The Hart Of The Deal

I am doing absolutely everything in my power to stifle the groan I so desperately want to let out.

My eyes continuously scan the room looking for:

A) The reason I’m here tonight and;

B) An escape route from my current unwanted and unpleasant situation.

I did not fly two and a half hours to a place I absolutely hate, full of pretentious brats I loathe, to attend a masquerade ball for the hell of it.

Yet, here I am cornered by a blonde that I haven’t bothered to learn the name owearing heels too high and a dress too short, giving me her best impression of what I assume is sex eyes? While she swats at my arm and cackles like a witch at a cauldron; one pitch higher and I’m certain glass will be shattering.

I wonder how rude it would be for me to cover my ears? I mean, do I even care at this point?

Not really, no.

“Mr Landon?”

“Mr Landon?”

“Mr Landon!” she squawks while clicking an impatient finger in front of my face.

Well, shit. I never associate myself with that surname anymore, at least not often enough to comprehend people trying to catch my attention with it.

“How did you know my surname?” I shoot back. My face is masked and I certainly haven’t told her.

“I saw you arrive with the Landon’s, I just assumed,” Blondie replies sweetly, her hand seductively travelling down my chest.

An unimpressed scoff rumbles from the back of my throat. I shouldn’t be surprised, people hear the name ‘Landon’ and money symbols form in their eyes, quite literally.

“What do you say we get out of here?” Lip biting and sex eyes upped a notch.

Ah, so she wants me to fuck her, then she’ll extort me for money to keep our ‘secret night of passion’ just that, a secret. A true human equivalent of a Black Widow Spider.

“Excuse me.” I push past her and begin to stride off in the direction of the dance floor.

"Mr Landon,” she whines while stomping her foot. I stop in my tracks and turn to face the overgrown baby.

Lunging forward two steps and halt three feet in front of her. “Stop acting like a brat,” I hiss. Blondie stiffens at the word.

“I do not now, or will I ever want to have sex with you.” My words are laced with venom.

“And I doubt anyone will if you keep acting like a child.”

“It’s not really a turn on you know. Children certainly don’t do it for me,” a sardonic laugh erupts from me.

Blondie’s face is full of humiliation and her body slumped, socialites have stopped all conversation to eavesdrop.

I assess the wreckage I just caused, turn on my heel and stalk out of the room, now determined to fulfill my purpose of being here tonight, Damon McCartney.

Damon is a very wealthy businessman, he’s in his late fifties, has expensive taste in cars, houses and women, yes, plural. Women.

And that’s where I come in.

Damon’s wife, Elizabeth, suspects he’s having an affair and has hired me to find ‘concrete’ evidence - when she contacted me I almost snorted. She’s either really dumb, really stupid or really in love - the conscious of Alexander Landon adds.

It’s not breaking news that this isn’t his first rodeo.

Elizabeth is travelling back from an out of country charity event and couldn’t make it tonight. She suggested that I would find him here, which incidentally killed two birds with one stone; I’ll find concrete evidence to prove that Damon is the bastard everyone knows he is and appease my mother and her ‘you never come and visit us’ rants, what better way to shut her up than to show up to their, yes, their annual ball, which is always held at one of our many hotels.

Unfortunately this year they decided on masquerade as the theme. It’s kind of ironic in a way, because every single member of the Melbourne elite circle hides behind a mask, now literally too.

That includes me, even though I didn’t class myself as a Melbourne elite anymore. I mask Alexander Landon with Alexander Hart in an attempt to suffocate the me that once was.

A waitress passes me and quickly grab a champagne flute while scanning the room for my offender.

I must admit the masks and black suits make it slightly difficult to distinguish who is who, but I always get the job done, that’s what makes me the best Private Investigator in the country, and I’m not going to let some tacky little masks strip me of that title.

My eyes continue to brush over each guest when a group of teenage girls stumble away from the dance floor, giving me a clear view of none other than Damon McCartney.

Score.

I tip back the flute and down the champagne in one gulp, place it down and saunter towards Mr McCartney.

As I approach I spot two women on either arm, one blonde, the other with flaming red hair, both dressed to the nines and both no older than twenty-five. Grandpa got game.

Quickly I flick the voice recorder in my pocket on and tap my jacket lapel twice, turning on a microscopic camera I’ve had installed in my bow tie.

“Would you care to dance?” I ask the first woman I come across. She gracefully accepts and I drag her towards Damon.

I can hear Damon, perfect. I stop in my tracks, almost causing a domino effect and spin the woman around, embracing her and taking the lead in our slow dance.

“What’s your name?” she enquires sweetly.

“Alexander,” I reply flatly.

“I’m Anna,” she says, flashing me a sweet smile. I respond with a quick, nod and tight-lipped smile.

“It’s a beautiful ball isn’t it,” Anna gushes.

“Could you stop talking?” She looks at me like I just kicked her puppy. “Please?” I add quickly.

Her ‘kicked puppy’ look does not falter.

“I just really like to feel the music when I dance. Words are distracting,” I soothe.

She gives me an understanding nod and we continue to move to the music.

As the song progresses, I spot Damon in my peripherals. He has his blonde plaything pressed up against a table, one of her legs wrapped around his waist and his hand holding it in place, stroking up and down while he assaults her mouth. Damn, grandpa needs Jesus.

The second girl awkwardly strolls away.

I lead our bodies so that I’m facing him without looking like too much of a creep and allow my camera to do its job. Thankfully my dance partner is much shorter than my six foot five frame, so I’m currently getting the perfect angle. Well for me anyway, not Mr Handsy over there.

