Chapter 11
eleven
ASHER
Either I’m a glutton for punishment or I take rejection very, very badly. Quite possibly both. Truth is, since the night I felt her come all over my fingers while she devoured my lips with her own like I was some kind of god, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Francie Salinger.
She’s too young, I tell myself as my cock hardens.
She’s not your type, I remind myself as I fist it, remembering her ragged breaths against my mouth.
She’s way too fucking forbidden, I think as I come all over my hand.
Christ, I need to get her out of my system.
It’s been months now, and every day I’ve been a hair’s breadth away from storming over to her apartment to demand she explain why she left without saying a word.
But I don’t chase. I don’t give second chances. And most of all, I don’t play games.
If she doesn’t want to talk about it, fine. Let her run away.
The next time I see her at a family party, I’ll pretend it never happened.
Even if it did something to me. Even if I woke up the next morning, sheets somehow smelling like her, with a hollow ache in my chest I couldn’t name.
After a long, cold shower, I pull on my clothes. A Tom Ford suit because his tailoring fits me like a glove – I have five of them in different shades of blue and gray – a Brioni white cotton shirt with French cuffs, and a Kiton patterned silk tie that knots like a dream.
When my driver drops me off at the corner of Ellery and Eighth, the sun is just starting to set, casting a salmon-pink glow over the New York skyline.
“Can you come back at ten?” I ask him. I’m not planning on staying long. Truth is, I’d rather not be here at all.
But Myles Salinger was the one who contacted me, wanting my firm to upgrade his security systems. The actual work will be carried out by one of my top teams, but as a family friend, it only felt right that I had the initial meeting with him.
And since he was staying the night in Manhattan, something he told me he hates doing, he suggested we meet for dinner at his club.
The Langston Club is as discreet as it is imposing. A monument to old money and power. Five stories of brownstone rise up from the sidewalk, with Georgian windows and intricate black ironwork that speak to another era. One where men made deals that industrialized America.
A liveried doorman nods at me as he opens the door. “Mr. Salinger is expecting you,” he says. “In the Amber Room.”
For a second, I’m reminded of the Ivory Rooms. Same low-level elegance, completely different purpose. That place is about fucking. This one is about fucking people over.
But they’re both about money. And lots of it.
“Asher?” a soft voice says. The familiarity of it makes my stomach twist.
A tall blonde in a long black dress walks toward me.
“Annalise.” I keep my voice flat. She angles her head like she expects me to kiss her cheek. I don’t.
“Are you still salty with me?” she asks, pouting her lips like she didn’t try to screw me over in every way possible. “Can’t we let bygones be bygones?”
The way she says it – flirty, familiar, like she still thinks she has power over me – makes my blood boil.
“I’m not salty,” I say. “I’m just not interested in talking to assholes.”
Her eyes flash. “That’s not what you used to call me.”
I shrug. “You were just a way to scratch an itch, Annalise. Nothing more.” I lean down like I’m about to kiss her and feel her shiver. “Tell your brother I said hi. And that he’s never getting another penny from me. I won. It’s over.”
I walk away before she can reply, glad she can’t see the fury in my expression.
The deal’s done – he finally signed last week – but now he’s out there partying on money he didn’t earn. Still smug. Still circling like a vulture, only with a bigger bar tab and better drugs, courtesy of me.
I should’ve known better. About both of them.
He tried to take my company. She handed him the keys. Stole files, read private emails, fed him everything he needed to launch the takeover.
They were a package deal. All charm and betrayal.
And yeah, I won the war. But some victories leave scars.
By the time I reach the Amber Room on the third floor, I’ve buried the anger. On the outside, I’m calm as I step into the gilded, hush-toned dining room with its gold-leafed walls and ruby carpet.
The ma?tre d’ leads me to a round table in the far corner, murmuring that Mr. Salinger and his guest have already arrived.
I nod. Smile. Put on the mask. I’m ready to do business. Ready to be professional.
Until I see her.
She’s sitting next to Myles, her inky-black silk dress skimming her thighs and clinging to every goddamned curve. Her hair’s swept up, showing off the line of her throat and the slope of her shoulder.
And just like that, I’m pathetically breathless.
“Asher,” Myles says, standing up to shake my hand. “I invited my sister Francine to join us. I hope you don’t mind.”
I can’t even pretend to look at Myles. My eyes are locked on her.
She meets my gaze with something that’s definitely not surprise. More like... simmering disdain, which is probably fair.
