"Don't you mind him," Clara scolded, "I know you enjoy your freedom. I'm just lucky Michael's ready to settle down." She went up on tiptoe to kiss her fiancé’s cheek, and Thomas smothered a grin, remembering there'd been a spray of blood right across the spot she'd kissed, just last week when Number Three had participated in an interrogation. Oh, if only sweet Clara knew what she was marrying into...
That was a good point, Thomas thought morosely, accepting another drink from the bartender. At least the "candidates" about to be thrown before him here knew exactly what he was. What The Corporation did. Not that he would ever discuss even the most mundane detail of his work with a spouse, but at least he wouldn't have to make the effort to hide it. So, when he heard the oily, amused tone of Number One crowing, "Thomas, my boy! There's someone I'd like you to meet..." he turned and forced a less forbidding expression on to his beautiful face.
A nauseating two hours later, the ice-cold Number Two was moments away from drowning himself in the punch bowl. He knew Kingston feared and likely hated him. But surely no one could despise another human being enough to attempt to saddle them with this bevy of harpies.
Carlotta: Italian mafia, fire-engine red hair, and a screeching laugh that sounded like a goose getting buggered.
Wendy: Terrified brunette and the daughter of one of their division heads. Nearly started crying when he looked at her.
Misha: An "administrative assistant" in one of the London-based Bratva outfits. She purred"Zdravstvuyte,"and immediately cupped his genitals. She also husked something into his ear while licking it, when trying to decipher it later, Thomas gathered she was telling him she was "free of diseases."
And these were the three top candidates.
Tossing back his sixth drink, Thomas looked around the room, his face set and expressionless. The less ammunition he gave Number One, the better. But the bald-headed bastard would pay for this. His frigid gaze swept the room, landing idly on the string quartet, who were finishing their final number.
After the scatter of appreciative applause, Kingston's wife stepped up. "Thank you all for joining us tonight- these wonderful musicians are here as an example of the fresh blood being pumped into the London Symphony Orchestra. All under thirty. All in first seat positions with LSO this season. Your donations tonight will continue to help promising young students through scholarships to some of the best music schools around the world..." Turning to the four musicians, Arabella Kingston pointed to the young blonde, seated with her cello. "Lauren, dear! Come up for a moment, would you?"
With a shy smile, the girl gracefully set her instrument aside and stood. Thomas's thin mouth curled slightly to see her brush her hands against the full skirt of her black dress, clearly trying to dry her palms and leaving white resin marks against the dark velvet.
"My dear, please introduce yourself and speak a bit about how the scholarship program helped you."
Forcing a smile, the girl nodded. "Hello, and thank you all for your kindness tonight. I'm Lauren Marsh, and I graduated from Juilliard School - that's in New York City - oh, you probably know it's in New York, you're music lovers, right?" She flushed a little under the ripple of laughter, chuckling a little herself. "I was very fortunate to be blessed with a scholarship courtesy of the LSO grants: funded by your generosity. The arts are fading in schools around the world with budget cuts. Most students struggle to attend a fine arts school, so the support from forward-thinking corporations like yours will save the arts."
Thomas was utterly still, glass half raised to his mouth as he watched the blonde girl blossom, her pale cheeks flush and her eyes sparkle - a peculiar shade - lavender? It must be the lights, he mused.
"See, music is the one commonality that serves a global consciousness. It is the one sensory element that lights up all areas of the brain. You hear a song you love, and it brings you back to a particular moment in your life. You can feel where you were, smell and see your surroundings...practicallytaste it." There was something rapturous about her lovely voice that made Thomas's previous disinterest disappear. Arabella took another discreet step back from the mic. She knew a moneymaker when she heard one. And everyone was paying attention to the girl.
"For instance, like... Bob Marley's protest song,Get Up, Stand Up,it's immortal! The song's been embraced and re-imagined on every continent in the world- adapted slightly to blend with their musical style and instruments, but the song remains the same. One song, every nation on the planet. That's the power of music. And that's what your donations fund, a chance for communication and a powerful connection with anyone- everyone, really. So, thank you for funding my dream and allowing me to find a home within the LSO. And I hope you'll do the same for the next generation of students." Stepping back from the mic, Lauren actually jumped a little when thunderous applause greeted her finish, everyone in the ballroom flush with the grandeur that a swipe of their credit card was saving the world. Looking around at the beaming faces, Thomas shook his head slightly. If only the girl knew she'd been speaking to members of one of the most brutal crime enterprises in Europe.
Putting his glass on a passing waiter's tray, Thomas ambled closer to the girl, talking in the corner near the exit with her three fellow musicians, who were clearly praising her efforts. The violinist, a pretty African-American girl gave her a hug. "Nice work! You think they might toss you a bonus for hiking the donations? I could use a loan."
Lauren laughed and shook her head. "I don't think it works that way, but I can still spot you a couple of bucks-"
"Pouuunds," drawled her friend in a terrible cockney imitation, "pounds here, dahling, and- wait." Squinting, the girl eyed a man crossing the ballroom. "Lauren, shit! Is that yourdad?"
Thomas's dark brow rose as he watched Lauren stiffen. "Why would- what the hell! He's supposed to be in- night, guys. I'm gone." With a slippery grace he appreciated, the girl disappeared.
Frowning, he turned back to look at the man who'd nearly reached the remaining three of the musicians, and a mild recognition stirred.Marsh... hmmm... ah. Frank Marsh. CEO of Atlantic Equities in New York. One of our under-performers."Under-performer" was a very bad designation in The Corporation. Very bad. As in, 'the management was about to be shot and fed to the alligators to dispose of any evidence' bad. But Thomas knew the man was wealthy. Extremely so. Yet his daughter worked through a school as rigorous as Juilliard on an LSO scholarship?
"Now, why isn't Daddy dearest paying his angel's way through university?" Thomas murmured. Pulling out his cellphone, he texted a request to an associate with a dark smile on his face.
"Now that's what I wanted to see!" Number One's heavy hand clapped him on the shoulder of his beautifully tailored jacket. Kingston must be drunk, Thomas thought, even he wasn't foolish enough to touch someone as unapproachable as his second in command. "A smile, Williams! Does that mean one of the ladies here tonight has caught your interest?" He couldn't read the strange expression on the younger man's face, but it was almost... avaricious.
"Perhaps," Thomas finally answered. "Goodnight Ben. Arabella, darling." He bent to kiss the woman's cheek and was gone.
Number One's smile disappeared as he looked at his wife, still a little fluttery from the kiss. "Go find out which girl he was interested in." Arabella nodded anxiously and disappeared.
While stripping to take a shower, Thomas leaned over his laptop to type in a passcode. Reading the report compiled within the last hour, he smiled, pleased with his assistant's thoroughness.
Typing a reply, Thomas wrote:
Good work.
Contact Miss Marsh and instruct her to meet me at the office tomorrow at 3 pm. Tell her it is an interview to have her perform at my next event. Begin the usual surveillance.
Williams
Finally showered, he crawled into his sheets naked, putting a forearm across his forehead and looking out his window. Yes. She'd do just fine.
