Moira hesitated, looking at the light flashing on her private line. Only a select few had the number and even fewer used it. So far, it had provided she and her co-conspirator the chance to speak more often under the guise of business. Aside from that, it was usually used for private favours or the caller's request for obscurity. She sighed and adjusted her bottom in the soft leather chair that had once supported her husband and took great pleasure in the sense of power it gave her.

Slipping into the role of President pro tem had been remarkably easy and she quickly learned which knobs and buttons gave her the most authority. The board and the shareholders had demanded settlement of the partnership agreement and the installation, unanimously approved, of Moira Weston as majority stockholder. Myles had done wonders charting the perilous waters of the director's ambitions, wooing them with his own concoction of smoke and mirrors and seamlessly easing Moira into her present position. There would be another vote on share distribution and the merger at the next meeting later in the week but for now, she held the reins. Business was grinding on regardless of the endless tribulations it faced.

Not bad for an only child from parents who leached an existence from the social set through their own form of fraud and massive credit debt. Moira was able to move in circles, which would otherwise have her fighting way above her weight, with relative ease due to important introductions and subsequent invitations. This was the milieu in which she met Barton Weston and with the devotion of a nun, pursued and finally won his proposal—Moira Weston, slick and successful then—slick and successful now.

She smiled happily and picked up the receiver, answering with a soft hello.

"Mrs. Weston? I'm certain you don't know me but I did some work for a representative of yours a little while ago. It consisted of some audio adjustments."

Moira felt her stomach shift and she tightened her grip on the receiver. "How did you get this number? Why are you calling?"

"I'm surprised you would need to ask your first question, Mrs. Weston, considering my expertise." He chuckled unpleasantly. "I've been reading about the circumstances surrounding your husband's company and, well, it seems that my contribution warranted a lot more than I received. The reason I am calling is because I would like to negotiate my monthly annuity."

Her throat seized and she covered the mouthpiece while she coughed to clear it. "Annuity? What annuity? I don't understand what you're talking about."

"I think you do, Mrs. Weston, and I think you will want to discuss this soon—and in person. Don't worry; I intend to be cautious and discrete. We wouldn't want anything compromising on the ah, record...would we? Shall we say nine-thirty this evening at the Bellville."

"I don't- I can't—" The line clicked dead and Moira slowly replaced the receiver, her fingers cramping from the strength of her grip.

The rap at her office door startled her and she looked up, fighting the panic that gripped her. The rap sounded again and she cleared throat and answered.

"Sorry to intrude, Mrs. Weston, there's a Mister Gil Petchorik in reception who says he needs to talk with you."

"Gil what? I don't know—"

"He says he's Mister Cathcart's lawyer."

Moira swallowed and felt her legs tremble. Of course Brian's lawyer would want to talk, the case was moving quickly through the system and the trial would be in a few short months. Why now, after that unsettling call? What had happened? One minute everything was roses, the next it was shit! She patted her hair and assembled a small smile. "Fine, Cindy, show him in an hold my calls for fifteen minutes."

"Mrs. Weston, Gil Petchorik. Pleasure to finally meet you."

"Really?" Moira stayed seated and ignored his outstretched hand.

"Well, not under these circumstances but I was always a fan of your husband and the way he handled his business success and now that you have taken over I kind of look forward to following your career." He smile said true but his eyes showed threat.

"I'll try not to disappoint, Mister Petchorik. Now, what can I do for you?" She sat straight and selected a pencil from the holder on her desk to hide the nervous fidgeting of her fingers.

"I'll get right to it, Mrs. Weston. I'm having a great deal of trouble with these tapes that are the most damaging evidence against my client."

Her chest fluttered and she held his stare long enough to calm her heart. "I would have thought the fact that Bri- Mister Cathcart's brutal clubbing to death of my husband would be your biggest problem."

"Yes, but it's the presence of the tapes that make the outcome for my client a vastly different story."

"Well I don't know what you expect from me, Mister Petchorik. They do exist and I gave them to the police. They seem to be satisfied—" She bit her tongue and covered the moment with an exaggerated sigh. "Look, Mister Petchorik, I'm sorry you have this problem to contend with but I have just lost my husband at the hands of your client and frankly after what he did, both to me and to Barton, I hope he gets what he deserves. Now I'm afraid I can't take any more time to discuss this, so I'll have to ask you to leave."

"That's exactly why I'm investigating the tapes." Gil rose and did up his jacket, watching her with a calm appraisal. "I don't believe Brian Cathcart made any such calls to you. Somehow you have had those tapes manufactured and are using them to send him to jail for life." Moira turned red and her eyes flashed angrily. "Don't bother to object." He went to the office door and paused. "I'll tell you something else I think, Mrs. Weston. I think you arranged events to get rid of your husband and his partner so that you could have exactly what you have now." He waved a hand about the office, finishing with a finger pointing at her livid face.

"Get out! Get out before I have you thrown out!"

She could taste bile in her throat and she went shakily to her sideboard and poured a glass of water from the thermos pitcher, gulping it quickly and spilling it on her blouse. How could this be happening? Everything was planned so well... worked so well. She went to her coat and took out the extra cell phone and dialed, pacing as it rang musically in her ear.

"Moira? This is a—"

"I just had Brian's lawyer in here accusing me off faking tapes." Cutting off any opening and waiting impatiently for a response. If Peter had any inkling, he might let something slip.

"I don't understand, why wou—"

"Don't ask me questions I can't answer. What am I going to do?"

"Nothing. Do nothing. He has to prove his accusation, you have the police backing you up."

Moira expelled a huge breath and sat back against the edge of the sideboard. "How long do we have to wait?"

"Just a little while longer, as soon as the shares are voted. Be brave, darling. I have to go, I'll call later." Moira listened to the click with an ominous feeling. Be brave, darling? What the hell was that? Peter didn't sound quite as concerned as she felt he should.

She dialed another number and prepared herself while it rang.

"Yes, Forbin here."

"You assured me this was all foolproof and untraceable."

"Moira? What's wrong? What happened?"

"I just received a call from someone threatening exposure unless I meet to discuss a monthly annuity!" Her voice had risen and become shrill and she glanced nervously at the office door, inhaling deeply and returning to her desk. "And I just had Brian's lawyer in here accusing me of faking the tapes!"

"Who? Who called you?"

"I have no idea, Myles, you looked after that remember? Foolproof. Untraceable."

"It was... is. I swear. What arrangement—?"

"Tonight at nine-thirty at the Bellville. I don't want to take this meeting, Myles."

"Leave it with me, it sounds like a small case of opportunity greed."

"I don't care what you think it sounds like, Myles. I don't want to hear any more about this, understand? The voting will be taking place soon and we can't afford anything to screw that up. And what about Brian's accusation?"

"Brian's lawyer is just doing what lawyers do, don't worry about him. The police believe you. I'll call you this evening." Moira shut off her phone and slumped in her chair. Until she got that call her day was looking wonderful, now it was shot. She couldn't think of anything else but.