He tosses a folder onto the desk, the impact causing the photos inside to slide partially out. They’re the original blackmail photos we’d received back when this nightmare had originally started. “Those see the light of day,” Ryan says, “and you’ll learn the meaning of regret the hard way.”
To her credit, Carmela stands up straighter. “You see? They’re here to help me, Bertrand. You wouldn’t listen to me. Maybe you’ll listen to them.”
“What? You think I don’t listen? How do I not listen? You tell me you want a career? Haven’t I gotten you a career? I made you—and this is how you repay me?” He points suddenly to Wyatt. “You—Jimmy Olsen—get your ass out of here. You think I want this little confab recorded on film?”
Wyatt glances at Damien, who nods, then quietly leaves the room.
“The lady’s interested in terminating her relationship with you,” Damien says as soon as Wyatt’s out of the room. His voice is calm, but I can see the tension.
“That true, baby?” he asks, turning to Carmela. “I didn’t know you meant it. How could I have known?”
“Cut her loose, and we walk away right now,” Damien says. “But if those pictures get out, you’ll not only learn how miserable this particular asshat can make your life, but you’ll never work anywhere near this business again. Every person who came through this room today knows exactly what kind of man you are.”
“That so?” He pushes his chair back and kicks his feet up on the desk. “The way rumors fly in this business, sounds to me like I won’t be getting much work after today no matter how this turns out. Seems to me that if I’m getting forced into retirement, I ought to at least walk away with a little nest egg.”
He swivels in his chair and looks at Carmela. “No skin off your nose if those pictures are out there, baby. You look gorgeous, and a little sex scandal never hurt anyone in your line of work.”
I frown, because those are almost exactly the words Carmela has said to me, and I’m not sure where Bertrand is going with this.
Bertrand points to Damien. “He’s the one who doesn’t want them released. I say he should pay for that privilege. And we split the money fifty-fifty. Nice little paycheck for you, baby, especially considering the going rate for those pics.”
I see a muscle tighten in Carmela’s cheek, but then I see something else—a spark of what looks like interest in her eyes. Bertrand sees it too. “Ah! Ah-ha! What did I say? You’re a fighter, baby, just like me. A street fighter, who knows when to get in and play dirty.”
“I am a fighter, yes,” she says, moving closer to him. As she does, she tilts her head and looks straight at me, and my stomach twists into knots. I can’t believe I’ve misjudged her, that I ever backed off my original opinion that she was a narcissistic bitch from hell.
“And you are right,” Carmela continues as she reaches across the desk for the folder. “These are quite flattering to me.” I expect her to pick up the folder. What she does instead is grab the hotel phone off the desk, then hurl it around so that it smashes into Bertrand’s face.
I’m not sure which emotion is stronger—joy that she smashed the asshole’s face in, or relief that she wasn’t actually considering conspiring with him.
I don’t have time to analyze that question, though, because Carmela did the one thing all those self-defense classes for women warn against—she didn’t cause enough damage.
Bertrand’s nose is bleeding, but that’s not enough to stop him, and in almost the same instant that his head bounces back, he lashes out, grabs Carmela by the hair, and starts to slam her face toward the desk—bad enough for any woman, but the next split second could truly destroy Carmela’s career.
I hear myself scream—and at the same time, the top of the floor lamp intersects with Bertrand’s head, narrowly missing Carmela. He’s knocked backward, and in the process lets go of Carmela, who scurries off into a corner.
I’m gasping, unsure what happened, until I see Damien toss the lamp aside even as Ryan vaults the desk and slams Bertrand up against the wall, his grip tight against the vile man’s throat as Bertrand continues to struggle, his eyes on Carmela as he screams curses at her.
I realize in that moment that Damien did the only thing he could do to save Carmela from a broken nose—and worse. He was too far away to throw himself in the middle of the fray, and so he did the only thing he could to keep Bertrand from hurting her—he snatched up the lamp the second he saw trouble brewing. And with a skill borne of years playing professional tennis, he aimed and swung and hit the rat bastard square on the head, missing Carmela by mere inches in what was undoubtedly an assault on Bertrand calculated down to the last millisecond.