Chapter 64

CHAPTER 64

Skye

"S weetheart, meet Marilyn."

So this is Marilyn. As much as I tried to extract information out of the bastard on the ride here, he refused to divulge any. He wanted to surprise me. Barely able to read the name of the massive yacht because of the fog, I repeat it back as Sheldon grins proudly.

"Named her after my mother, may she rest in peace."

"It's an amazing boat. Is this where you keep her?"

"Yup. The Marina's her home."

Good. A location. Finn and Billings will know where I am. I follow Sheldon as he leads me up a ramp. The cold, damp air makes me shiver. Despite the chatter of my teeth, the pig doesn't offer me his jacket. I hug myself to ward off the chill as I climb up the steep incline.

The captain of the ship welcomes us aboard. He tells Sheldon that his other guests are already here. They're waiting in the stateroom. "Let me know if you need anything, sir."

"What's the weather forecast?"

"Not good. The fog won't be lifting any time soon. The winds are at forty-five knots and a storm's coming in."

Sheldon pats his back. "Keep me posted. We can weather anything, right?"

The captain dons a nervous smile. "Of course, sir."

A cloud of doubt as thick as the fog falls over me. Maybe he won't take things further with me. The tweak of a nipple isn't enough to put him where I want him. Wondering what his intentions are and worrying about the weather conditions, I let him lead me to the third level. He cups a hand on my ass as we step into the elegantly appointed quarters.

The stateroom.

"Sweetheart, I want you to meet my pal."

Hovering over the bar, the trim, silver-haired man pivots around. I gulp down my shock.

It's my former boss! Jim Hartley. Now almost sixty. As dapper as ever.

Clad in charcoal gray slacks and a black cashmere turtleneck and carrying a tumbler of some amber-colored liquid, he strides toward me. Sheldon introduces us, telling him my name.

He doesn't recognize me. His lustful eyes travel down my body like a slow-speed elevator, making a stop at every level. A lascivious smile slithers across his face. I want to rip it off.

"Hello, gorgeous," he drawls.

"She's a hot one," pipes up Sheldon. "And she's smart."

"Brains and beauty. It doesn't get any better."

Utterly disgusted, I compose myself, and in my most seductive voice, I test him.

"I think we've met before."

"Darlin', if we had, surely I wouldn't have forgotten. I never forget a beautiful woman."

Left-handed, he takes a sip of his cocktail—for sure a bourbon. I notice he's still wearing a wedding band. The scumbag. Maybe, that's why several female colleagues abruptly left the department while I was there. I even remember him inappropriately touching me on occasion. Giving me a pat on my ass. Sometimes a shoulder massage. There were also sexually insinuating comments. I brushed them off as playful innuendos. My mind jumps; my tongue burns with questions. Was he involved with my attempted murder? Did he know I was investigating Greenberg? Before I can go any further with my conspiracy theory, Sheldon diverts me.

"Gorgeous, let's have some kinky-ass fun." He puts my hand to his crotch, rubbing it up and down. Right in front of him is Jim, who lecherously looks on while nursing his drink. An enormous erection forms under my palm. I feel nauseous.

"Sheldon, please stop it. You told me I could pitch you my movie idea."

I try to pull away, but he won't let me. "Stop it!" I repeat, my voice rising.

"C'mon, sweetheart. The pitch can wait. Let's get to know each other better. Jimbo wants to watch. Then, play with us."

Play with us? What does that mean?

"Shelby baby, I'm ready."

To my horror, my former boss sets his drink on a table and then shoves me to my knees. He holds my head down.

"What's going on?" I cry out as Sheldon keeps my hand pressed to his appendage.

"Sweetheart, it's party time. Zip down my fly."

"Please don't make me do this."

He snorts with laughter. "Sweetheart, trust me, I'll be way more receptive to your pitch."

"No!" I shout out.

"Stop wasting my precious time. It's not every day you're gonna get this chance of a lifetime."

I hear him unbuckle his belt. My heart races as bile rises to the back of my throat. I don't think I can suck his monstrous organ, let alone stomach the sight of it. Besides, I need more than sexual assault. At most he'll get a few years in prison at some upscale white-collar penitentiary and then early parole if he's on good behavior and agrees to rehabilitation. Then, he'll be sent to some ritzy rehab joint in Malibu or Scottsdale with luxurious accommodations—complete with a deluxe suite, spa, pool, and gourmet dining.

