Пророк. Андрей Воронин

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      He felt his blood cool, his stomach tighten. He withdrew his wallet and extracted several bills. Rising, he leaned forward and dropped them on her desk in front of her. “Why don’t you check?” he urged evenly. “I’ll wait.”

      She didn’t even glance at the money. And her voice, when it came, had chilled by several degrees. “I don’t have to look. My father’s building was destroyed by a fire around that time. Shortly after, we moved to Minnesota. He didn’t reopen an investigating business until we moved back here, three years later.”

      This line of questioning was a dead end. James hadn’t gotten to his position without knowing when to cut his losses. There would be another way. There always was. It would require regrouping, a new strategy. This wouldn’t be the first obstacle he’d encountered in his search for the truth. And it wasn’t going prevent him from finding it.

      He rose. “Thank you for your time. And my condolences again for the loss of your father.” She was staring at him, her varied-colored eyes wide, her mouth half-open in protest. And with a vague sense of regret, one that had nothing to do with the outcome of this meeting, he turned and walked out of her office.

      Tori Corbett nosed her car up the long driveway leading to Tremaine Technologies and tried to ignore the nerves dancing along her spine. What she was about to do required bravado and guts, both of which her dad had always said she possessed in spades. But the plan that had seemed so logical three nights ago, hours after James Tremaine had left her office, suddenly seemed a little…well, ballsy. Not that she had anything against the quality normally.

      But if she was going to continue to run the business she’d learned from her dad, she was going to have to actively pursue prospective clients. And the balance of her bank accounts were stark reminders that work meant continuing to eat. Though they never showed up on her lean frame, she’d always been fond of regular meals.

      It wasn’t as if Tremaine didn’t need her. Although he’d been short on details when he’d visited, she was pretty good at piecing things together. They’d both benefit if he accepted her pitch.

      The persuasive arguments she’d rehearsed had seemed perfectly rational on the drive over from New Orleans. And even most of the way through Tangipahoa Parish. It wasn’t until she’d hit the first set of security gates surrounding these grounds that the first wave of anxiety had hit. It had grown progressively worse each time she’d been stopped by yet another guard and required to go through another clearance.

      Okay, she admitted, as she slowly drove toward the sprawling complex of office buildings. So her idea of surprising Tremaine by showing up here had been a bit naive. She hadn’t taken into account the level of security surrounding his business. Hadn’t considered the fact that the only possible way she’d get through each of the successive security checks was by announcing her identity, having it called in to Tremaine himself.

      She had ended up being the one surprised, though, because he had obviously cleared her through each of the stops. And maybe that was what had her stomach churning. She couldn’t imagine why he’d agreed to see her, unannounced and refusing to state a purpose for being here. While she’d like to believe that it boded well for the proposition she’d come to offer, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this meeting was going to end up far differently than she’d planned.

      Her battered compact looked jarringly out of place among the sleek luxury vehicles in the parking lot next to the Tremaine Technologies offices. Grabbing her briefcase, she took a deep breath and got out of the car, not bothering to lock it. The class of the others made it highly doubtful anyone would lower themselves to bother with hers. Jogging up the walk, she worked on calming her nerves with a mental rehearsal for the upcoming meeting.

      But thoughts of businesslike persuasion were erased when she stepped into the marbled halls of the headquarters for Tremaine Technologies. It took effort for Tori to state her name matter-of-factly for the man at the desk inside the door, and even more to keep quiet as he led her to an elevator and accompanied her upstairs. Obviously, uninvited guests couldn’t be trusted to wander around inside on their own. Or maybe, she considered ruefully, glancing at her plain cotton shirt and khakis, her appearance didn’t exactly inspire confidence. Even the man’s dark-blue uniform looked as if it had cost more than her entire outfit, briefcase included.

      The elevator doors opened, and the guard led her into an office area roughly the size of her entire house. The floor was polished mahogany, the ceiling vaulted and the woman behind the desk reigning over the area appeared formidable enough to face down intruders with a single look.

      “Ms. Corbett,” the guard at her side said to announce her, and then backed away, leaving Tori alone with the female staring expressionlessly at her. Of an indeterminate age, the woman wore her brown hair smoothed back from her face like two soft wings, framing a face that was aging with grace and gentility. “Mr. Tremaine is expecting you. He has quite a busy schedule today, however, so if you could keep your meeting brief?” The way she said the words sounded more like a command than a suggestion, and Tori nodded mutely as the woman stabbed one long-nailed finger at a button on the intercom resting upon her desk. “Ms. Corbett has arrived.”

      A door on the other end of the room opened and James Tremaine filled it, his appearance too sudden for Tori to steel herself against reaction. As it was, she was ambushed by the exact same response she’d had when she’d turned to find herself practically in his arms three days ago.

      Ohmygod, it’s James Bond. The fanciful thought recurred, only to be firmly pushed away. Okay, there might be a passing resemblance, she conceded. His blue eyes were the color of the South Pacific and framed with a fringe of black lashes that matched his meticulously combed hair. Tall and lean, his body hinted at strength even clad as it was in impeccable Armani. But the sheen of danger lurking just beneath his polished surface must certainly be a product of her imagination. High-tech CEOs would hardly be likely to radiate an aura of menace, unless the afternoon golf games at the exclusive clubs he no doubt belonged to were a lot more savage than she’d realized.

      “Tori.” His use of her first name jolted her almost as much as the undisguised warmth in his voice. He opened his door wider in an unmistakable invitation. “I hadn’t expected to see you again so soon.”

      So soon? She threw an uncertain look at his secretary, but the woman had returned to her computer, as if oblivious to the scene being played out between them. Turning back to Bond—Tremaine—she summoned a vivid smile and approached him. In her line of work, it paid to be a quick study. “I decided I couldn’t wait to see you again.” There was a flicker of amusement on his face as she played along with his opening gambit, adopting an openly flirtatious sway to her hips as she walked into his office, not stopping until she was standing square in its center.

      She paused then to assess. His office was furnished in an eclectic style that mixed eighteenth century furniture with the functionality of the present. She had an impression of understated elegance with an edge of ruthless practicality. A bank of computers covered part of one wall, with the rest of the area utilized as a work space. His desk sat facing a huge row of windows overlooking massive oaks draped with Spanish moss encircling a small pond. There was a sitting area across the room, with wing chairs arranged in front of an ornate fireplace of polished walnut. Elegance, style and purpose. The room reflected all of that. She thought it was an equally accurate description of the man who occupied it.

      The walls were covered in art that even her untrained eye recognized as genuine. During the short course of her marriage, she’d been dragged to enough museums and art showings to have acquired a modicum of knowledge. She recognized the small Degas hanging side by side with a painting of the French Quarter done by a local New Orleans artist. The next one, a surrealistic seascape was СКАЧАТЬ