"Ty Drago - Bitter Reflections" - читать интересную книгу автора (Drago Ty)

confiscate any... mirrors you have on your person." Then, after an uncomfortable swallow, he
added: "Mr. Benedict suffers from a phobia concerning mirrors. Didn't he tell you about it
when you called?"
"No, he didn't," Loretta muttered. She opened her purse and placed her make-up mirror in
the butler's wrinkled palm.

"Thank you, Doctor. This will be returned to you when you leave." He opened the door for her
with a professional flourish.
* * *




Within was a bed-chamber. A large, unmade bed occupied the back wall. To the left
stood a cherrywood grandfather clock, its brass pendulum painted black and the glass over
its column and face removed. Along the opposite wall, to Loretta's right, was a row of high
windows, blocked off with heavy, red velvet curtains. In the near corner stood a hearth, with
an inviting blaze roaring in its fireplace. Two high-back chairs faced the fire, both flanking a
small table, atop which stood a wooden pitcher and modest stack of plastic cups. From the
left-most chair a man stood and turned to face her.

"Mr. Benedict?" she asked.
Lawrence Benedict came forward. She recognized him, of course. How could she not? His
face had appeared on hundreds of national magazines. Yet, this man bore only a superficial
resemblance to the one whose visage had graced those photographs. This Lawrence
Benedict was pale, his eyes, usually dark with power and strangely cold, now seemed
sunken and tragic. Several days' growth of beard covered his cheeks and chin. His hands
were thrust deep in the pockets of his white, monogrammed robe. He withdrew one and
offered it to her. He wore a signet ring on his third finger.

"Welcome, Dr. Capinelli," he said, his voice raspy. "Please sit down. Would you care for
some brandy? It's excellent and I confess I've been fairly living off of it these past few days."
She shook his hand. His grip was surprisingly weak. "Yes, please."

Benedict led Loretta to the second of the matched chairs at the hearth. She settled herself
into it comfortably, watching him as he filled two cups with brandy from the pitcher. "You'll
have to excuse the plasticware, Doctor," he muttered. "My usual brandy service was silver
and it proved to be... reflective."

This was Lawrence Benedict? she thought, incredulous. The mastermind behind Benedict
Industries, the largest weapons manufacturer in the world? Though they'd never met, she'd
lived in New York too long not to have heard the stories about him. He was considered
brilliant and ruthless. He ruled his empire savagely; one of the most successful and brutally
opportunistic players on Wall Street. He'd come into his inheritance after the death of his
parents in an auto accident, and had managed to take Benedict Sportsman, Inc., a
medium-sized rifle manufacturer, and turn it into an internationally recognized conglomerate
with ties into everything from small arms to nuclear weapons design.
Benedict's hands trembled as he passed her the brandy. "Thank you," she said, then
adding: "When was the last time you slept, Mr. Benedict?"