate to end this dinner, and the great conversation, but I have another appointment I have to get to. Thank you so much, Jeff. Temperance will be in touch as soon as we have the details sorted out for you.”