Page 56 of Only the Devil
“Ryder. Hi there. How are things going?” Phillip smooths one of his suit lapels.
“Good.”
“Excellent.”
Daisy scoots past me with a small, bashful smile and heads out with Phillip Sterling.
Sure, I know she thinks he’s pond scum and she’s trying to catch him doing something illegal—but it doesn’t change the fact that watching the two of them step into that elevator makes my stomach knot. My jaw clenches as the elevator doors close behind them and I flex my fingers, forcing them to relax. Mission first, I remind myself, but the tension in my shoulders doesn’t ease.
I especially don’t like it when I catch his slimy-ass perusal of her as she steps to the side, and when I round the floor and peer out an empty office window down on the street and see him hold the door for her in a black sedan, eyeing her backside like she’s a piece of steak. My hands curl into fists knowing he’s eyeing her with skeezy appreciation. Every instinct I have screams that this bastard just moved Daisy to the top of his hunting list—the kind that ends with NDAs and hush money after the fact.
My hands press flat against the window. The glass fogs under my breath. Every muscle in my body coils tight, ready to move, but there’s nothing I can do except watch this predator circle closer.
Chapter 18
Daisy
“Beautiful and brilliant,” he says, arm stretched across the back of the curved booth, as he swirls his wine in his free hand.
Charisma. That’s the word that comes to mind as I sit across from Phillip Sterling. Understated. Sublime. He’s a man who has aged well, and he reeks of money and success. He sits across the table seemingly mesmerized by, well, me. It’s easy to see how he could win over investors or convince employees to follow him even after a financial failure.
The question is…is this man a crook? Did he knowingly rip off unsuspecting novice investors like Alvin Reed? Or does he genuinely believe he’s going to make his investors millions? While I’ve been working on the architecture schema for the system he’s requesting, I’ve been researching, attempting to understand what to look for to determine whether he deliberately built a losing scheme. But the more I study it, I’m not sure anyone purposefully builds a program destined for failure. It seems like a situation that starts out with noble intent, and spirals into desperation.
If that’s what happened here, then is he really the scum I envisioned when I first set out on this endeavor? I’m getting to know Toby, one of the sales guys, and he’s upbeat. I don’t think he’s purposefully swindling anyone. He’ll occasionally join in at lunch along the lines of “reeled in a big fish” and “hooked six figures,” but he’s a sales guy with a fishing fetish. Given he spends hours without a single bite, his metaphor seems apt.
But then there’s Jocelyn’s death—someone covered it up. Did Phillip plan a cover up to prevent further scrutiny of a business on rocky ground, or did he cover it up because he killed her? Am I having lunch with a murderer?
Phillip practically insisted I share a glass with him, and that’s fine and all, but ritzy, boozy lunches aren’t my thing. In most of my jobs, I left the wining and dining to the other suits that managed me. At least not until ARGUS.
Rhodes is more my speed—a T-shirt wearing guy in a sports jacket who’d take me to a Thai hole-in-the-wall with mismatched chairs and the constant hum of an overworked air conditioner. Where you can hear the conversation at the next table and the cook shouting orders, where everything smells like ginger and garlic.
Less than a month in, and I’ve been to a conference with Phillip, followed by dinner, and I’ve been to meetings followed by lunch, but he’s always pulled in others to join us and the conversation has been droll. He’s always struck me as someone who surrounds himself with people who admire his status.
For whatever reason, he didn’t invite anyone to join us today, and I’m thankful his phone is keeping him preoccupied. But then he sets the device down on the table and I reach for my water, hoping he’s not expecting me to carry the conversation.
“Your work is impressive.”
And this is where a suit like Sterling gets himself in trouble. Yes, I’ve explained my idea for how to accomplish what he wants and the high-level architecture, but there’s no way he gets it to a degree he can grade it. He’s full of it.
“Thank you.” I toy with the corner of the napkin in my lap, a little concerned our food has yet to be delivered. This is going to be one long lunch.
The napkin feels like silk between my fingers. It’s the kind of luxury that makes me think of paper towels and how much more practical they are.
The restaurant reeks of old money—leather banquettes so buttery soft they probably cost more than my old car, and that cloying blend of cologne and truffle oil. Crystal stemware catches the light from chandeliers that belong in a museum, not a place where people eat lunch.
“Now, tell me about you.”
The corner of my lip itches, and I scratch, buying time to answer the kind of question they lob at interviews.
“You want the sixty-second elevator pitch?”
He smiles and his light blue eyes glimmer.
“I’ve already had the appetizer. I want more than sixty seconds.”
If this were a date, I’d be up and out of this booth with that slice of cheese. But it’s not a date. This is the way Phillip rolls. Only he’s not Velveeta, he’s more like French Brie. “There’s not much to say.”
“You’re beautiful, yet you hide it.” His fingers hover near my temple, ostensibly brushing away an imaginary eyelash, but lingering a beat too long. My skin crawls. I lean back, disguising the recoil by reaching for my water glass, pretty sure there was never anything there to brush away.
