I managed to get a taxi after stuffing Boone's number in my purse. The car takes me to a tall building downtown.
Inside a stern woman sits at a desk. "Hello," I say, approaching. "My name is Tia Samuels. I have an appointment."
The woman types my name into the computer, then looks up and smiles. "You can have a seat over there," she says, pointing to a chair at the edge of the room.
I pull my suitcase over to the chair and take a seat, but it's pointless as the woman stops me right as my butt hits the cushion. "Mr. Widmore will see you now," she says.
I stand and walk through the door. His office is huge. Completely covered in mahogany wood with a large window looking out over downtown Los Angeles. He stands in front of his desk with another man, sharing a drink.
"Ah, Miss Samuels," Charles Widmore says to me, gesturing me forward. "I'm pleased to finial meet you."
"Likewise," I say awkwardly, walking forward keeping the suitcase in my hand.
"Can I get you a drink?" he offers.
The two men drink glasses filled of what I assume is that bottle of MacCutcheon whiskey. "No, thank you," I say.
"Desmond," Widmore says to the other man. "This is Donald's daughter. She's running the divisions of Samuels International in London and Sydney."
"Pleased to meet you," Desmond says in a Scottish accent, holding out his hand. I shake it as I stare at his face. There's something really familiar about him.
"Do I know you from somewhere?" I ask.
He chuckles. "That's the second time someone's asked me that today."
"Did you meet someone on the plane, Desmond?" Widmore asks, sitting in his desk chair.
"He thought he might've known me, but he didn't. Some man named Jack."
"Did you just fly in today?" I ask.
"He did," Widmore says. "From Sydney. It's a possibility you two could have been on the same plane."
"Oceanic 815?" I ask.
"The same."
"Maybe that's where I know you from," I say, but I don't think that's right. I point at the cair in front of Widmore's desk. "May I?"
"Absolutely. Desmond has to get going, though. He's a very important man."
Desmond downs the rest of his whiskey. "Nice to meet you, sister," he says. "Charles." He leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.
"Now, Miss Samuels, you have some paperwork for me?" Widmore asks.
"Yes," I say, reaching down to unzip the suitcase. "Your transactions in Sydney went through easily."
"I had no doubts. I spoke with your father before you got here. You really are his greatest joy. He seemed to suggest the company couldn't exist without you."
"I highly doubt that, sir," I say, managing to get the case unzipped. At the contents inside, my heart almost stops.
There's some tee-shirts, a pair of sneakers, a button-down shirt and a pair of slacks. A picture of the man from the airport, Boone is on top of the messy pile of clothes, with his standing next to a beautiful blonde woman.
Lucky for me, Widmore can't see what I have in the suitcase from this angle. I look up at him. "It seems my father puts too much faith in me," I say nervously. "I believe I left the papers in Sacramento. I really apologize, sir. I can have them faxed to you as soon as possible."
"I didn't want those papers faxed, Miss Samuels. That is why you are delivering them to me."
"I understand sir," I say, thoroughly embarrassed. The one opportunity I have to really impress my father, and I've screwed it up.
"I will need those papers by the end of tomorrow. My son is playing a concert in a few days and I have many people investing in its charity benefit."
"Yes sir. I will get them to you by tomorrow. I promise."
"You better, Miss Samuels," he says, his eyes changing from warm and welcoming to cold and scary.
I show myself out of the office and dig through my purse, grabbing my phone and the safety pamphlet with the number written on the edge. Mustering up my Angry Voice, I dial Boone's number.