Page 32 of Wicked Fortune

“That vintage? Hell, yes.”

He pours, then brings me the liquid gold. Our fingers brush and I feel a jolt that’s from more than anticipation of this rare drink.

I take it carefully so as not to spill. And I definitely don’t confess that I’ve never had such an expensive drink.

He pours his own, then joins me on the couch. He lifts his glass and we clink a toast. “Thank you,” I say, hoping he hears the sincerity.

“A whisky this special is meant to be shared.”

“In that case, thank you for sharing it with me.”

Our eyes meet. “You’re very welcome.”

We both take a sip, and I savor the taste, noticing that he’s doing the same. “Amazing.” I practically purr the word, which doesn’t do the drink justice at all.

“I like to collect amazing things. Things that inspire me or challenge me. Sometimes I collect something just because I want to understand it better.”

“Oh?” I take another sip, trying to hide my certainty that he’s talking about me. “Like what?”

“Well, whisky, actually. And Kentucky bourbon. I even dipped a toe into gin, but that wasn’t a good fit.”

“You wanted to understand them?”

He chuckles, clearly hearing my wry tone. “I did. I was twenty-three and even though my dad was a drunk, I didn’t have a clue about spirits. I grew up dirt poor, so we never had something like this. Not unless my dad snatched it, anyway.”

I realize I’m leaning forward, and he has my complete attention. “Did he do that? Steal?”

Matthew meets my eyes, then nods slowly. “From time to time. Or, more accurately, every damn day. Point being, I wanted to learn about whisky. Bond might be a vodka man, but I’d seen enough by then to know that deals were made in rooms where men drank. And the richer the men, the pricier the drink. I was dirt poor, and I couldn’t fix that.”

I tilt my head. “Um, look around you.”

“I couldn’t fix it overnight,” he says with a nod to my correction. “I figured if I didn’t have money, I could have knowledge. If I knew about The Dalmore 62, then wouldn’t folks assume I was someone who could afford it?”

“So you went to Scotland?”

“And Kentucky and a number of other places. Spent a year learning and walked away a connoisseur.”

“And did it work? You could name the good stuff, so did folks assume you could afford it, too?”

His grin is more than a little smug. “Like you said—look around you.”

I laugh, genuinely impressed. Then I lean back, letting myself settle into the cushion and get more comfortable than I probably should with this man. But right or wrong, I trust him a little bit more now.

That, I think, was probably what he was hoping for. But I can’t fault him for it. I believe the story, and if it’s a lie, well, at least it was entertaining. No surprise there, I suppose. Entertainment is part of his company’s name.

“And now you have a whole world filled with the good stuff,” I say, nodding to his globe.

“I guess I do.”

“I was barely ten when I saw the movie,” I tell him. “The couch, my dad, and a big bowl of popcorn. I wanted it for toys. I thought hiding Mr. Quack and the rest in the center of the world was the coolest idea ever.”

“Mr. Quack?”

I feel my cheeks heat. “A stuffed duck I had when I was a kid.” I don’t mention that I still have him.

“I was thirteen the first time I saw it,” he says. “It was at a revival house in Manhattan. I snuck in. Decided right then I wanted to be James Bond.”

“Is that your way of telling me that you’re a spy pretending to be a movie mogul?”