Page 57 of Resist

“It’s polite for a gentleman to order for the woman.”

“It’s even more polite to ask the lady what she wants.” I lift my eyebrows in challenge. “Desires change on a whim.”

“Not for me they don’t,” he says and lifts his glass to his lips as if to dare me to argue with him.

I look around the room and know this place is so very different from what I’m used to on a date. Date? Is that what I’m calling this now? This is more like an obligation.

An obligation with a very handsome man. One who thinks he can order dinner for me. In a very elite club, might I add.

In my need to figure out how I feel about all of this, I think back to the last date I had. God, was it really four months ago? It was Chinese takeout on the Lower East Side with chopsticks that wouldn’t work and a good-looking-enough guy who was too handsy, talked too much on his cell phone throughout our dinner, and definitely didn’t get laid regardless of how hard he tried.

Ryker hasn’t picked up his cell once. Come to think of it, he didn’t the first disastrous night we met either. And when I look back at him, his attention is on me—unnervingly so. It’s always on me.

Even when I don’t want it to be . . . like right now.

A tense silence settles between us that fits his mood—on edge, unsettled, intense.

“What’s the event for?” I change topics, hoping to lighten the mood, and his subtle nod acknowledges it.

“It’s to raise money for SPD. I have to remember what that—”

“Sensory processing disorder,” I say without thought.

The slight lift of his chin says he’s surprised by my response. So am I. “Yes, that’s it, though I doubt many know that.”

“So . . . what? You guys have a big party to socialize, call it a charity event just so you have somewhere to toss your extra money simply because it’s a tax donation and you need them?”

His back stiffens some. He can insult his kind, but an outsider, not so much. So much for easing the tension.

“If that’s how you want to phrase it,” he says carefully, his eyes surveying the room before turning his attention back to me. “How do you know what SPD means?”

Lucy’s face lights up my thoughts. Her sweet smile. Her absolute freak-outs over socks with seams in them, tags in clothes, and the feel of her panties on her body.

“That’s personal,” I respond with a purse of my lips as I reach for his drink and take a sip of whatever is in his glass. I’m not sure if it’s whiskey or bourbon or scotch, but whatever it is, it’s strong and gross and burns my throat, but I refuse to show him any of that.

“Personal?”

“Mm-hmm,” I murmur, uncertain how this conversation started out playful and now seems so damn tense. “Where does the money you’re raising go to? What does it fund?”

“Why do I feel like you have me on the stand, Counselor?” he asks, eyes narrowing, lips pursing, but I don’t apologize.

“Does anyone here even know or care?”

“I can’t speak for some of the people in here as it’s not my favorite of crowds—”

“Then why are you here?”

He leans in, voice low, eyes glinting from being questioned. “Because sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to do, be places where you don’t want to be with people you don’t know if you really like . . . because that’s the best thing for your business. For your reputation. A way to keep the sharks at bay. Even with assholes.”

And the way he looks at me—the deep intensity in his gaze—tells me he knows that’s exactly how I felt coming here tonight. My hand forced and my curiosity piqued even when I didn’t want it to be.

“Even with the asshole.”

He leans in closer and lowers his voice. “I know what SPD is. I know the charity we’re supporting and the R & D it’s funding. This club may be stuffy, it might be filled with sharks, but we get together once a month, support a cause, and then go on our merry fucking ways. I realize you think I’m a bastard with money, but that doesn’t mean I’m reckless with it.”

“You sure about that?” I counter, the $10,000 that was deposited in my account an hour before my arrival time proof to the contrary.

“So much hostility from someone who’s a plus-one.”