I need to prove he tried to kill me. The thought of him getting away with murder is unfathomable. The bastard! He needs to suffer as much as he made me suffer. I take that back. Make that more!

Rage livewires through me. It's time to go in for the kill. Pun intended though my mental double entendre makes me shudder. I need a confession. As risky as it is. I can't let Jim's presence throw me off. Or a pending blow job. I need to stick to my plan. The script.

"Listen, Sheldon, why don't you let me pitch my story and I'll do anything you want."

"Maybe you can fuck it out of her," chortles Jim. In my mind's eye, I can see him laughing at his own joke.

It's not funny. In fact, it horrifies me. I manage to cast my eyes upward. Creasing his forehead, Sheldon weighs his options. My heart thudding, I remain silent with anticipation as the monster scrunches his bulbous nose.

"Nah. Let her get her pitch off her chest." He snickers. "Then she can get me off. Who knows... maybe she's got something good besides a hot little pussy. I'm desperate for something to sell."

I inhale a breath of relief. Things are back on track.

Sheldon orders Jim to take a seat. Releasing my head, he grabs his bourbon and folds into an armchair. I stand up as Sheldon plops down on an opulent couch. His potbelly is so big he can't close his legs. He scratches his balls.

"Go ahead, sweetheart. Don't take too long. Give me the elevator pitch."

I know what that means. Jim, with his short attention span, taught me that term when it came to pitching news stories. It means summing up your story in a couple of pithy lines. Making it high concept.

"I'll try. It's a complex story."

Sheldon scratches his crotch again and huffs out a frustrated breath. "C'mon, sweetheart. Make it fast. My balls are itching."

I suck in a steeling breath and make eye contact with my audience. My pupils ping-ponging between Sheldon and Jim. Ultimately landing on Sheldon, I begin. My voice is strong, my expression animated. My hands sweep the air dramatically.

"Imagine . . . Dark Passage meets Brenda Starr . . . meets Madeline . . . "

The two men furrow their brows.

"Who the hell is Madeline?" grumbles Sheldon.

Jim informs him. "Some ballsy French kid. My wife used to read those books to my daughter when she was a toddler."

"Whatever." Sheldon juts his double chin. "Go on."

Not having the luxury to waste time, I continue.

"What happens when a young investigative reporter at a major news network learns from an A-list actress that one of Hollywood's major players sexually assaulted her?"

Sheldon narrows his eyes. "What d'ya mean?"

"What I mean is he raped her." Having Sheldon and Jim's full attention, I don't stop. "Against her boss's wishes, the reporter decides to prove that the actress's accusation is more than an allegation."

Jim squirms and takes a long swig of his bourbon. "Sheldon, I don't like where this is going."

Swiping his greasy comb over, Greenberg dismisses him. "Let her finish. This has potential." Inwardly breathing a sigh of relief, I pick up where I left off.

"The determined reporter goes undercover and manages to get the Hollywood mogul to invite her to his house. He forces her to have sex with him."

"What kind?" asks Sheldon, his voice thinner, his face darkening.

"It doesn't matter. It's against her will." I pause for a beat. "Somehow the bigwig TV producer figures out the true identity of the woman and goes after her. Determined to stop her from exposing him, even if it means putting an end to her life. Then—"

Suddenly, my pitch sinks in. While Jim turns chalk-white, Sheldon turns a shade of purple, his nostrils flaring, his pupils dilating. He cuts me off.

"Shut up! Who the hell are you?"

With my arms folded across my chest, I face him squarely. "Does the name Skye Collins ring a bell?"

A stunned Jim chokes. He drains his bourbon. "Skye Collins? She's dead! You don't look anything like her!"

"Looks can change, Jim," I say calmly though every nerve in my body is on edge. "How are the ratings these days without me?"

The tumbler in Jim's shaking hand falls to the floor and shatters as Sheldon explodes. "Don't fall for her! My boys ran that bitch off Mulholland! I read the obits!"

My heart does a high five against my chest. Yes! A confession! The bastard confessed! A smug, triumphant smile curls on my lips.

"Remember me?"