Playing for Keeps by Yahrah St. John Page A

around.”
    Avery could only hope that was the case.
    Â 
    As Quentin walked up Fifth Avenue toward Fifty-third Street and the King Tower the next afternoon, he saw that the building was as impressive as the man himself. After his meeting with Jason earlier in the week, Quentin had done a little research on Richard King. He was a prominent businessman with over five million square feet of prime Manhattan real estate, as well as properties throughout Florida and the West Coast. He was an up-and-coming entrepreneur who could easily surpass Donald Trump if given the opportunity. Quentin wanted to meet in person the man who symbolized the establishment and everything Malik despised.
    The inside of the bronze-tinted, fifty-story glass tower was every bit as magnificent as the outside. The use of marble, granite and brass throughout the complex and inside the four-level atrium that housed shops and cafés only added to its appeal.
    As the elevator climbed, Quentin put on his game face. He would be professional and cordial. He didn’t want Richard King to see that he had a hidden agenda. When the elevator stopped on the fiftieth floor, Quentin exited and walked up to the circular front desk.
    â€œMay I help you?” the receptionist asked.
    â€œYes, I’m here to see Richard King,” Quentin replied. “We have a one o’clock meeting.”
    â€œCertainly, just a moment, please.” She buzzed King and while he waited she brought him a bottle of mineral water. He hadn’t asked for it, but he said thank you nonetheless.
    After several minutes, she said, “Follow me,” and led him through the King Corporation’s swanky offices with plush carpeting and into Richard King’s private suite. He was on the phone and motioned to Quentin to sit down.
    He took a seat and placed his photography bag on the floor. Richard King was not what he’d expected. Sure, he’d seen pictures, but in person he was much shorter and didn’t appear as looming a presence as the media made him out to be. In fact, from a physical standpoint, he looked rather ordinary. He was about five foot nine, medium build with dark brown hair and wearing an Italian double-breasted suit.
    â€œMr. Davis, sorry about that,” Richard King said as he hung up the phone. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” He rose from behind his desk and came forward to shake Quentin’s hand.
    â€œNot a problem, Mr. King,” Quentin said. “I understand you’re a busy man.” Once he was closer, however, Quentin noted that Richard had striking green eyes, kind of like Avery’s. If Quentin were to take this assignment, he’d definitely want to get a close-up.
    â€œWhen my PR person told me about you shadowing me for an interview in Capitalist , I told him he must be mad. I have a huge development deal going right now,” Richard said, leaning against the front of his desk. “But some good PR never hurt, right?”
    â€œRight.” Quentin went along.
    â€œWhy don’t you join me for lunch?” Richard asked, standing straight and buttoning his Armani jacket. “I have a business meeting that I must attend and you’ll get to see me in action.”
    â€œActually, I think that would be great.” Quentin expected King to be ruthless, which would confirm his suspicions about the man. “If it’s not a problem for you?”
    â€œNot at all,” Richard returned. “I have nothing to hide.”
    Twenty minutes later, they were seated at the tower’s restaurant while Richard met with a business associate. Throughout the hour-long lunch, Quentin watched Richard negotiate a deal. He was reasonable yet shrewd. Quentin entirely expected King to intimidate the lesser man, but by the end, Richard had his opponent thinking that he’d suggested the deal to begin with and not the other way around. Afterward, Quentin had to admire King’s