“Pretend that I belong here at the Olympus Royale.”
Another armful of clothes, none of them folded, fell into the suitcase.
“Orion spent an entire meeting pretending I was a spreadsheet error.” She shoved the suitcase zipper an inch, and it snagged. “I don’t need a degree in psychology to read the room. I’m either the arsonist who almost burned down your hotel or the slut who’s sleeping with her bosses. Either way, it’s a great story for everyone but me.”
I crossed the room, resisting the urge to fix the zipper, or pick up the blouse on the floor, or fix her entire day. “Whoa, who’s saying you’re a slut?”
She glared at me. “Nobody yet. But it will happen.”
“None of that is true,” I said. “You’re the reason our story doesn’t end in bankruptcy filings and stale buffet coupons.”
That earned me the smallest of snorts. “Flattering. Doesn’t fix this mess.”
“No,” I said. “Food does. Come with me.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Have you eaten this morning?”
“No.”
“Your dropping blood sugar is doing the talking for you.” I held out my hand. “One hour. If you still want to leave, I’ll help you pack, personally wrap every silk thing in tissue, and drive you to the airport myself.”
“I’ve never seen you drive. Do you even have a driver’s license?”
I had to restrain a sigh. “Tashi,” I said.
She hesitated, and I watched the moment the wiry anger gave way to the exhausted human beneath it. She slid her hand into mine like it weighed a hundred pounds.
“Fine,” she said. “One hour.”
The private conference room on our floor was designed to make nervous investors forget to be nervous—creamy walls, soft light, and a city skyline framed like art. I called Chef and asked him to send up a spread that would make a monk question his vows of poverty. Bowls of jewel-bright berries, sections of pink grapefruit and blood oranges, and a board of aged cheeses and paper-thin charcuterie arrived. The chef had paired them with a small mountain of macarons, chocolate-dipped strawberries, and figs split to show their secret hearts, along with champagne and sparkling water.
She snorted when she saw the champagne. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“No. Relaxed,” I said. “Sit.”
She eased into a chair, as if her body expected the chair to vanish. I took the seat beside her instead of across from her.
She eyed me. “Across is for debate. Beside is for alliance.”
“Here’s the deal,” I said, lifting a berry, rinsed and chilled and dusted with sugar. “I’m going to make a case. You candisagree. You can roll your eyes. You can even throw a raspberry at my head if it helps. But you have to let me finish.”
“Is this part of the psychology thing?”
“This is part of the Leo thing.” I held out the berry. “Open.”
Her gaze flicked to my hand. “You’re serious.”
“Tragically.”
She shook her head, but her mouth opened. I placed the berry on her tongue. Her lashes fluttered once. The muscles in her shoulders loosened a fraction.
“I’ll tell you something personal if you promise not to use it against us.” I picked up a slice of blood orange and held it to her mouth.
“What? Am I some sort of femme fatale now?” Tashi spoke with skepticism.
“Orion isn’t regretting the decision to hire you. He’s just not used to letting our private personas bleed into public spaces. It’s a defense mechanism. When you’ve been raised like we were, our parents dying when we were in our twenties, leaving us with a ton of money in our pockets, we became targets for predators. We learned to keep to ourselves and not let the outside in. Your Heroes campaign set off his early warning signals.”
