Page 5 of Art of Sin

3indecision

“Maggie better getover this virus ASAP,” I grumble, snagging one of Trent’s cooling French fries. My chicken salad is long gone. “Did she sound bad?”

Maggie’s official job title is information specialist; she does copy writing, press kits, and the like for me. In reality she’s my jack-of-all-trades. She’s wily, has her ear to the ground across multiple platforms—press, print, and online—and can charm the pants off a priest.

At my insinuation that she’s faking sickness, Trent gives me a flat look. “She could barely talk.”

“Ugh, fine.” I throw the uneaten half of my fry back onto his plate. “What do we have so far?”

Trent glances at the notepad of scribbles beside his plate. When I see a spot of ketchup marring the paper, my eyelid twitches. I need a fucking vacation.

“First task is to get a tail on Gideon so we can collect details on his daily schedule. Did you hear back from Lyle yet?”

I nod. “He texted while you were in the restroom. He’s on it.”

“Okay, second move is to orchestrate a meet. What are you thinking?”

I wince. “That depends on how habitual Gideon is.”

Trent, a media marketing associate—my left hand to Maggie’s right—flips open a national entertainment magazine released a few months ago. Gideon is on the cover, looking every inch a tortured, brooding artist.

“According to this interview, he jogs every morning, works at home until three or four, and goes out most evenings.” Trent sits back, sighing in aggravation. “Who doesn’t have a Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram these days? This dude is a cypher.”

“Shit, so I need an excuse to run into him or show up at his home during the day.” I chew my lip in thought. “Flat tire?”

“Nah, he’ll see right through that.” Trent’s gaze runs over my face and upper body. “Do you have any jogging clothes, or is your definition of casual a blazer and three-hundred-dollar jeans?”

I ignore the last comment. “Nope.”

He chews his lip in thought. “Hear me out—let’s say you’re doing renovations and need a place to stay. Maggie’s condo is in Pacific Palisades, right? You shack up with her, and we find out his morning route. Then you borrow her dog and go for a walk. Or jog, whatever. Do you own sneakers?”

“Jesus,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Why am I even considering this?”

“Because you don’t want Maggie and me to lose our jobs. You’ll get snapped up in a heartbeat by another agency, Deirdre, but we’re still peons. If we go under, the stink will follow us.”

“That’s not true,” I protest.

“Which part?”

“The second part!”

He grins, both dimples appearing. “I knew you loved me.”

“Can it, T. I didn’t agree to your harebrained scheme. If Lyle confirms that the article isn’t complete shit, we’ll reassess.”

His brows lift. “And in the meantime?”

“I’ll make some calls, put out some feelers. We need to know who else is sniffing around him.”

“Word is he’s still unattached. No manager or agent.” He taps the surface of the magazine. “He says he likes handling things himself. Being in control of his life.”

“Yeah, yeah. He’s a regular Renaissance Man. Except he lives in the Palisades, drives multiple cars, and grew up with a silver spoon in his ass.”

“Why am I getting the feeling you have some beef with him? If we’re going to pitch this guy, maybe you should cut him some slack.”

“I don’t have a beef with him,” I say quickly.

“Uh-huh,” he says dryly. “Bad first impression? Let me guess, you caught him fondling a stripper.”

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