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“Ms. Clarke can’t come and go as she pleases, not until we know more about what happened last night, but she’s not a prisoner. She’s free to go anywhere in the apartment. Give her as much privacy as she wants.”
Giana nods.
“Did her things arrive?”
“Shortly after you left. Sabio placed an order for groceries like you asked. They’ll be here by eight. Ms. Clarke also wondered about her phone.”
Tamar downloaded the contents of the phone and checked for tracking devices—there was one that we traced back to Lexie’s father, but it had been disabled. I’m sure it was Lexie’s doing. We added a remote monitoring device of our own—it’s state of the art, but I’m sure eventually she’ll figure it out.
“I have it with me. I’ll leave it for her.”
I take a sheet of paper from Valentina’s desk and scribble a note to leave with the phone. The authorities want to talk to Lexie, and I want to avoid her sitting for an interview. Once she speaks to them, the word will leak out that Will Clarke’s daughter is involved, and every media outlet in the world will want a piece of her. That is not happening. Not on my watch.
The guest room door is ajar, and I slip inside quietly so as not to wake her.
As it happens, the woman who courts the devil sleeps like an angel—a beautiful angel, seemingly at peace. Although it’s hard to believe that after last night there could be any real peace for her, even in sleep.
She’s on her side, legs tucked up and her golden hair a halo against the snow-white linen. There’s nothing playful or defiant about her now, just an innocence that rouses every protective instinct I have.
Whatever mess you’ve gotten yourself into, I will fix. Even if it means dragging you kicking and screaming to the solution.
I place her phone and the note on the nightstand and shut the door behind me. A sense of relief washes over me as the latching mechanism catches. She’s safe and where she’s supposed to be—at least for now.
“Ms. Clarke shouldn’t leave the apartment,” I remind the guards, “and no one should come in who hasn’t been cleared by either me or Zé. I’ll be downstairs in my office for most of the day. Contact me if there’s a problem of any kind.”
15
RAFAEL
While the office is still quiet, I force myself to stop fantasizing about the woman with the golden hair in bed upstairs, and tweak the plans for the project Valentina and I have been working on for more than two years. Although the idea has been kicking around since I interned here more than a decade ago.
We’re launching a product that will transform the centuries-old Port wine industry into something youthful and energetic. Using the valley’s prized grapes, Premier has created a line of lighter Port beverages and mixers that dovetail with tradition but are flirty and fun. They made a huge splash in Europe during the soft rollout, and we’re going full steam ahead, including rolling out the new product in the US over the next year.
It’s an exciting project, but not without vocal detractors. Modernizing Port has the old guard clutching their hearts. Not that they need to be worried.
I have no intention of shitting on Port’s storied history—that’s not what either Valentina or I want. We want Port and the valley to thrive and prosper for centuries to come. But beyond the holiday season, it’s nearly impossible to get anyone under thirty interested in sipping fortified wine after dinner, or at any other time—not even in the Douro Valley, where Port is inextricably tied to our existence.
The data doesn’t lie. The vintners and Port makers in the region can either begin a new chapter and flourish, or die a slow, painful death. Even Antonio, who was skeptical at first, has come around. He’s even stopped calling it the bastardization of Port.
Although not everyone agrees. We’ve had a lot of pushback and nasty press. The worst of the opposition has quieted some, at least in Porto, but it’s still here, waiting for us to screw up. People hate change, even when it’s good for them.
Who it’s not good for is Bancroft Spirits, who dominates the US market. At least they have up until now, but that’s about to change.
“Henry Fausto is here,” my assistant Noelia calls from inside the doorway. “And there are some agents from Interpol downstairs who want to see you. Security at the front desk tried to send them away, because they don’t have an appointment, but they’re refusing to go until they have a word with you.”
Interpol is a pain in the ass, and I don’t have the patience for their games. I told the authorities everything I knew last night. Much to their annoyance, I insisted on talking to the Porto police, the Intelligence Service, and Interpol all at the same time. There was no way I was sitting for three interviews, like they wanted. I don’t have time for that bullshit, and it wouldn’t have made the case any stronger.
The Intelligence Service wasn’t happy, but they did their job. Interpol sat at the table, but they didn’t have many questions, and the agents were cagey about the ones they did ask. They mostly listened. I’m sure they’re here now to question me about information they didn’t want to share with the Portuguese authorities. That’s how they operate.
They had their opportunity. I won’t be talking to them today. But I’m happy to have the agents park their asses in my conference room until I get good and ready to drop that little nugget on them. That’s how I operate.
“Send them up and put them in the small conference room.”
“The one off your office?” Noelia asks, brow raised.
“No. They’re not setting foot in my office. Put them in the room just inside the suite where we put everyone who’s peddling bullshit.”
She nods and turns to leave.
