He couldn’t believe she wouldn’t turn on the lights.
For this occasion, Jarlath Keene had dressed in the best of his well-appointed wardrobe. He’d wanted to convey all the most important attributes—money, power, influence—and the brushed technosilk Paoletti suit he wore expressed all of that and more—as well it should for the fifty-five hundred credits it had cost him. In that respect, Keene’s strategy had proved disappointingly ineffective; while the room he stepped into was completely without light, there was a feeling of expansiveness to it that Keene had never encountered in an apartment or condominium before, especially in the small and hard to find buildings in overcrowded Manhattan. He felt immediately and utterly dwarfed.
Illuminated only by the smoggy night sky shining through the penthouse’s floor-to-ceiling windows, the lightlessness of the interior made no difference; there was an undercurrent of opulence in the place, of decadence, that could not be disguised. Keene was drenched in it with every sense but sight: the carpet beneath his fine Italian pseudoleather loafers was thick and springy, the air laden with expensive perfume. He wished he didn’t have to grope his way across the room—it made him feel awkward and put him at a distinct bargaining disadvantage—but when he did, his fingertips sped across genuine silk and leather upholstery on the plush furniture. His desire to see made him check all the switches and lamps, but none of them worked. The frantic, faraway city lights did little to illuminate the condominium, but they would have to do. Obviously, the woman had the switches wired to some master control to which only she had access. It seemed he would have no choice but to conduct his business in the shadows.
“Mr. Keene.”
Her voice was soft and absolutely feminine, a whisper in the dark as delicate as a filmy scarf falling through the air. Keene caught himself before he whirled, turned instead with as much dignity as he could muster given the fact that he was standing in the dark and talking to a woman who seemed no more than a specter from across the room. He cleared his throat. “Yes, Miss—uh…”
“Mina.”
“Mina, then. Thank you for agreeing to see me.” Something about that sensuous voice made the perfectly tailored suit seem suddenly too small, too hot, despite the meticulously filtered and cooled air in the penthouse. “I know it was short notice—”
“My time is quite valuable, Mr. Keene. What do you require?”
Now she was only ten feet away from him, with her back to the row of huge windows. The silver-and-gold sprinkled expanse of Manhattan outside the glass faded to darkness behind her, outclassed by her inky silhouette. Only the woman’s eyes were visible, glitter-black, indescribably mysterious. Her hair, unbound in defiance of Japanese tradition, fell to her hips in a straight line broken only by its own muted shrine. Mina was a legend among the highest echelon men on earth—those with fortunes numbering in the billions—and a speculative fantasy to everyone else. Why had she agreed to see him?
“I… have a proposal,” he managed. She said nothing but Keene imagined her raising an eyebrow in doubt—it would be finely shaped and the color of a midnight ocean over eyes like oil. “Of a business nature, of course. Regarding a… mutual acquaintance.” Keene twisted his neck, the collar of his custom-made shirt suddenly uncomfortable. “I would compensate you more than generously for your efforts.”
Mina didn’t have to laugh for Keene to sense she was more than slightly amused at his clumsy verbiage. Like the scent of her perfume, his words hung in the air between them, though not nearly as pleasant as the fragrance of Charielle. “‘Efforts?’ What an interesting choice of words, Mr. Keene.” She sank onto a chair in front of the window, her descent very much like the smooth, flowing dip of a snake dancer’s rope… or maybe the cobra itself. Oddly, the condominium was completely silent, as though it had been thoroughly soundproofed. For some reason, Keene had expected soft background music, something romantic and hard to come by… a harp, perhaps.
“Maybe,” Keene suggested silkily, “the… ah, gentleman with whom you are associated is not attending to your needs. There are more complexities than wealth that impact upon the liaison between a man and a woman, and I have sources who tell me that there is another gentleman of means who greatly desires your company.” Not bad, he thought. The lines were rehearsed and delivered almost flawlessly; only the gentleman part tripped over his tongue—no surprise there considering his personal feelings regarding the man in question. “I am prepared to grant you a substantial bonus for your consideration.”
“I see.” Mina turned her face toward the window and now Keene could see her profile, barely: high forehead, small straight nose, the rounded line of lips above a classic chin. “And what of the man I leave behind, Mr. Keene? What of him?”
Now Keene was thankful the telltale lamps were off, glad that there was nothing but moonlight to show the foxlike grin that tried to play across his face. He fought and won the struggle to keep any hint of glibness out of his tone. “Life sometimes deals unfortunate hands, does it not? One must learn to deal with the twists and turns of fate. Many people believe their destiny is preordained from the moment of birth.”
“And you—what do you believe?”
That voice, so sensual and sweet, like warmed dark chocolate flowing from a spoon. In itself it was dangerously distracting. “I—I believe a person controls their own life,” he said. “Everyone’s existence is unique, formed by the billions of experiences that happen to them and no one else.”
“Really.” Mina was silent for so long that Keene had begun to think she’d lost interest, the allure of the deal just hadn’t done it for her. What would it take? he wondered. Drugs? More credits? He hadn’t quite drained himself dry for tonight, but it wouldn’t take much more to do it.
“All right,” she said suddenly. “I’ll do it. But absolutely no one must know of our conversation tonight. If our meeting tonight became public knowledge, there would be… severe repercussions for both of us.”
“You can trust me comple—”
“And,” she interrupted, “you will have the bonus you mentioned converted into straight currency. But you will hold this currency until I call for it after I make the appropriate arrangements. Do not deceive me, Mr. Keene, or you will see an entirely different outcome to your wishes. It will not be pleasant.”
“I assure you—”
“You may leave now, Mr. Keene.”
He opened his mouth to speak but a door opened somewhere behind him, sending his heart into a double set of jumping jacks within his chest. White light spilled into the room and stopped abruptly, as if it didn’t dare go beyond the stretch of its own three-foot rectangle.
“My assistant will show you out. I will contact you when the time is right. Good night, Mr. Keene.”
He wanted to protest, to demand the right to see her face-to-face. Hundreds of thousands of credits—his lifetime accumulation—were on the line here. Did he not have the right to look into her eyes and see exactly who she was?
In the end, Jarlath Keene walked out of Mina’s apartment with his head held as high as he could, a proud duelist bested but not killed by the opponent. The feeling gave credence to his thirst for vengeance, and that was all the better. To him, Mina was the hair-line crack in the foundation, the kind that worked its way at a level far deeper than the trappings of mere money and business. He would sleep well tonight knowing that his hand had initiated that tiniest of fractures.
With enough care and patience, a crack could become a chasm.