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the fourth estate still protects its own.”
    Peter held out his cup, and the bright gurgle of coffee hitting ceramic told him Carl got the hint. He took a sip and closed his eyes, savoring the dark roast.
    “I’m buying them.” Actually he was calling in the loan for bad collateral, but nobody outside the execs he planned to fire needed to know one of his businesses had stepped in a pile of steaming shit. “Lock, stock, and barrel.”
    In the process of sliding his laptop from his bag, Carl paused.
    Peter met his gaze, and Carl gave a little shake of his head as the corners of his lips quirked. “Journalism in its entirety? Or just the one newspaper?”
    Peter gave him his best, most sardonic stare.
    The smirk fell from Carl’s face, and he cleared his throat. “I guess that’s one way to go about getting the columnist’s name.”
    Never one to debate the obvious, Peter went back to typing up the e-mail to his acquisitions people.
    “Why don’t you date real women?” Carl asked after a moment.
    Peter whipped his head up so quick his neck twinged.
    “What?” Of course he dated real women. He rubbed at his nape with the fingertips of both hands. “They’re not transvestites, Carl. They’re female employees.”
    “Now there’s a refreshing defense against sexual harassment. ‘But, your honor, that’s why I hired her.’”
    Peter chuckled despite himself. Sunlight bounced off the steel surfaces in the kitchen. He stood and flicked a switch, fogging the glass and blocking the too-bright rays.
    “I don’t date real women, as you call them, because I don’t need complications.” When Peter sat across from Carl again, he made certain to look the man in the eye. “My arrangements fulfill complementary needs, one physical and the other economic.”
    Carl stared back at him, unblinking. “But without the threat of lifetime alimony payments and loss of your favorite real estate holdings?”
    “Exactly!”
    “But your parents were happy.” Carl trailed his fingers absentmindedly along the keyboard without typing anything. “Are happy.”
    “No. No way. You can’t use them as an example.” Crossing his arms over his chest, Peter leaned back. “How rare is that?”
    “True.” Carl’s attention skittered away. “Mine were miserable.”
    The fridge clicked on, and a hum permeated the otherwise quiet room. Peter stared at the president of Galaxy One Public Relations and wondered what to say. Sorry didn’t seem adequate in the face of such a personal statement, and anything more seemed too intimate for a man who prided himself on privacy and an old-fashioned work ethic.
    Finally Peter settled on, “Well, I guess we all need something to drive us, right?”
    “What drives you?” Carl pinned him with a steady stare over tortoiseshell rims.
    Dust seemed to settle in Peter’s throat as he stared back, caught in a web of emotion the question elicited. Memories of Thanksgiving with bread and butter for dinner. Then the nights they’d all gone to bed cold as his parents piled all the blankets on him and his three brothers, leaving no covers for themselves. Even at fourteen years old, Peter knew if he could control his environment—every last detail—he’d be able to make sure nothing so horrible happened to the people he loved again. Keeping his family safe meant being vigilant and hardworking. Diligent and honest. All these thoughts and memories rushed through his head as he worked away the dryness in his mouth.
    When he answered Carl’s question, none of these stories came out.
    “Money,” he said, returning to his work. “Just money.”

Chapter Four
    Jammed in an elevator, caught between two couriers who’d neglected personal hygiene, Georgia faced the Monday morning after her weeklong Moroccan vacation.
    Juggling two coffees, her briefcase, and a stack of week-old magazines with photos of the chairman and majority shareholder of Wells Industries on the glossy covers, she swore. The stunned