“I will. Just one final question, something that puzzles me.” He was watching her intently now. “Why do you think the man you met created this whole ruse of inviting you to dinner at Mr. Healy’s apartment? If he’d sensed eagerness on your part to meet again and he felt he had to placate you, why not just stand you up at a restaurant?”
“I’ve wondered the same thing,” Kit said somberly. “But I have no clue. Inviting me to his apartment actually exposed the lie.”
He cocked his head. “I’m afraid I’m not following.”
“If he hadn’t done that, I would have never discovered that he was an imposter.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the office door swing open and to her surprise, another man entered the room. He was slightly older than Ungaro, late fifties and handsome, with hooded eyes and thick silver hair. Now what? Kit thought.
“Ms. Finn, I’d like to introduce you to our CEO, Mitchell Wainwright,” Ungaro said. He didn’t seem surprised by Wainwright’s appearance and Kit suspected it had all been orchestrated in advance.
Wainwright reached out to shake her hand. His grip was powerful, as if he could crush her fingers in the time it took her to plead for mercy.
“Matt Healy explained the situation to me. We’re grateful for your cooperation.”
“Thank you,” she said, edging toward the door.
“I was just seeing Ms. Finn out,” Ungaro said. “She’s been very helpful.”
“I’m headed to the front,” Wainwright said, “so why don’t I accompany her.” A statement more than a question.
She didn’t care who showed her out as long as they got it over with. After nodding goodbye to Ungaro, she strode with Wainwright along the outside of the bullpen. His barrel-chested body seemed to give off power, the way a stove gave off heat, and she saw at least a half-dozen people discreetly lift their eyes from their computer screens. They were keeping tabs on the silver fox who ruled the empire.
Wainwright didn’t say a word, just walked along in tandem, practically hugging her side with the force of a magnet. But in the reception area, he finally opened his mouth to speak.
“So how was the weather when you were in Florida?” he asked.
“The weather?” she said. Why would he care? she wondered.
“Sunny. Nice.”
His eyes were coppery brown–colored and small, like two pennies, but he used them to hold her gaze, and his stare was as fierce as his handshake had been.
“I like to get down there to play golf a couple of times a season,” he said. “But unfortunately this year, I haven’t had much chance.”
“Well, maybe next year,” she said, realizing as the words spilled from her mouth how lame they sounded. But she didn’t care. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to use the ladies’ room before I leave.”
“Of course,” he said, and pointed to a door just down the corridor. “Good day and thank you again.”
In the bathroom, she ran a paper towel under cold water and dabbed her cheeks, which were warm to the touch. She felt troubled still by the comment Ungaro had made, about X potentially targeting her. Could X really have followed her that day? But if he had some motive in mind—to go to bed with her or even to steal her wallet—then why not immediately ask her to dinner at the hotel? His invitation had seemed like an afterthought.
The door to the ladies’ room opened quietly and a woman stepped inside. It was the same one who had eyed her earlier. The woman approached the mirror and began to reapply her lipstick, a shade that might have been called black cherry. She was tall, with slightly wavy, raven-colored hair that grazed her shoulders, and gray eyes that were set far apart. Her slim pants and cobalt blue silk blouse might look low-key, but Kit could tell at a glance that they were pricey, designer-made. And then there were the diamond studs in her earlobes, bright enough to burn someone’s corneas. The fact that she had an office clearly indicated that she had plenty of clout at the firm.
“I’m Sasha Glen, by the way,” the woman said, turning to her abruptly. “Have you just started here?”
“I’m only visiting,” Kit said, amused by the comment. The chance of her working at a hedge fund was about as likely as Baby decorating a Park Avenue living room with a pair of La-Z-Boy recliners.
The woman turned back to the mirror and stroked the lipstick