“How am I supposed to believe anything you say?”
“You shouldn’t,” he admitted. “I wouldn’t, in your position. But I’m asking you to listen anyway.”
A couple walked by, arms linked, laughing about something in rapid-fire French. Daphne glanced at them, suddenly aware of how this must look—a man in an expensive suit earnestly pleading his case to a woman who clearly wanted to be anywhere else.
“Five minutes, you said.” She checked her watch. “You’ve got three left.”
Atlas nodded, seeming to gather himself. “I approached you for business reasons. But I kept talking to you because you’re...” He hesitated. “You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met. The way your mind works, the way you see patterns others miss—it’s extraordinary.”
“Flattery won’t work.” But she felt a treacherous warmth at his words nonetheless.
“It’s not flattery if it’s true.” He stepped closer. “I could have stopped our conversations once I was sure you weren’t tracking me. I didn’t. I looked forward to them. Started creating increasingly complex encryption challenges just to see how quickly you’d solve them.”
“And the personal stuff? The philosophical debates about ethics and truth? Was that just you gathering intel on how a Wilde thinks?”
“That was me forgetting I was supposed to be gathering intel at all.” His voice dropped lower. “It was just me talking to you.”
Daphne shook her head, refusing to be swayed. “You do this for a living. You manipulate people. Make them trust you.”
“Yes. And I’m very good at it.” He smiled without humor. “But I don’t usually find myself flying to Paris just to meet someone who already knows exactly how dangerous I am.”
“I flew here,” she pointed out. “You just had to show up.”
“I arranged my entire schedule around this meeting. Postponed deals worth millions.” His eyes held hers. “Ask yourself why I would do that.”
Because he wanted something from her family. Because he needed information on WSW’s operations. Because he was playing some long game she couldn’t yet see.
But none of those explanations felt right when she met his gaze.
A gust of wind blew a strand of hair across her face. Atlas reached up, hesitated, then carefully tucked it behind her ear. The gesture was so gentle, so at odds with his dangerous reputation, that she found herself momentarily frozen.
“You’re angry,” he said softly. “You have every right to be. But if I’d told you who I was from the beginning, we wouldn’t be standing here now. And I wanted—needed—to meet you. At least once.”
“Why?”
“Because in my world, Daphne, very few people see me. They see what I can do for them, what I can provide, what power I have.” He smiled, and there was such deep sadness in it. “Butyousaw me. The real me.”
She wanted to argue, to tell him she didn’t know him at all. But that wasn’t entirely true. She knew how he thought, how he approached problems, what made him laugh at three in the morning. She knew his tastes in literature and music, his opinions on everything from artificial intelligence to the best way to prepare coffee.
She just hadn’t known his name. Or what he did for a living.
“What exactly did you expect to happen today?”
“Honestly?” His gaze swept over her, taking in the blue sweater, the sensible boots, the glasses she was nervously adjusting. “I expected you to walk straight back out that door when you recognized me.”
“I did.”
“And yet here you are talking to me.” There was something like hope in his expression.
“Not for long.” She turned away. “I’m leaving.”
He let her get three steps before calling, “At least let me give you my private number.”
She swung back. “Why the hell would I want that?”
His lips quirked, and the smile did weird jittery things to her belly. God, the man was entirely too pretty.
“Because I think you’ll want to yell at me again after you’ve had time to process.”
