![]() ![]() Lucas Vieira, Man of Mystery, some wag had once called him. ![]() His estate on the ocean, in the Hamptons, was walled the Caribbean island he'd bought last year was festooned with No Trespassing signs. His two-level penthouse on Fifth Avenue was accessible only via private elevator. How had the man gotten his number? It was private, as was the rest of Lucas's life. One taste, and he'd shoved the thing aside, flipped open his cell phone to check his messages and found one from the same fool of a reporter who'd been badgering him for an interview the past two weeks. ![]() Lucas had not even known there could be such a thing until his P.A.-his very temporary P.A.-had brewed a pot of something black, hot and oily and poured him a cup of it. It had started with a mug of burned coffee. Now, it was rapidly turning into catastrophe. ![]()
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