"Thank you." I made eye contact, then shifted my gaze to the bridge of his nose. A technique I'd learned from corporate headhunters who made six figures placing candidates. Direct enough to seem confident, not so direct that it became achallenge. "I believe I'm a strong match for this position. I understand the value of discretion."
"Do you?" He closed the folder, leaned back slightly. "Tell me."
I launched into my carefully constructed story. Former positions at international corporations—all real companies, all raided by various government agencies, all verifiable by anyone without CIA-level clearance. The beauty of my cover was simple: I'd been employed by these companies during their scandals but had never been charged. Never even questioned.
Because I'd never actually worked there.
But proving that would be nearly impossible.
I kept my voice steady, my answers smooth. Everything I'd practiced. Everything I knew from working for years in my father’s various business endeavors. I hadn’t become my father’s research and investment analyst for nothing.
"Interesting." He studied me with that unreadable expression. "Tell me about your personal life."
I paused, uncertain if he wanted substance or small talk. Settled on middle ground. "I'm involved in thoroughbred racing. Own percentages in a few horses with some friends and family."
"Racing?" His eyebrows rose slightly. "Any big winners?"
"A few." I kept it vague. Horse ownership could be verified, and while our syndicate membership was anonymous and banked offshore, even that discovery would raise red flags. "Nothing retirement-worthy. I like horses and numbers, so the track scratches both itches."
"So you're a gambler." He ran his fingers through his hair—a casual gesture that shouldn't have been attractive but somehow was. "If I hire you, will I get calls from Atlantic City about why you're not coming in?"
"No." I resisted the urge to make a joke. Kept it professional. "I avoid those types of risks. Though I'll admit to overspendingon shoes and handbags." I lifted my Birkin slightly. "Do you like it?"
"It matches your shoes." He said it without looking down.
My heart stuttered. He'd already noticed. Of course he had.
"You're observant."
"I notice things." He opened my folder again, scanned it in silence that stretched just long enough to make me nervous. Then he closed it, leaned back, hands behind his head. Relaxed. In control. "Tell me about the last time you watched one of your horses race. I want details."
The request caught me off guard. "Details?"
"The experience. What it felt like."
"Okay." My pulse kicked up. This wasn't standard interview territory. "Before the bell, there's this stillness. Anticipation in the crowd. Everyone holding their breath. Anything can happen next."
"Go on."
"Our horse was number four. Jockey in pink and white silks. The trainer was holding second place in wins for the meet. The jockey was fifth—better than expected for someone barely out of rookie stage, but our trainer wanted to establish a relationship with him early." I was talking faster now, getting into it. "I was hopeful. It was a maiden race—"
"None of the horses have won yet." His smile was quick, genuine.
"Right. Sorry, I didn't mean to explain—"
"I know racing. Continue."
"It was six furlongs." I found myself leaning forward slightly. "I held my breath through the first half, I think."
A small laugh escaped me—nervous, genuine.
"I like your laugh."
Heat flooded my face. "Thank you."
His gaze held mine a beat too long. Something flickered there—amusement, maybe. Or interest.
I smoothed my skirt, needing something to do with my hands.
