The Key (Sanguinem Emere) Read Free Page A

to be par for the course for any billionaire Socialite. But I had to admit, my curiosity (where before I had just wanted a good story to tell) was now piqued. Why ignore rumours of living with more than one woman? How has he garnered so much money and how does it keep growing?
    Who was Addison Fleur? And is it true she mentioned his name in the note marking her suicide?
    I wandered into the meeting like a smug cat that had succeeded in clawing its way into a mouse hole. But the Dimitri Kron I was to attend drinks with was calm, one might say tranquil, and soothing, but with a vastly extensive voice which boomed through the bar with his joviality one moment and growled with his aggression towards certain public figures and the heinous acts they may or may not have committed the next.
    I have never met a man so charismatic as to feel comfortable and informal with him after only one drink. Dimitri made me feel these things. And much more than that.
    He registered my enthusiasm with a soft chuckle which made me beam and, taking my hands between his, promised he would answer any questions a Mona Lisa such as myself, could throw at him – his words, not mine. I was instantly entranced, despite the corny compliment, much to Delilah’s amusement as she told me later, giggling over her eighth glass of chardonnay. The way poetic language seemed to flow from him, lilted with interesting notes of an accent almost faded into extinction, made me hang on every word. I wanted to listen to him speak forever, and by the end of the night, I had not been able to ask a single question, a point which he brashly brought up, insisting that we meet again in order to continue our discussion.
    Delilah arranged it all, fervently embarrassing me at every opportunity she could scrounge up when we were alone together with her insistence that the man had never offered a second meeting before. He wanted me, she was sure of it. And as much as I would love to say my feelings were purely professional, I began to dream about him, at work and in my sleep. And when we did meet we would entertain hours of leisure time over drinks, coffee, films, parties, dinners and charity functions without ever approaching the subject of his past or, in fact, any of the questions I had neatly scribbled down in my notepad which seemed to follow me to every meeting like a lonely, forgotten puppy.
    It was only ever after the fact, when the sunshine warmth of his presence began to fade in his conspicuous absence that I would verbally berate myself before my dressing room mirror at my utter lack of self-control. What kind of reporter cannot even hold it together enough in front of a rugged man to ask him a few simple, non-invasive questions?
    It’s no wonder, really, that my career is currently lagging on the edge of a dark, rocky precipice. None of my peers would have been so frivolous upon meeting the infamous, hated, and much sought after, Dimitri Kron.
    And then I would go to sleep and my dreams would mimic the mockery of my soul. Visions of Dimitri would have me awakening with frustration. Frustration at my lack of will and burgeoning desire for a man that was only ever supposed to be a story. And when next we met I’d feel as though we had spoken only a few hours ago. My dreams edged into our conversations and I would engage him in discussions I felt we’d already resolved.
    Two days ago, Dimitri had grasped my hand in his as we ducked into a cab, escaping the crowds waiting for us outside Newton’s Theatre. The driver had snatched at the wad of cash he was offered to not make a comment over the celebrity lounging in his backseat, and the money had miraculously disappeared from sight. The celebrity in question turned to me and I felt that shallow dip in my stomach which made me instantly want to slap myself for letting any man get to me like that. His eyes, since the moment I met him, when he had taken my hand in both of his and stared through my face, my skin, my flesh, my