“Yes.”He shifted as if the conversation made him uncomfortable.
“Will he be hurt?”
“Pardon?”He jerked back like she’d right-hooked him.
“Cam.Will he be hurt that Vesna didn’t come?”
He struggled to answer and took a sip of water then waved the waiter over with another barely noticeable move of his index finger.
“Welcome back, Mr.Crow.It’s good to see you.I wanted to express my—”
Mr.Crow waved his hand, halting whatever the waiter was about to say.Interesting.
Crow.Suited him.He had the thick glossy blue-black hair and strong bone structure that punched through bland like a middle finger at an upscale cocktail party, and his eyes had been unfathomable.Dark—she thought—as he’d been backlit from what a realtor would call a wall of windows, but now, out of his office and up close, she thought they were a dark blue.Or navy.Beautiful.Powerful, but his eyes looked like he could swallow her.Though she had the impression of sorrow, not so much from his expression or eyes, but more… like an aura—a sense the Family had wanted her to cultivate, but she wanted to tamp down… especially now out on her own and often surrounded by clanging personalities, all of them wanting more from her.
That life’s over.
And though the money had been good and living expenses low, she didn’t grieve the loss of her job.She was used to starting over.She would have just preferred it to be her choice, so she’d had her next plan in place.
“Madam, can I bring you a beverage to start?”
“Yes.”She smiled up at the waiter, wondering what to order, but she shut down her worry.
Who cared what tall, dark, and sinfully handsome Mr.Crow thought?
She flicked open the wine list to champagne.No prices.Nothing by the glass.But the way the waiter or sommelier looked at her made her a little reckless.She didn’t want to be a jerk.But she’d seen that sterile penthouse office.The suit.The ticket.The hotel suite.Even the eye-popping deal Vesna had agreed to if this weekend worked out andboth parties were amenable to signing the agreement and proceeding.
“Pierre Peters Cuvee Reserve, Blanc de Blancs,” she said airily as if she ordered champagne all the time, which she didn’t, but she’d had bubbles aplenty—usually sparkling water.
She might as well have some fun and be on the other side of the table for once.
Until the waiter flicked a glance at Mr.Crow—who was paying for this, she reminded herself, although she could.She made her own money.Saved it.Raked in tips.Before she was fired.
“Good choice,” Mr.Crow said, “but since today is our first meeting, perhaps you’d like to try one of Cam’s favorites in his honor.”
He spoke like he was giving a presentation at a board meeting.What would it take to fluster him?Watch him ditch that measured deep tenor that heralded he thought he knew best.
“The Jerome Prevost Les Beguines.”
The waiter nodded once and retreated.Ayana hadn’t realized she was holding her breath.
“Why is that Cam’s favorite?”
“It’s not.He liked beer.But it’s something he would order here with Vesna or you just to flex.”
She laughed, delighted to see the spark of personality.“We’re flexing?”
“Seems like.”
She leaned an elbow on the table—probably something that was forbidden but considering how corrupt and feral most rich people seemed to be at heart, judging from her news and political feeds, her tackiness was minor league.She twirled a lock of her hair around her finger.“And if I don’t like this champagne that isn’t Cam’s favorite?”
“Order something else.But you’ll like it.”
“That confident?”
“You strike me as a woman who can easily talk herself into many misadventures.I posit experiences top that list.”
“Posit,” she repeated.Who talked like that?“Okay Mr.Suit and now Ivy League.”