She might have ran far away from Liberty and from me, but I did nothing about it. It’s my fault we’re sitting down to dinner like we’re strangers.
And I have no goddamned idea how I’m supposed to get through the next ninety minutes without doing something very, very stupid.
FRANCIE
I swear to God I’m going to kill my brother. And Autumn’s brother. That’s all he is to me now. Just some guy in a perfectly tailored suit who once made me forget my own name.
He might look like a walking wet dream in designer threads, but I know better. I’ve got the hot flush to prove it.
“Francine,” he says, a smile playing at his lips because he knows I hate it when people use my full name. He holds out his hand as though we haven’t seen each other in years. And because my brother is here, I have to take it, dammit.
His fingers curl around mine, warm, confident, like they own me. The same fingers that brought me to my knees.
I yank my hand back before the memory finishes replaying.
We sit, and the waiter comes over to fill our glasses with water. Myles orders a whiskey, Asher does the same, and I ask for a cocktail, because if I’m going to get through this meal I’ll need sugar and alcohol to do it.
“So how are you?” Asher asks me, his voice conversational. I look at him, but his face betrays no expression.
“I’m fine. How are you?” I ask, equally as politely.
“Never been better,” he says smoothly. “Remarkably calm, actually. Peaceful. Quiet.” He glances at me. “Almost made me wonder if my phone had stopped working.”
Myles frowns. “Have you thought about changing providers?” he asks. “Surely that can’t be good for your line of work.”
“Maybe you need to improve the service you provide,” I say to him, my voice bright. “If you expect repeat business.”
His smile cracks a little. And yes, it’s a low blow, but if he’s going to start hinting about our tryst, then I’m going to hit him where it hurts.
“I’m sure his service is excellent,” Myles says. “He comes highly recommended.”
Asher smiles as he looks down at his silverware.
“I guess you’re only as good as your last review,” I murmur.
“I’ve had some glowing reviews recently,” he says, slow and deliberate.
My smile falters. That shouldn’t feel like a slap. But it does.
Because what? He’s had sex since Liberty? I have no idea why that hits me right in the chest. It’s not like he owes me anything. He’s a grown man, he’s single. He’s entitled to have carnal relations with whomever he desires.
But it still hurts.
“I was telling Francine about our discussion this afternoon,” Myles says to Asher, as the waiter discreetly places our drinks in front of us. I pick up my Blackberry French 75 – gin, blackberry syrup, and chilled champagne in a vintage crystal coupe glass, wishing I was anywhere but here.
He watches as I down half my drink. He doesn’t say a word, but I feel it, the heat of his gaze. Like he’s remembering exactly how my mouth feels against his.
“Oh yes?” Asher takes a sip of his whiskey.
“I thought we could discuss her security,” Myles continues. “After reading those statistics, and seeing where she lives, it worries me.”
“I’m fine,” I say, trying not to roll my eyes. “I told you, I’m a grown up, I have it covered.”
“You’re a single woman in a big city,” Myles points out. “And you’re rich and beautiful.”
“Who said I’m single?” I ask too brightly, like a kid daring someone to call her bluff.
I’m still pissed off that he’s moved on so easily. That he’s… fine. For a second neither of them say a word. Myles frowns like he’s trying to take my words in.
Asher just looks annoyed. Good, now he knows how it feels.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Myles asks.
I don’t reply. Just shrug. That’s not lying is it?
“Why haven’t you told me about him?” my brother continues.
“It’s still pretty new,” I say.
Asher stares at me, his lips pressed together.
“He’s very big,” I tell them, pausing for a beat.
“Physically, I mean. I don’t need to worry about anything when he’s around.
So let’s not worry about my security. I’m fine.
” I give them both a broad grin. “Let’s talk about something else,” I say, turning to Asher with a sugary smile.
“Like how to fix a failing rating. You know, before the bad reviews start piling up.”
ASHER
My jaw is tight as I watch her leave the table, her black dress swaying against her thighs like a taunt. She says something to the waiter, probably ordering another cocktail, and then disappears down the hallway.
I shouldn’t follow her.
I’ve told myself that a dozen times since I sat down. Don’t look too long. Don’t ask questions. Don’t care.
But I’m already pushing back my chair.
Myles is mid-conversation with one of the wait staff about how many calories are in the sticky toffee pudding. He doesn’t flinch when I tell him I need to take a call and slip away.