HER LAST RESORT.

        Her last resort, she’d come to this corporate pinnacle of wealth and power to Boone Hurshins, because he was the most influential man she knew, who could help her, if he would help her—for a price. He wasn’t Mr. Universe™-powerful, though well-built; he was politically and financially dominant, the man whose influence behind the international “movers and shakers” and leaders of everything you could possibly think of, actually got things accomplished.

        Material Power, which she didn’t have.

        What he had was . . . not “good.” Not “evil.” Just power.

        Amoral Power which she had her own little bit of to use, here and now.

        So, she’d come, in pilgrimage, to his lush, corporate headquarters’, to his hardwood paneled office suite, in his huge, tall building bearing his name, past his many thousands of employees, past his impeccably efficient, Executive Personal Assistant Vanessa Quartermain.

        She had come meet with forty-two year old Boone Hurshins because he was that kind of powerful.

        She had, finally, come to him because. . .

        . . . because he wanted her.

[more]

“BOONE.”

        She said his name with clarity, warmth, and something that was the tonal equal to swooshing the one syllable name around her sweet tongue, as if his name were a tasty, highly prized wine.

        He reacted to her saying his name, it was so utterly clear, although still subtle, more like he relaxed somehow without actually sighing or moving, so she could tell he liked hearing his name fall from her tongue.

        She did it again.

        “Boone, I know what I’m asking. For a woman’s life. She may not be innocent in her life of so many other things; but she’s truly not guilty of this crime. She’s an innocent woman, in this. Yet, they’ll execute her in less than—.”

        Grant abruptly paused her own speech not wanting to think how the hours were ticking away, slipping out of her reach, leaving her so little time in which to get this done. To walk this plank over open, shifting, and roiling black sea.

        And don’t forget the leaping, starving sharks. Well, one toothy and hungry dark shark.

        “Boone, the evidence that can clear Jeanine is being suppressed, kept out of court by powerful people, I can’t get around. I’ve tried. I’ve tried everything and not even the media will touch it, at least not anyone able to generate the kind of powerful heat I need to change opinion.”

        “What’s your opinion there?”

        “Someone huge, someone who’s very powerful got to someone smaller, who got . . . .” She shook her head. “A few of the neighborhood rags and independent cable newsies bit, some internet, too—mostly the crazies, unfortunately. Well, the ones who are seen as ‘crazed.’ But that’s not—.”

        Grant can’t help showing her frustration.

        “I mean really, how can the law be so arbitrary as to accept post sentencing evidence for lesser crimes, but not for a murder sentence? Especially, when that evidence is slam-dunk proof of Jeanine’s innocence! Or at least of her being not guilty.”

        She stops ranting in general and looks directly at him.

        “Mr . . . . Ah, Boone, I’m not here because I hate to lose or because a victory could change . . . or save my life, my business life anyway. I’m here for Jeanine. That’s all, because all she has in her corner is her daughter. And me.”

        Boone’s intense and steady gaze on her reminds her exactly one thing.

        You’re all he cares about, not this woman. You have to make him want to give this to you. He’ll never do it for them. Do this for me, Boone!

        Her gaze met his, with her wish burning in her heart and mind.

        But, Grant broke away first from the magnetic lock of his always too steady and too intimate, dark-eyed gaze. She stared out the window, instead, at air thinner and cleaner than down on the street, from where she came. There weren’t even buildings in view at this level and angle, not from where she sat.

        Focus, you silly bitch. This is your last pitch to save . . . .

[more]

BECAUSE, SHE HAD VALUE, STILL.

        And she might as well get to investing her value because he evidently wouldn’t budge without her investment, because since she’d come to him, she had the weaker position here, with her back already against the wall, or was it her knees already on the ground before him, exactly where he’d always wanted her.

        “What’s in it for you, Boone? Me. I’m what’s in it for you.”

        Fuck his damn eyes.

        He was very good, the dark bastard. He didn’t blink too much, swallow hard, choke on his drink or his spit, or give away any indication that this conversation was now a tad different from any other he’d had today, well, probably. Grant was fairly certain, that quite a few women, and certainly many men, had groveled before this man.

        Whether in order to suck him off or get fucked by him; both for business and pleasure. Pleasure mixed with pain. Business mixed with pleasure. Business with pain. She had to stop her brain from conjugating.

        He chuckled.

        Really?

        He chuckled softly. And it annoyed her to her soul, even though it was a pleasant manly sound.

        “I get ‘you,’ Grant? That implies many things. I already have attorneys, an entire firm of them, in fact, with all its departments on retainer. I don’t particularly need a constitutional criminal trial attorney, at the moment; not even an excellent one, who has assisted at presenting at trial panel before the federal Supreme Court in Washington.”

        He stopped when he saw her jaw become long and tight, and her eyes fully close or at least hood over so he couldn’t see them through the long, thick mascara’d lashes.

GRANT'S EYES.

        He loved her eyes. Rich, dark brown with a slight reddish mahogany tone, even a touch golden, depending on the brilliance of sun or artificial light lighting them.

        Their color reminded him of sweet root beer. He always really loved root beer. Okay. Not a man’s drink. But he loved it anyway, because he loved what he loved.

        Grant’s eyes.

        It had been the third time he’d seen her when he’d become completely lost in her eyes, after he had been gazing at her a long while, watching her moving around the party gathering and talking with others when her unguarded eyes had gazed at his own, deep into him, for a his own unguarded, unexpected moment.

        The impact of her soul gaze, or was it a love gaze, had caused him to believe at that second that he must have caught a severe flu bug or the like.

[more in the short story (published) the work in progress novella]

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