Page 122 of Pandora's Pleasure
It was as though a veil lifted and he recalled where he’d seen me before. “You’re Brenan Bardot’s daughter?”
“Yes, sir.”
He looked me up and down, making my skin crawl with the arrogant way he surveyed me. “Is this about your father’s scandal?”
“I’m asking you not to discuss those lies on your network,” I said.
He looked intrigued. “Did your father send you?”
“No, and I would be grateful if you would show respect by not mentioning it. Either in public or on your news station.”
“Have any updates you want to share?” He looked triumphant. “Like any contradictory information to what we might have?”
What did they have on my father?
“I think you’ll find your information false, Mr. Galante. We’ll file a libel lawsuit.”
“We’ll countersue.” He went to step up and then paused to look back. “You’re Damien Godman’s fiancée?”
“I am, yes.”
He gave a nod, his tongue running along his lower lip. “Quid pro quo.”
“Are you asking me to betray my boyfriend by giving you something on him?”
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I am.”
I folded my arms, my heart aching.
“Well?” he pushed. “I’m waiting. What have you got?”
“Can I think about it?”
“Sure.”
“I’ve thought about it. When hell freezes over.” I’d just spoken those words to the most powerful man in television.
Galante smirked. “I hear you once wanted to be a journalist, Ms. Bardot?”
“I wrote a piece for theWashington Post.”
“That’s right.” He reached into his pocket and handed me his business card. “My number. Let me know when you’re ready for the exchange of information on the Godman family. You have until Saturday. The news story about your father goes live at 5:00 P.M.”
That was just days before the election.
“Never going to happen,” I said.
“Well, then, get some marshmallows to roast on the fire. It’s going to be a scorcher.”
Bastard.
He didn’t care about people. Just his stupid ratings and his ability to ruin lives with his news show spewing lies.
Holding his business card in my fingers, I peered down at his name embossed above theReal Nation One’slogo, the station designed to manipulate viewers into thinking this man cared about this country. All he cared about was his ego and wielding his influence in exchange for power.
Galante reacted to something he spotted down the street and then turned and quickly ascended the steps to the club.
Following his line of sight, I couldn’t see exactly what had drawn his attention. A few people were heading this way. Tucking the business card into my purse, I walked back to the car.