Barbie breaks away from his sloppy assault and breathily demands, “Screw this party, Damon. Let’s go back to the hotel and have some fun.”

“What kind of fun?” he enquires with a smirk, suggestiveness evident in his voice.

“Dancing. But the kind with no clothes on,” she winks.

“No need to ask me twice, baby girl.” He makes a thrusting action with his hips and I have to swallow down the bile that just erupted from my stomach while making a mental note to wash my eyes with bleach tonight.

Damon grabs her hand and pulls her towards the ballroom doors and to what I can only assume is one of the hotel rooms upstairs and she just giggles like a giddy teenager. Hell, she probably is a teenager.

Once they’re out of sight, I pat my lapel twice, turning off my camera and reach into my pocket and switch off the recorder. “Shoot, I’ve misplaced my phone,” I say worriedly to, I think her name was Anna while continuing to pat myself down.

“I better go try to find it,” I add, turning on my heel to walk away.

“Let me help!” she calls after me.

“No, no. Enjoy your night,” I reply with a dismissive wave, not even bothering to look over my shoulder.

Once I’m a reasonable distance away, I whip out my phone and call Elizabeth.

“Mrs McCartney, it’s Alexander Hart. Could you please meet with me at my office tomorrow at three pm?”

Without hesitation, she agrees.

“Great, I’ll see you then. Goodnight, Mrs McCartney.”

Veering off in the direction of my parents, I quickly thank them and tell them I’ll see them soon, then head straight for one of our many limos parked out the front of the hotel and head straight to the airport to board the jet back to Brisbane.

Quickest and easiest five hundred grand ever.

“Mr Hart, your three pm appointment is here,” my assistant Delaney says cautiously peering through my office door.

“What’s the time now?” I question.

“T-two forty-three, sir,” she stutters.

“Please send them in at exactly three.”

“Y-yes sir,” Delaney whispers, then proceeds to gently close the door behind her.

I really need an assistant with more backbone. She’s like a fucking jellyfish sometimes.

I push my chair out and walk over to the wall of windows that look out over the city while pinching the bridge of my nose.

I may be cold, I may be a smidge cynical and a little bit heartless at times, but telling a spouse their significant other has been, or is being unfaithful is easily my least favourite part of the job.

Believe it or not, there was once a time in my life that I believed in true love, marriage and children, but now?

Love? Love has the power to build you, but also destroy you. Love is putting your happiness in someone else’s hands and hoping that they cherish it more than their own selfish needs.

Marriage? Committing yourself to one person for the rest of your life and relying on them to do the same?

Children? I’ve seen the ugly of this world, it’s littered with festering sores that we call people. The world is honestly such a fucked up place that I just don’t think it would be fair to bring an innocent life into it.

Alexander Landon believed in those thing, but Alexander Hart does not.

Letting my head fall back, I let out a huge sigh and roll my shoulders.

I drag myself back over to my desk while peeking at my watch, great, Mrs McCartney will opening that door in five, four, three, two, one and-

“Good afternoon, Mrs McCartney,” I say while standing and making my way over to her side of my desk. “Please sit,” I add while pulling out her chair and gesturing for her to take a seat.

You should always use your manners in the presence of a lady.

“Thank you, Mr Hart,” she says quietly, while I round my desk and take a seat.

“Thank you for meeting me,” I smile.

“Of course,” she replies through a somber smile.

Clearing my throat, I begin, “I’m sure you know why I’ve asked you to come into the office.”

“I’ve completed the task that you’ve requested and all evidence that I’ve found has been compiled onto this flash drive,” I say with understanding eyes as I slide the flash drive across the desk towards her.

I watch her as she looks at it like it carries some sort of disease.

“Mrs McCartney, please take it somewhere private and look everything over. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to call.”

She lets out a huge sigh and continues to stare at the drive, tears are beginning to gather in the corner of her eyes. She begins slow, heavy blinks, willing them to subside.

My heart hurts a little for this woman, she’s spent her best years by the side of a man that she gave her happiness to and he destroyed, that she committed herself to and he couldn’t do the same.

“Thank you,” she chokes out, reaching for the drive and tucking it into her pocket.

“I really appreciate your professionalism, Mr Heart.” I give her a weak, sympathetic nod as she stands and heads to the door, stepping through it and softly closing it behind her.

I slump into my chair and rest my head on my desk, trying not to picture Mrs McCartney watching and the footage.

Trying and failing.

Quickly I’m drawn from my thoughts when the phone starts ringing.

“Delaney,” I quip.

“Mr Hart, I have a woman in the office who is requesting to see you,” she blurts.

“You’ll have to book an appointment and ask her to come back.”

“Uh.”

There’s a long pause.

“She refuses, says she’ll pay double your usual rate,” Delaney rushes out.

Again I pinch the bridge of my nose and let out a sigh.

I’ve been doing a lot of sighing today.

“Send her in,” I snort and hang up the phone.

Resting my hands under my chin I focus my attention on the door and wait for the impatient woman to open it.

Oh, but she doesn’t just open it, she flings the door open and waltzes in, spring in her step and everything.

Then pushes the door shut with her foot and it makes a loud bag that causes me to jump a little.

But that little startle is the least of my worries, it’s not until she takes off her hood and shakes out her hair, allowing the creamy brown locks to cascade down her shoulders that I realise the severity of this situation.

I gape at her and feel panic start to pump through my veins.

It can’t be her.

“Mr Hart, I need your help,” a dreamy grin is plastered across her face.

Oh but it is.