He smiled, removed his hand. “To what do I owe this pleasure? It couldn’t be that you enjoy my company, could it, Max?” Her drew the name out, as if tasting it on his tongue. It struck her again how much she hated that her name was always the beginning, middle or end of everything he said.
She got right to the point, knowing he’d hold the answer until her lunch arrived, until she’d eaten it, while he made her endure his presence. And maybe Witt was wrong. Bud was trying to set everyone else up for Lance’s murder, everyone but her. Bud had merely invited her along for the ride.
“What are you holding over Baxter Newton’s head?”
The snake smile never left his lips. “What do you think it is, Max? If you guess right, I’ll nod my head.”
No point in telling him to cut the games. They were ingrained. He didn’t know how do it any other way.
“Baxter was having an affair with a prostitute young enough to be his granddaughter.” Though surely not the reason, even according to Baxter, it was the only place Max had to start.
“Tell me, Max, can it be called an affair when the man’s paying for sex?”
She waved a hand. “Whatever you want to call it.”
He didn’t move, simply stared, those eyes unnerving her, damn him.
“Well?”
“I didn’t nod, Max.”
Her lips tensed, and she felt her nostrils flare. Involuntary telltale signs. At least she kept her fists from clenching. “I’m not going to keep guessing.”
“Yes, Max, you are.” Which was his way of telling her he could make her do anything he wanted her to.
She grabbed her purse off the seat between them and slid partially out of the booth.
“All right, Max.” His hand came out, but this time he didn’t touch her. “You win. Let’s just talk about it. Maybe we can work this puzzle together.”
The waiter arrived at that moment with her over-sized shrimp salad. Her mouth watered. She’d skipped breakfast and dined on wine the night before, except for the few saltines she’d wolfed down on the way to the Embassy.
The white apron left after making sure she had everything she needed and an ingratiating smile to Bud. Traynor’s place setting remained empty. She wouldn’t ask because he wanted her to. She’d ask because she needed to gather every clue against him and add it to her arsenal. “Where’s your lunch?”
Propping his chin on his hand, his eyes on her lips, he murmured, “I wanted the uninterrupted pleasure of watching you eat, Max.”
“Oh please, don’t make me puke.” Damn, she’d stepped right into that one. She should refuse, but she started in on her salad, first because she was hungry, second because not doing so might indicate she feared him. At least in his mind.
He watched her with half-closed lids and a slight smile, as if anticipating orgasm. She used her napkin instead of licking the sauce from her lips, turning away from his disturbing gaze to scan the room. The cell phone guy was gone, two suits replacing him at the table.
It hit her then where she’d seen the man. At the Embassy. Angela’s Greek God. She should have known him immediately, but he’d looked different without the backdrop of the dance floor. Christ. Was the guy actually following her?
“What’s wrong, Max?”
She flipped back to the task at hand. Coincidence. Had to be. Even if Witt didn’t believe in them. She took a bite, chewed and swallowed, then, as if there’d been no interruption, asked, “If you’re not holding Baxter’s relationship with Angela against him, then what have you got on him?”
“Now, Max, what’s most important to our dear friend Baxter?”
A no-brainer. “Julia.” Baxter had said as much.
“Exactly.” The word oozed from his mouth like something sexual. His posture slid. She was only glad his two hands were still on the table.
“So what you have is about Julia?”
This time he nodded.
She stopped mid-bite, her forkful of shrimp suspended in the air. “Tell me what it is.”
“How are you going to pay me, Max?”
“Blackmail?”
His gaze roamed her face, then dropped to her breasts. “Whatever it takes to have you, Max.”
“I’m not for sale.” She ate the shrimp, enjoying it despite him. Why not, free food.
“Oh, some day, I think you will be, Max. Some day there’ll be something you want badly enough. I think I even know precisely what it will be.”
His tone trickled down her spine. She fought a premonitory shiver. She wouldn’t ask him what. He’d only tell her the time wasn’t right. She was sure she didn’t want to know. “Not in your lifetime. Now tell me what you have that threatens Julia.”
Instead, he said, “I have a dinner engagement with her tonight. She’s such a delightful lady and was so wasted on Lance, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do,” Max answered and meant it completely. “But she’d be wasted on you, too. Is that how you’re intimidating Baxter, threatening to become Julia’s next dickhead husband?” It wasn’t likely, but the only thing she had to push him with.