Page 80 of Outcast’s Vow

And it’s not only that, but also the whole package...

What he said at the table. How he wanted to know all about my passions. How even though he was teasing me, he really listened to me.

How he made me feel seen.

Outside Velvet Vault, Baptiste hails a taxi, and we’re driven a few short blocks to a bar even I have never heard of.

“A members-only bar,” Baptiste explains to me as he holds out his hand to help me out of the taxi. “Exclusive.”

“You like your elite private clubs, don’t you?” I tease.

“Keeps away the annoying women who ask me a million questions.”

“Who would dare?”

The private members' bar is very old-fashioned. It’s dimly lit, with wooden paneling and oak tables. There must be a thousand bottles of scotch, brandy, and cognac on display behind the bar. Waiters in impeccable suits calmly rush around. I recognize a few famous faces here.

I bet Father’s been in this room a few times. This is his kind of place.

As we take our seats on the plush leather booth in the corner of the bar, I think back to the phone call Baptiste got at the restaurant. So, Baptiste is under strain from some senator out to ruin his company, and he can’t figure a way out of the quagmire?

Interesting.

A server glides over to our booth. She’s practically batting her eyelashes at Baptiste, totally ignoring me.

And Baptiste completely ignores her. His focus is wholly on me.

The server brings us a bottle of wine in an ice bucket, and Baptiste pours us both a glass.

“This is much better,” he says so that only I can hear.

“In what way?”

“I’m not sitting opposite you here. It’s way less formal. We’re closer.”

His hand, under the table, smoothly glides down to my bare leg.

My breath catches.

And as it was earlier with his hand on my lower back, my body is sent into a frenzy. Oh, I could take this man home right now and do terrible things to him.

We’re interrupted in our secret, private moment by a man approaching the booth, very clearly aiming for Baptiste. Unlike others in this fancy bar, he simply wears a T-shirt and jeans. Very hip and trendy.

My husband stands up politely to shake his hand, and that’s when I recognize him. A famous and incredibly rich founder of a social media empire. Jake Kingfisher.

“Nice to see you again, Baptiste,” the entrepreneur says smoothly as he glides in.

“You too, Jake.”

“How’s the business going?” the founder asks Baptiste. “I’ve heard you’ve been making a real splash.”

Baptiste shrugs. Jake, the social media CEO, obviously hasn’t heard the news on the stalling of the federal contract. And Baptiste puts on a fake smile. A steel front.

“All systems go.”

He can shift so easily from private Baptiste to public Baptiste. I feel like I’ve been seeing a side of him no one ever gets to see, and that sends a thrill down my spine.

“Good,” Jake replies. “We need you to fire up some of the dead wood. Play around with the old firms and pull them, kicking and screaming, up to the current century. This country needs it.”