Page 69 of Boardroom Mask

Goddammit, he’s very, very good at this.

Then the moderator points to the back of the room. “Last question.”

Before I lose my nerve, I jump to my feet.

Kir’s gaze lands on me and freezes. For a fraction of a second, something swims behind those gray eyes, though I’m too far away to see exactly what it is. But it only last that long. Then he waits with a bland, pleasant smile on his face, like I’m just the same as every other reporter in here.

“Jillian Pierce,New York Times,” I announce in the clearest voice I can muster. “Mr. Lazarev, Lazarev Global’s charitable arm has donated over forty million dollars to New York institutions in the last three years alone. Can you speak to whether any of those donations are connected to ongoing legal concerns facing the parent company or its subsidiaries? Are you trying to distract the public from some less-than-savory elements of your family business?”

My question sucks all the air out of the room. The NBC guy lowers his phone. The blogger stops typing. “Jesus Christ, woman, it’s achildren’s hospital event,”someone mutters under their breath. Vera, off to the side, is suddenly white-knuckling her clipboard like she’s trying to determine if she could sever my head with it if she threw it hard enough.

Kir grins.

Those eyes, though… They aren’t smiling at all.

“That’s a great question,” he says. “And I appreciate the creative accusation you worked in there, too. The short answer is no. Our foundation operates independently of the parent company’s legal and business affairs, always has, and every dollar is publicly audited and available on our website. I’d encourageanyone interested to take a look. It’s pretty dry reading, but transparency usually is.”

A couple of polite laughs ripple through the room. His gaze lingers on me for one more heartbeat before he turns to look at someone else.

I’m still standing stupidly in place. “If I could just follow up on?—”

“I think we’ll leave it there,” Kir interrupts smoothly. He points to a reporter in the second row. “Yes, go ahead.”

The NBC cameraman to my left snickers under his breath. Not loud, but loud enough for me to feel my face go hot and sit back down, pen pressed so hard against my notebook that the tip punches through the page.

The next reporter asks some marshmallow question about the foundation’s plans for next year. Kir answers it with the same easy nonchalance he gave everyone else. He doesn’t look at me again.

A few minutes later, the gaggle ends. The rest of the members of the press start the slow shuffle out of the room, but I stay in my seat, recorder still running, pen still in hand, face still burning from getting publicly swatted down in a room full of colleagues.

The NBC guy nudges me on his way past. “Swing and a miss, eh there, Lois Lane?”

“Helpful as always, Ed,” I snap at him.

He smirks shamelessly and keeps walking. Behind him, an older woman I vaguely recognize from one of the health trade pubs pauses at my shoulder and lowers her voice. “Word of advice, honey? Don’t poke the Lazarevs. They have long memoriesand longer reach. I’ve been covering philanthropy in this city for twenty years, and I’ll tell you this: The reporters who go after that family tend to find themselves covering school board meetings in Albany. If they’re lucky, that is. Some of them find themselves wearing concrete shoes in the East River.”

“I appreciate the concern,” I tell her acidly. “Don’t you want to go ask Kir a follow-up question about how good it feels to help children in need?”

She recoils at my obvious and vicious sarcasm. Then she shrugs and tucks her notebook into her tote bag. “Your funeral, darling.”

I watch her go, then click off my recorder and drop it into my coat pocket.

Stay away from the Lazarevs?

Ha. Yeah, right.

It’s way too late for that.

27

JILLIAN

“If I lay here / If I just lay here / Would you lie with me and just forget the world?”

— “Chasing Cars” by Snow Patrol

I storm back to the newsroom and drop into my chair so hard it flies backward and slams into Weston’s cubicle wall. He pokes his head around the partition, takes one look at my face, and retreats without a word. Wise choice on his part.

Gritting my teeth, I open a blank document and start typing like I’m trying to punch ten holes through my keyboard. Doug wants copy on the ribbon-cutting, so Doug gets copy on the ribbon-cutting.