He sat down on one of the beach chairs that stood around the edge of the pool and waited for her to notice him. After two lengths, she finally looked at him and winked. She looked gorgeous without makeup. She swam to the side and pulled herself out of the pool. She casually wandered over and pulled Donovan into a very wet hug. “Donovan!” she exclaimed delightedly.
“Frankie!” Donovan hugged her back and lifted her off her feet. “How are you?”
“I'm great! Thanks!” she squealed.
They made small talk for a while, sitting themselves down on the beach chairs before eventually Frankie offered him coffee in her rooms.
The moment they were indoors, Frankie told him to sit down on the chair and wait. Donovan knew the way she worked. She would first sweep the room for bugs and then scan the windows for paparazzi, drawing the heavy drapes for prolonged privacy. After that, she would dress for the occasion. She was an expert seductress and tease.
Donovan sometimes wondered whether he should not ask for some of the products she offered for sale instead. It would be easier to approach her like that, but he had always rejected the idea. They could both survive a sexual encounter coming out into the public, but if anyone found out he had possessed drugs, his business was likely to collapse. Many of his clients would simply walk away.
When Frankie Saunders showed up again, she was dressed in sheer silk lingerie. Louboutin heels and silk stockings made her outfit complete and despite his intentions, Donovan felt the blood being redirected to his groin.
Frankie sat down on her knees before him and began to stroke up and down his legs. She knew he was not one for messing about for a long time.
Donovan managed to shake his head back into action and stroked her chin and cheeks to make her look up at him with her big, begging, mysterious eyes. “Bit of a change from normal, Frankie. Need to talk first. If I have time after, we'll get to the pleasant part.”
She looked disappointed. She had chosen the line of work she did for a reason. She was a socialite by virtue of her birth, related to Devonian royalty, but she refused to rely only on the family fortunes to fund her lavish lifestyle. Like most of Manhattan’s socialites, she worked in public relations. She often showed up at functions and parties to give them a bit of a boost. But the money she made from that was never enough, so she began supplying her friends with product that was always in demand at the social events and parties she attended.
When a billionaire mogul bought from her and jokingly offered her several thousands of dollars to fulfill a reference he made to the common phrase “hookers and blow,” she seriously accepted the offer. A year later, she had discreetly built up a short list of loyal clients whom she served when the mood suited her. It was obvious to all her clients that she loved what she did, and it was a good way to indulge her promiscuous nature which she otherwise had to hide. It did not do well in elite New York circles to be known as a whore. There were plenty of drug-addicted, drunken sluts with rich daddies in Manhattan and she would not be able to, nor was she willing to, compete with some of the bigger names among them for the title of the Upper East Side Sure-Thing.
Donovan was one of her favorite clients, though. He was in good shape, intelligent, well informed, elegant, well-educated and a good lover. She did not mind when he paid her for information instead of sex, as long as she got her way with him as well. With him, that was the payment she really wanted.
“What is it then, darling?” She kept looking up at him with her famously manipulative eyes.
“The Lang guys. You heard Denny Lang is dead?”
Frankie shook her head and got up. She pulled up a chair and sat down, leaning forward a bit, her legs crossed. “No...”
“Two days ago.” Donovan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Know what a Blood Eagle is?”
Frankie shook her head. She looked scared, as though anticipating Donovan to hurt her.
“Someone cut his back open, cracked his ribs and folded them inside out. Then this someone pulled out his lungs and laid them out over his opened ribs to make it look like wings. Left him to die of shock and blood loss.” Frankie's face was a mask of disgust, fear and horror. “Someone did the same to my janitor last night.”
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked in a small, frightened voice.
“Because you told me about the Lang brothers being after me. Day after I check up on them, one of them dies. And then the next day, someone manages to infiltrate my security, didn’t set off one alarm, and tortures my janitor to death.” He raised his voice slightly. He used a deeper tone, trying to make his voice sound more dominant, more frightening; more urgent. “I need to know who told you.”
“I can't tell you that...” Frankie whispered. “They'd kill me.”
“If you don't tell me, they'll probably kill me.”
Frankie shook her head.
“You need to tell me, Frankie.”
“I can't...” she whispered again. But after a while she blinked. “I can't tell you. But you might do well to check up on their siblings.”
“Sibling.” Donovan corrected her. “They only had a sister, Mara.”
Frankie slowly shook her head and then dropped from the chair, crawling toward him. She sat on her knees before him again and ran her hands up his legs again. “Now can we please forget this? Or at least, allow me to make you forget.”
Chapter Seven
Donovan arrived at the Sedakis’ mansion that evening still feeling tired. Frankie had let him sleep after they were done, but before she let him leave, she had shown him all sides of the suite. Still, Donovan mused, she gave up a little bit of a lead, and he had enjoyed himself more than he had in a while. It certainly had made the afternoon better than it would have been if he’d stayed at the office.
He had driven home to change and switched cars for the third time in two days. He drove out toward Sedakis’ White Plains mansion. His favorite car was the Jag and he often drove the SUV when he was tired and on long journeys, but this car was one he used to show off. The Bugatti Veyron Super Sport was a distinct car, with an even more distinct sound. And this evening, the engine's baritone bellows seemed to fit the mood he was in and the way he wanted to appear to Sedakis; the impression he wanted to make on the man's new wife.
He drove up the driveway, revving the engine as high as he could. By the time he reached the house, Sedakis himself was already opening the door. The big Greek man ran out to admire the car like a little child checking out a new toy in a store.
“My God!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands. “When did you buy this?”
“About two years ago,” Donovan said as he got out. “Not long after it came out. One of the most high-tech cars out there. And fastest, of course.”
Sedakis nodded fervently. “Yes! Delightful! Sat in one, wanted to buy one. Wife made me buy a Bentley instead!” He looked at Donovan with pleading eyes. “Could I have a go?”
Donovan narrowed his eyes. He did not like lending his cars to anyone. “After dinner? Your wife will kill us if we let her food go cold.”
Sedakis looked disappointed, but he nodded in agreement all the same. “Quite so.” He pulled Donovan into a bear hug and kissed him on the cheek. “Come, meet the wife, meet her!” Sedakis let him go and beckoned him into his immodest mansion.
Sedakis pushed him into the dining room and Donovan sat down quickly. There were two other guests. There was Sedakis' right-hand man, Niklas Papadopolis, the CEO of American Stevedore, Inc. and a medium-sized woman with long curly hair and olive skin. She was looking at some of the artwork that clearly belonged to the house long before the Sedakis family purchased it.