Page 9 of Diego

I keep my face neutral.

Randall slowly looks around the office, making sure everyone is paying attention. “This is someone we want handled properly, and I don’t want anyone deciding this is an opportunity to introduce themselves, hand over a card, make conversation, or otherwise insert themselves into a situation that does not concern them.”

The way he says it makes it sound as though he suspects at least half the office of lurking behind conference-room doors waiting to ambush wealthy strangers.

His gaze passes over the room.

Randall continues, “If you are approached directly, be polite and get me. Otherwise, no one speaks to him. No one pitches him. No one offers assistance unless I have specifically asked you to do so.”

When no one responds, Randall’s mouth tightens. “I’m speaking to everyone.”

A scattered chorus of agreement follows.

“Yes.”

“Understood.”

“Got it.”

He looks around one more time. “Good. Then there shouldn’t be a problem.”

With that, Randall turns and walks back toward his office. He steps inside, pulls the door shut behind him, and disappears from view.

Randall’s office door opens again about two hours later.

I glance up from my screen as he steps out, smoothing one hand over the front of his jacket before heading toward reception. He does not announce anything this time, but he does not need to. The purposeful way he crosses the floor, combined with the fact that he looks as though he is about to greet royalty, tells me exactly what is happening.

The very important client has arrived.

Leah notices too. Her eyes flick briefly toward me before returning to her monitor, and I bite back a smile. Randall reaches the reception area just as the front doors open, and whatever composure he normally likes to project turns into something far more eager.

I cannot hear every word from where I sit, but I hear enough.

“Mr. Conti. Of course. Absolutely. It’s a pleasure to see you.”

Mr. Conti apparently does not require that much enthusiasm, because Randall is supplying enough for both of them.

I lean slightly to one side, mostly because my monitor is blocking my view, and get my first look at him.

He is tall, with broad shoulders, and dressed in a dark suit that fits like it was made for him, which it probably was now that I think about it. His hair is dark, his features sharp enough to hold attention without trying, and there is an ease about him that makes Randall’s fussing look even more obvious by comparison.

He does not look impressed by any of it.

That is the second thing I notice. After how attractive he is, of course.

The third is that Randall is practically glowing.

He gestures toward the office with both hands as though directing a king. Mr. Conti says something I cannot hear, and Randall laughs far too hard.

He must be very rich.

There are different kinds of rich in this business. There is comfortable, successful, old money. Then there are the newly wealthy, itching to show their good fortune off to others, usually a bit brash and loud.

But there is also the kind of rich that makes men like Randall Shaw abandon whatever dignity they possess.

Mr. Conti appears to be that kind.

I should go back to my email.