Page 55 of Seven
"I need to speak to Aaron."
"Mr. Bale isn't in his office right no?—"
"Tell him this is Caius Valmont."
There was a moment of silence. Most people reacted to his name the same. They didn't know what to say to him because two seconds ago they'd been rude, and now they were risking losing their job.
"I'll try to get a hold of him," the woman said in a sweeter tone as predicted.
Caius waited. A minute later, a voice jabbed from the other end of the line. "Mr. Valmont. It's been a long time."
"I need you to look into Jerico Thorne's scandal and Ronan Wick's arrest," Caius demanded without any preemptive. He wasn't a man who wasted time when time was of the essence.
"Any particular reason?"
"Could be foul play. Too much of a coincidence they both went down almost simultaneously."
"I understand."
"If anyone had a hand in it, bring that piece of shit to me alive."
"Copy."
"And do a quick check on Kimberly Holt. See what she's up to these days."
"Understood."
The call ended.
Caius flicked his gaze to the bank of security monitors mounted above the bar in the corner. Every screen split in quarters, a mosaic of his entire property: driveway, perimeter, rooftop, the hidden garden on the east side, the pool deck that glowed ghostly blue in the dusk.
All clear.
All quiet.
He was paranoid for no reason, he realized. No one unauthorized would be able to access his property.
But then again, a real Picasso had been swapped for a fake one in one of the most secure venues in the country just a few weeks ago.
It didn't hurt to be safe than sorry.
Caius heard the knock and the measured click of Louboutin heels on the floor. She never waited for his answer before entering. She knocked only because it was a polite thing to do, but if he were to tell her she couldn't come in, she would anyway.
The Vandermeres never listened to anyone.
It was a small price to pay for the kind of power this marriage had brought to Caius.
He stayed where he was, hunched over the desk, eyes pinned to the screen, a finger drifting across the mouse as he swapped between two articles about Wick's case.
Celine stopped in the center of his home office and cleared her throat.
He shifted his gaze from the desktop to his wife. She wore a fitted dress in dark teal, her chestnut hair swept back, not a single strand out of line. In another world, she could have been a talk show host or a cellist at the Kennedy Center. But in this life, she was his ticket to the greater power. Her every movement was as calculated as his own, though she made it look like grace instead of strategy.
She looked right at him. "Are you planning to eat? The dinner is getting cold."
"Not hungry."
She smiled politely, but it didn't touch her eyes. "Your mother called. Twice. She wanted to remind you to be at the gala this Saturday."
