Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 61939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
“But what?”
“It’ll invite suspicion and conversation,” he said. “And I’m sure you don’t want this anywhere near the media.”
Right… I stood up from my chair and looked out the window.
I didn’t need to utter a word about my hate-tolerate relationship with journalists.
From here, I could see the sleek silver skyscraper that housed The Times. It was one block away from the red brick tower where freelance journalists huddled and shared stories about shady businessmen on Wall Street.
Sighing, I remembered that I had an upcoming stretch of interviews with them in three weeks, and I didn’t want to have to answer a single question about myself—let alone the state of this company’s finances.
“What’s the alternative?” I looked over my shoulder at Aaron. “Better yet, is there one?”
“We take a page from your book and make every executive stay until the numbers line up or the money appears,” he said. “We also question everyone who ever had access to it, and threaten them with legal action and….”
“And what?”
“You have to extend your takeover timing,” he said. “By another three months—at least.”
“Let’s go ahead and make it six,” I said. “Tell Human Resources to update all the contracts, and send out a note that the six a.m. start time is now permanent.”
“Will do.”
“Now, for this ‘find the missing money’ operation,” he said, “are we going slumber-party aggressive or all-nighter aggressive?”
“Both.” I returned to my desk. “I’ll tell Miss Stone to handle the setup before her other tasks.”
FIFTEEN
ANDREA
Islung a garment bag over my shoulder as I opened the door to Mr. Cross’s penthouse condo.
Stepping inside, I placed his weekend meal preferences on the kitchen counter for his chef. Then I left a “Thanks for all your help this week” note for his housekeeper.
I hung the suits up one by one in the designated hallway closet, making sure their tags were marked with exactly which interview he was supposed to wear them to.
Time Magazine, Good Morning America, GQ…
When I returned to the living room, I stalled and looked around. I was supposed to immediately return to headquarters to handle tasks, but I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
In all the times I’d come here before, there was no sense of life. Just cold beige and grey furniture swallowed by towering walls.
Today, mementos lined the walls and glossy portraits hung in silver frames.
Mr. Cross stood in front of gleaming skyscrapers in most of them, holding framed front-page headlines. The ones lining the hallway, though, were far more personal.
It was a black-and-white collage of pictures that all featured him, Ciara, and Aaron…with another man I’d never seen. The guy had his hands around Ciara’s waist in a few frames, and he was laughing with Harrison and Aaron in others.
In all but two of them, Starbucks cups were in their hands.
Harrison was even wearing a Starbucks hoodie in one, and at least ten of these shots were taken inside the cafes.
From the way he looked, they couldn’t have been more than ten years old.
I snapped a picture and kept walking—peering into rooms larger than my entire apartment combined. A library that looked big enough to be a bookstore. Multiple closets with rotating racks. A sauna room with heated floors. A master bath with a massive white sunken tub in the middle of the floor.
Opening the last door, I stepped into what had to be his bedroom. The floor-to-ceiling windows spanned the entire back wall, serving him a breathtaking view of Central Park.
His California king dominated the back wall, and I couldn’t resist running my hand over the gray sheets.
I exhaled as my fingers caressed the softness, and I suddenly needed to know what a billionaire’s bed felt like.
Without thinking, I took off my shoes and jacket and pulled back the sheets. I climbed in and sighed as the mattress enveloped me like a cloud.
It warmed and wrapped around me all at once, and before I knew it, I was drifting to sleep.
I opened my eyes to a sunset bleeding over the city and bolted upright.
Shit!
I checked the time.
I’d been sleeping here for two hours.
Panicking, I slid my heels back on and remade the bed. Then I braced myself before opening my inbox.
There were no new calls or texts. Only an email requesting more refreshments for the night.
I directed an intern to handle it, made sure nothing was out of place in his bedroom, and rushed out.
Bzzzz! Bzzzz! Bzzzz!
My phone sounded when I was in the living room.
Knowing it was him, I stopped walking and answered.
“Yes?”
“Is this Andrea Stone?” It was a soft and raspy voice.
“Uh—” I looked at the screen, seeing an unknown number. “Yes. Who is this?”
“Oh my god, great. This is Cindy Falls with the Wall Street Journal. I only need five seconds.”
“Mr. Cross’s interview with your paper isn’t for another month,” I said. “Do you need to reschedule?”
“No, no,” she said. “I was hoping that after the interview, I could meet with you for any corrections? They have him listed for that, and…I don’t think that’s going to go well.”