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Chapter 661:
He sat. But the evening’s fragile ease was gone, and all three of them understood that.
Below, the concert began in earnest, the bass thrum shaping itself into melody, voices rising in collective joy. In the VIP suite above, three people maintained a careful, armed neutrality, each watching the others watch June.
Not one of them thought to ask what she actually wanted.
The concert ended with a final, thunderous chord that seemed to shake the building to its foundations.
In the VIP suite, the silence that followed was almost worse than the music. June stood immediately, reaching for her coat, her movements efficient and purposeful.
“Thank you for the evening, Brogan. It was—” she paused, reaching for honesty “—illuminating p>
Brogan’s smile was strained. “Let me drive you home. We could get dinner somewhere quiet, just p>
“That sounds perfect.” Crawford’s voice came from the far sofa, where he had remained motionless since the final song. “I’m famished p>
Brogan’s control frayed visibly. “Love, you weren’t invited. You aren’t p>
“Experiencing car trouble.” Crawford rose and stretched with deliberate slowness. “A terrible thing. My Phantom seems to have developed two flat tires simultaneously. Vandals, probably. Or—” his eyes found June’s, something calculating beneath the mild concern “—disgruntled hedge fund managers. They can be remarkably petty when you short their positions p>
June looked at him — really looked — and saw the satisfaction beneath the performance, the quiet triumph he wasn’t bothering to conceal.
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“You arranged this,” she said. Not a question.
“Me?” His hand went to his chest. “June, I would never p>
“Save it.” She turned to Brogan. “Can your car fit three p>
“Two,” Brogan said tightly. “It’s a DB11. Two seats p>
“Ah.” Crawford’s smile widened. “Problematic p>
He crossed to the window and looked down at the garage level, where his Phantom sat conspicuously disabled, its driver standing beside it with theatrical helplessness.
“Well,” Crawford said, turning back, “I suppose I’ll call a car. Unless—” he looked at Brogan “—you’re feeling generous, Clements? Perhaps I could manage the storage space p>
“There is no storage space,” Brogan said through his teeth. “It’s a sports car p>
“There’s a compartment behind the seats.” Crawford was already moving toward the door, long strides, unhurried. “I’ve ridden in worse. During the Kosovo coverage, I once traveled seventy miles in a cargo space with a camera crew and three cases of equipment p>
He held the door open, his expression patient and expectant, absolutely certain of the outcome.
June looked at Brogan. Brogan looked at the ceiling, at the floor, at every surface except the man holding the door with the calm of a predator who knows there is nowhere left to run.
“Fine,” June said, the word escaping like a breath released under pressure. “But if you complain once about the space, I’m leaving you on the West Side Highway p>
Crawford’s smile was radiant. “I would never dream of it p>
The Aston Martin’s engine purred to life with a low, purposeful thrum.