Chapter Six #2
“My brothers have a habit of… collecting things. Sometimes I have to remind them not to.”
“I am not a thing, Mr. Conti.” Her words are dignified and a bit stiff.
“I am aware of that," I say mildly. "And that's precisely why the reminder was necessary." I hold her gaze, letting the silence stretch.
I am being a bastard. I know I am.
She needs to understand who she is dealing with. She needs to understand the world she has stepped into. This isn't a corporate law firm. This isn't a negotiation.
This is us.
She looks down at her tablet, but I see the way her fingers are trembling, just a little.
“I appreciate the clarification,” she says, her voice a little too tight. “I will ensure my interactions remain professional.”
"I never had any doubt about that, Ms. Murray," I say. "But I cannot always say the same for my brothers."
She doesn't respond to that. She just nods, her jaw tight. She is angry. And embarrassed. And something else I can't quite name.
I should stop. I know I should. I have made my point.
But I don't.
I stand and walk to the bar at the far end of the room.
"It's not yet 9:30," I say, my back to her as I open the hidden panel. "But I find a meeting of this importance calls for something other than coffee."
I hear her sharp intake of breath.
I turn, a bottle of amaretto and two glasses in my hands.
"A family tradition," I say, holding up the bottle. "Lorenzo's favorite. For difficult conversations. Or for celebrations." I give her a small, humorless smile. "And sometimes, for both."
I pour a small amount into each glass. The sweet, almond scent fills the space between us.
I walk back to my desk and set one of the glasses in front of her.
She looks at it as if it were a snake.
"I don't drink during work hours, Mr. Conti." Her voice is clipped.
"It is not a test, Ms. Murray," I say. "It is an invitation." I take a sip from my own glass. "To a different kind of conversation."
She looks up at me, her eyes guarded. "What kind of conversation?"
"One about trust," I say.
The word hangs in the air between us, heavy with implication.
"I was hired to do a job, Mr. Conti. My personal life is not relevant." She says it quietly, but her eyes are clear.
I nod slowly.
"You are correct, of course," I say. "But you are not just an employee. You are a confidante. And a confidante is entitled to a certain level of... transparency."
I can see the wheels turning in her head. She is trying to figure out what I am doing. What I want from her.
And so am I.
"I am a lawyer, Mr. Conti. Not a confidante."
"A good lawyer," I counter, "is often a confidante."
I set my glass down. "I want to be clear, Ms. Murray. The access you have been given is not just a professional courtesy. It is a statement of faith. You are seeing the inner workings of a company that is, in many ways, a family. And families have secrets."
I am pushing her, and I know it. I am pushing her to see if she will break. To see what she will do when she is backed into a corner.
I expect her to retreat. To retreat into the cool, professional armor she wears so well.
She doesn't.
With her eyes on mine, she reaches for the glass. She lifts it, but she doesn't drink. She just holds it, her fingers curled around the base.
"Secrets are a liability, Mr. Conti." Her voice is even, but her eyes are burning. "They create exposure. My job is to eliminate exposure."
"So you will eliminate my secrets?" I ask, my tone almost teasing.
"I will eliminate the ones that create a risk for the company," she says.
"And the rest?" My voice is soft, challenging.
"Perhaps," she says, her eyes locking onto mine, "those would be better suited for a confidante."
The air crackles.
The exhaustion has vanished, replaced by a raw, vibrant energy that is almost palpable. She is not the same woman who walked into my office.
She has turned my own words against me. She has accepted the challenge, and she has raised the stakes.
I realize, in that moment, that I have misjudged her.
I saw her competence. I saw her intelligence. I even saw her quiet strength.
I did not see her ruthlessness.
I did not see the fire.
I thought I was testing her.
But she is testing me.
I smile. A genuine smile this time, one that I rarely allow myself.
"Fair enough, Ms. Murray."
I pick up my own glass. "To the beginning," I say. "Of the end of our weaknesses." I raise the glass in a toast.
She hesitates for a beat, then she lifts her glass and taps it against mine. The clink is small, but it echoes in the quiet room.
She takes a sip.
The sweet liquor touches her lips, and I watch her throat move as she swallows.
I can almost taste it on her.
I want to taste it on her. I want to taste the almond, and the sweetness, and her.
The thought is so sudden and so fierce it almost takes my breath away.
I have wanted women before. Many women. But this is different. This is not a passing fancy. This is a deep, gnawing hunger.
A hunger that is becoming more and more difficult to ignore.
She sets her glass down, her gaze unwavering. "I should begin."
And just like that, she is back. The lawyer. The professional. The woman in control.
She is dismissing me now. In my own office.
And I am so intrigued, I let her.
I want to bend her over my desk, lift her skirt, and remind her who's in charge.
I want to ruin her.
And I want to put her back together again.
Instead, I nod. "I look forward to your report."
She stands, smooths her dress, and picks up her tablet and briefcase.
"Mr. Conti."
Then she is gone.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the door she just closed.
I look at the two glasses on my desk.
One of them still has her lipstick on it. A faint, soft imprint. A ghost of a kiss.
I pick it up.
I bring it to my lips.
I taste the amaretto.
And I taste her.