Free Blood Price (The Blankenships Book 5) by Evelyn Glass Page B

strive to factor in our workers in any and all conversations.”
     
    Wells finally moved forward, his hand resting on Crane’s just as Crane opened his mouth, clearly prepared to start to shout. “We’re not asking for guarantees,” Wells said, his tone more measured and careful. “But we’re concerned. It hasn’t escaped our notice that you want to take your company in a very different direction than your father did. And if you were to do that—well, it’s always cheaper and sexier, from an investment standpoint, to build new factories and facilities, instead of retooling old ones. We’re concerned. We want to be on your side.”
     
    Alex sighed, and set down his fork. He leaned over and took Zoey’s hand, pulling her gently towards him. He pressed his lips against her cheek on the side of her face that they couldn’t see. “I’m going to deal with this,” he murmured. She felt the press of paper in her hand, and found a billfold of pounds. She tried not to goggle at the amount of cash she was fairly sure she was holding. “Have a gorgeous afternoon, and meet me back at the flat around dinner time?”
     
    “Absolutely,” she replied, glad she’d been busy eating while they talked nonsense. She stood up as Alex turned back to the two men.
     
    “Sorry, gentlemen,” he said, standing as well. “But I don’t like to mix business and pleasure, as the old saying goes. Shall we take this to the office?”

CHAPTER EIGHT
     
    The first thing Zoey did was to find a kiosk where they sold international calling cards. She called Helen, who picked up almost as soon as the phone started to ring. “I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner,” Zoey said. “It was a long flight, and—”
     
    “Are you having fun in London? Where are you right now?”
     
    There was something wrong in Helen’s voice, something seriously off kilter. “Sha, you okay?”
     
    “Peachy,” Helen said. “Where are you?”
     
    Zoey looked around. “Near Parliament, I think. I can see Big Ben.”
     
    “My brother’s there to see you, just like we talked about,” Helen said. “He’s down at the Tate. You see the signs?”
     
    “Yeah—Tate Britain?”
     
    “Exactly. He said he can’t wait to show you the Waterhouse.”
     
    “Lady of Shalott is my favorite,” Zoey said, mainly to make sure she was understanding what Helen was saying.
     
    The relief in her friend’s voice was almost frightening. “You’re going to love seeing it in person.”
     
    “I’ll call you when I’m there, let you know what I think.”
     
    “Nah, get in touch tonight, luv, okay?”
     
    “Sure, Helen. Love you.”
     
    “Cheers,” she said, and the connection dropped.
     
    Zoey set out with her stomach in knots. She didn’t have the slightest idea what was going on, but so far, not a single good thing had come from her association with any of this crap, other than the relationship with Alex himself.
     
    It was a decent walk to the museum that Helen had mentioned. Zoey had never been a huge art fan, but she’d heard of the Tate Gallery before. The walk was gorgeous, winding through grassy patches and small gardens, and the building itself was somehow welcoming in all of its brilliant white glory.
     
    It would have seemed natural to go straight to the Pre-Raphaelite room, but some instinct told her Agatha Christie wouldn’t have approved. She wandered a bit, through a Warhol exhibit and some exquisite modern photography before she found herself facing the auburn haired women that the signs on the walls told her the Pre-Raphaelites had loved so much. And then she was stymied. She found The Lady of Shalott, probably the only painting she knew by name other than the Mona Lisa, and she studied it. She tried to remember the terms from the one art theory class she’d taken, pretending that she was examining the—what—brush work? The use of values?
     
    Someone stepped up next to her, a small man with dark curly hair and a dark