Cindy Dees: The Medusa Proposition

“Mr. Rowe is not quite ready for you, but his assistant says you may come up now.”

She stepped into the elevator the concierge indicated and pushed the button for the top floor. Of course Rowe had a penthouse suite. What else? She stepped out of the elevator into a small hallway and knocked on the last door on the right.

An obnoxiously gorgeous blonde wearing a tight business skirt and tailored silk blouse opened the door immediately. “Miss Ellis. Please come in. I’m Gretchen, Mr. Rowe’s personal assistant.”

Ha. She’d bet. With a body like that, it didn’t take a genius to guess just how personal Gretchen meant. Paige followed the woman into a sunken living room decorated in stark white, with lots of chrome and crystal. But then she caught sight of the view out the floor-to-ceiling windows. The Pacific stretched before her in brilliant shades of turquoise, cobalt and sapphire that stole her breath away. White sailboats bobbed on the waves, and a few brightly painted fishing boats added quaintness to the otherwise surreal picture.

“May I get you a cup of coffee or some juice?”

Paige wasn’t fond of the strong coffee favored in this part of the world. “I’d love a glass of water. No carbonation and with ice, if you have it.”

“Of course. If you’d like to sit down, Mr. Rowe will be out shortly. He was held up with a private matter earlier and is running a little behind.”

As Gretchen strolled away, Paige watched the woman’s impossibly long legs. Three guesses as to what—or who—that private matter was, and the first two didn’t count.

Instead of sitting, Paige went over to stand by the windows and gazed at the magnificent ocean below. She didn’t like to meet powerful people from a seated position. It gave them too much subliminal control of the interview from the start.

She’d stood there for maybe two minutes when a door opened behind her. Paige turned around and said, “Thanks for the water, Gretch—”

Not Gretchen.

Wolf. He was clean shaven now, his hair dry and styled—not slicked back from his face—and wearing a tailored business suit that must’ve cost thousands, but there was no mistaking him. If only she’d been able to find a picture of the reclusive billionaire to have recognized him on the beach! The casual surfer dude was gone, and in his place stood this formidable businessman. But the eyes … the eyes were the same. Intense. Smoky. Mysterious.

“You? You and the surfer are the same pers—”

Another door opened and Gretchen stepped out, carrying a tray with coffee, croissants and a pitcher of water.

Wolf held out his hand quickly. “I’m Thomas Rowe. Pleasure to meet you, Miss Ellis.”

Tom watched his assistant impassively as she set down the tray on the coffee table in the living room. “That will be all, Gretchen.”

She nodded and turned silently to leave. Good assistant. Didn’t need or want pleasantries from him. Plus, she was the soul of discretion and scary efficient. He made a mental note to give her a raise. The door shut behind Gretchen and he turned to face the imminently less predictable woman still in the room with him. She’d moved again by the window and stood facing him, her posture defensive. Good. He liked reporters back on their heels. This one in particular after she’d shocked the hell out of him.

“You’re Paige Ellis?” he demanded. “How in the hell do you know Vanessa Blake?”

“Gee, I was just about to ask you the same thing,” she snapped.

He answered evasively, “We’re old friends. You?”

“Ditto.”

Riigghhtt. The obvious answer was that the woman in front of him was part of Vanessa’s secret team—

He discarded the idea out of hand. No way was a well-known journalist like Paige Ellis part of the Medusa Project. It was laughable to even think about. Except she’d answered to the code name Fire Ant on the beach. A biting insect … hadn’t Vanessa’s husband said something a while back about the new Medusa team going for dangerous bugs instead of snakes for their names?

Surely not. She was a civilian for God’s sake. A pampered media princess. No way did she have the stamina, the fortitude, the sheer guts to be a Medusa.

“So, tell me, Mr. Rowe. What is an important guy like you doing out at the crack of dawn surfing alone?”

“I like to surf. And I like my privacy.”

“But it’s dangerous. Too dangerous for a man of your stature.”

He raised an amused brow. “What’s wrong with my stature? Aren’t I tall enough to surf?” She rolled her eyes at him.

He studied her as she moved from the window to stand across the coffee table from him. Tension vibrated through her entire body, and something deep in his gut responded in kind. Damn her. He didn’t like being off balance like this.

Although she was an attractive woman overall, the first thing a person noticed when they looked at her were those incredible electric blue eyes of hers. Bright and inquisitive, they looked right through a guy and made him feel a little naked in front of her. He jumped in before she could ask the next question burning in her glorious gaze. “And what were you doing on the beach at the crack of dawn, Miss Ellis?”

“Hauling dead men out of the surf, of course.”

“Do you do that on a regular basis?” he asked dryly.

“At least twice a week. It’s great aerobic exercise,” she snapped.

Touchy, touchy. He asked more seriously, “What do you know about Takashi-san’s death? His family will be devastated.”

“You know the family?” she asked softly. Careful to keep his expression smooth and give nothing away, he nodded. “His first wife died of cancer years ago. Wife number two is a former high-fashion model and quite the wild child. But he seems—seemed—happy with her. He’s got a couple of grown kids from the first marriage.”

“Any idea who’d want to kill him and then dispose of his body in such a fashion?”

“You’re the reporter. You tell me.” She shrugged. “The North Koreans and the Russians have every reason to sabotage this summit and properly provoked, they’re both capable of murder. Of course, it could be some business or personal enemy of Ando’s, maybe the Yakuza—the Japanese mob is still pretty powerful. And then there’s always the ubiquitous child who wants to collect an inheritance sooner rather than later.”

Tom jerked, offended. “Not Ando’s sons. They’re both honorable men.”

Paige shrugged. “Then we’re left with enemies or politics.”

“Who’s coming to collect the body?” Paige pursed her lips and looked prepared to be stubborn about answering. He added gently, “I can always call the local police and tip them off to check out your house. In this part of the world, they’d throw you in jail first and maybe get around to investigating the murder later. Or maybe they’d just lock you up and throw away the key.”

She did an odd thing. Her eyes became preternaturally intense, and she became very still. Like she was readying herself to do violence. It was something he’d expect to see in a soldier, not a girly-girl TV journalist. For make no mistake about it, Paige Ellis was all girl. She wasn’t a big thing, maybe five-foot-five. And slender. Not skinny, by any stretch, though. She looked fit. But feminine. And those eyes of hers … he was having trouble looking away from them. They were even brighter and bluer in person than on television.

She spoke quietly. “I don’t take well to being threatened, Mr. Rowe.”

That was more like it. Now she was the one on the defensive. He grinned and picked up a plate of croissants. “Snack, Miss Ellis?”