Ramsey Security (Ramsey Security #1-3)(92)

I keep my answer short and to the point, just as Mom instructed. She doesn't trust reporters, and Marx is dying to do most of the talking anyway. After I tell the reporters how I've been writing songs for country musicians, they immediately want to know if I'll return to acting.

"I have no interest in being in front of the camera."

"What do you hope to gain with your book?"

"I wanted to confront what happened, and Marx helped me put it all together."

Hearing his name, Marx takes over by explaining how he researched the police records and learned all he could about the cult's possible origins. While he talks out of his ass, my thoughts linger on Saskia.

The day moves slowly but surely as one reporter after another arrives, sets up, asks their questions, and leaves. I'm on autopilot by the third interview. Mostly, I'm wondering if I can talk Saskia into having dinner with me. The city scares the shit out of me, but this place has a romantic element that I'd be a fool not to capitalize on with Saskia.

So lost in my head, I don't know many interviews we've done when I hear a name that knocks the wind out of me.

"Let me ask you about Dennis Stein," Jackie says, and I truly focus on the reporter for the first time.

Dennis's face flashes before me. I remember him showing me the blade he intended to use to cut symbols into my back and chest. I also replay the moment when I used a lamp to smash in his head.

"What about him?" I ask, swallowing hard.

"His family continues to claim he wasn't involved in a cult. In fact, they claim he was an addict you killed in a drug-related dispute. How do you respond to these accusations?"

Her words make me want to puke. Feeling cornered, I nearly lash out. What can I say, though? If I deny the allegations, she'll twist my words. If I say nothing, she'll twist my silence. If I call her a bitch and storm out, she'll look like the victim.

Marx sits dumbfounded next to me. How did we not expect a little gotcha journalism from at least one of these reporters? I see Mom itching to speak up, but she restrains herself. To my surprise, Saskia walks past my mother and in front of the camera.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Ms. Pinard," Saskia says, startling the reporter and cameraman. "I'm curious if your family's history with drug addiction has biased your questions."

"Excuse me?" Jackie demands. "Who the hell are you?"

The room pulses with tension, and everyone seems a little startled by the change in tempo. The reporter's face is beet red now, and I have the urge to laugh. Saskia's words erase my anger. She's a damn goddess.

"Several members of your immediate family suffer from addictions," Saskia continues, "and have been forcibly treated as part of their criminal sentencing. I can't help wondering if your defense of Dennis Stein is related to your family's problems."

“'How do you know this shit?" Jackie yells, jumping to her feet.

Once again, I watch someone larger challenge Saskia and smile at how she doesn't even flinch. The reporter looms over the redhead.

"I did security checks on all of the reporters speaking with Mister Sloane today. Your family's history gave me pause. Your brother has been in rehab twice, leaving me to suspect you're overly sympathetic to the idea of Dennis Stein as the victim addict."

"You investigated me?"

"It's called Google," Saskia says in a deadpan voice. "Everything I found is easily discoverable by anyone with an internet connection."

"And you think this protects your client from answering real questions about the murder of Dennis Stein?"

"You will either deal with your bias before the interview airs, or we will respond to your flawed interview afterward by pointing out your biases."

"Are you threatening me?"

Saskia says nothing. Her cold eyes do all the talking.

"This interview is over," Jackie growls, storming past the cameraman.

Saskia casually glances at the publicist. "Was that the last interview?"

"One more."

"Yes. The man with the three divorces. You can call him in."

The final interview is predictable with questions we've answered already. Thinking of Saskia challenging the reporter, I can't stop smiling. The woman is fierce, and I need her to focus on me again like she did the night we spent together.

As soon as the interview ends, I corner Saskia in a mini-kitchen attached to the meeting room. Blocking her exit, I ask, "Are you done needing your space?"

"I'm still working."

Studying her face, I know Saskia is scared. I just don't know why.

"Tonight, you're not working. We'll have dinner, and I'll reward you for a job well done."

Saskia glares at me, but I don't care. Finally giving my fingers what they desire, I let them caress her soft cheek. A flicker of warmth passes over her face before she pushes my hand away.

"No."

"You can pick the food, but only if you agree now. If I have to ask again, I choose."

Saskia tries to slide past me, but I hold my arm out and block her again.

"I'm not negotiating," she mutters.

"Then I guess I'm picking dinner."

"Did you hire me to sleep with you or to keep you safe?"