Chapter Four
Elliot
I ’m not sure what possessed me to contact Ryder Sinclair this evening. But here I am, in the East Village on Second Avenue and East Fifth.
It’s a wine bar, Italian, and not too over the top.
I take a breath. I’m looking forward to this as much as I look forward to a root canal. Still, I push open the door and it takes me about zero seconds to spot Ryder.
“Do you need a table?”
“I have a table.” I flash a smile I don’t feel at the hostess and make my way to the tall, slim table with the slender metal stools.
Ryder sits on one and a blonde is draped over the other. And my heart sinks because I know this is what he’s like, what he’ll be like, and I was swayed by money.
Make that root canal without the lidocaine.
He looks up and the blonde does too, but she dismisses me with a shake of her hair and her hand on his. Her red dress is the type I’d never wear, short and tight and imagination-free.
But Ryder leans in to her and says something and the woman gets up and prances off. He gestures to the seat and I take the other one.
“Are you some kind of dark horse or do you have a killer work ethic?” he asks. There’s a soft smile at play on his killer mouth and a glint in his eyes that says he knows exactly why I didn’t sit where his blonde babe sat.
“Because I wanted to see you now?”
“Something like that.”
The waiter comes by and I order a house white I’ve no intentions of drinking.
“No,” I say, when we’re alone, “I just believe in ripping the band aid off.”
“Ouch.” He smiles and gives me a low-lidded look that’s pure smolder and it hooks me down deep in my sex. “Maybe you’ll find maybe I’m not that bad.”
“You’re worse.” I give him my coolest glare that’s so arctic it’s a wonder he hasn’t frozen solid. “And stop flirting.”
“Darling Elliot, you’ll know when I decide to flirt with you.”
I can’t work with this man. But I have to. And this is why I called the meeting. I don’t usually do it so late, or before we’ve set up rules, but he’s different, and he has trouble all over him.
Me seeing my clients in their relaxed, natural state is something I have to do and I guess I’ve answered my own question on what possessed me. Ryder Sinclair is different from the others. He’ll hide if I go and set up the rules first.
Most people don’t hide. They don’t want to change. Or don’t want to pretend to change, even if they say they do. He’s no different in that. But Ryder’s a master at manipulation and hiding to get what he wants, when he wants. He’s the hottest man I’ve met, yes, but he’s got to be all that if he remains on good terms with the women he sleeps with. I spent a good few hours making calls and reaching out under the pretext of writing an article.
And every woman I spoke to sighed. Every woman had a smile in her voice. And every woman, even Lacey Fox, the one from his most recent scandal, all had nothing but good things to say about him.
Even Lacey. Whose marriage is blowing up all over media. Of course, that probably suits her and her husband, but still, she didn’t dish dirt to further her career. At least, not on Ryder.
“No flirting. That’s off the table.”
He gives me a pained look and sips his wine. “It’s in my DNA.”
“Get it out of your DNA.”
“I’m not sure I can do that, and how is flirting against the rules?”
My drink arrives and I resist the urge to play with my glass. “Flirting is when flirting always leads to more.”
“That isn’t true.”
“Isn’t it?” I give him a considering look. “You’re telling me you’d have turned her down if I hadn’t turned up?”
“I wouldn’t have been here.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the one you have.”
He’s not going to help himself, even if he wanted to. This man, he does this shit without thought because it is part of him, and he can hide it, I think, but perhaps not in the way that he needs to help him.
“You want to change,” I say. “Or change long enough and well enough to make it convincing, so your style of flirting with intent has to stop. We need to set up…”
I trail off. He’s nodding at my words, making murmurs of agreement, but he’s not paying attention. His body language gives him away. Ryder’s focused on the room beyond me, on the women who are giving him the eye.
I don’t need to turn to see that. There’s a flicker of response in his face, subtle and not for me, a welcoming, fuck me kind of fleeting expression that probably gives underwear companies all kinds of thrills if they knew what he did to their merchandise.
His gaze shifts back to me as the pause goes on long enough. “Set up what?”
“A game plan. That includes your behavior, attitude, standing, body language, and any alien lifeforms you deem appropriate. Sound good?”
“Sure.”
I nod. Then I push back my stool, rise and walk out into the busy nightlight of the East Village.
“Elliot.”
I slow my pace and then stop.
“Elliot?”
Slowly I turn and look at him. He has his jacket in one hand, and the sleeves to his sweater are slightly pushed up, ink showing from above the wrist on the left one. Of course Ryder Sinclair has tattoos.
“You pay me an astronomical fee to turn your life into something you need it to be. If you sabotage that, I still get paid.”
“I’m not—”
“You were in there,” I say, stalking up to him, “flirting and not paying attention to me. The first tells me you don’t take anything but a good time seriously. The second, that you don’t take me seriously. And that means we have a problem.”
Ryder shrugs. “I like fun. That’s why it’s called fun and not work. And I do take you seriously.”
“No, you don’t. And if you don’t focus, I’ll walk. You need me way more than I need you and your money.” I say this quietly. “Actually, I don’t need your money.”
“Okay, fine. And I know what I was doing. I wanted to see what you’re like, what you see. This is my life I’m putting in your hands.”
“Do you do that to everyone?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Put my life in other people’s hands?”
“Test them like you were doing to me.”
“You were testing me.”
“It’s my job to assess and work out the best approach. I don’t take your word for it. Otherwise I’d be doing baseline PR work.”
“No,” he says, finally, “I don’t put my life in anyone’s hands. And yes, I like to see who and what I’m working with. In all aspects.”
I should end it now, cut my losses. Walk.
And Ryder smiles his melting smile that floors me.
“C’mon, Elliot. We’ll start again. I know a place.”
Against my better judgment, I say okay. We end up walking through the streets from the East Village to SoHo. We’re on Wooster Street between Houston and Prince, close to my office, but he pushes open a door to a bar I don’t even know is there and we go in. It’s quiet, no nonsense and old school. Not new SoHo vibe.
I give him a considering look as we descend the short staircase into the dark wood lined bar. No loud music, just something low that fits with the mood of drinks and conversation.
“No flash? No glamor? No hot babes for you to take your pick from?”
“My life isn’t just all that,” he says as we go to the bar and take a seat. “Sometimes it’s good to know places where no one gives a shit about you.”
He orders an Old Fashioned and I do the same for convenience.
“Tomorrow we need to get you a different wardrobe. And with meetings, don’t simply be on time, be early, prepared, and ready to work.”
Ryder leans in, those dark eyes warm on me. “Are we really talking work?”
“This isn’t a date.”
“I don’t date.”
No, I’m betting he doesn’t. He hooks up. “You hired me, and we need to get the basics down.”
“Boring suits, we can do that if I must. But they need to be beautiful.” Again those eyes touch on me, this time my mouth and I’ve never wanted to lean in and steal a kiss before in my life like I do now. Because I’m betting he tastes even better than he looks. “And I know how to work. I know how to make an impression. The right impression. More so, I know how to do a job.”
“Your reputation doesn’t reflect that.”
“So?”
“So, it needs to.”
He sighs. “There are more interesting things we could be doing than talking about this.”
His words hit hard, and my breath stalls in my throat.
“Don’t flirt.”
“I’m just being me, Perry, that’s all.”
Or he’s pushing my buttons. I don’t believe for a second he’s being him. I’m not the type—if he has a type—he flirts with.
What am I thinking? Of course he has a type. Beautiful. Confident. Natural attention beacons. Like Jillian, like Lacey, like the woman in the red dress, like every single one I managed to track down and speak to. He might not go for a certain build or coloring or height, but he goes for absolute stunners. Every time.
The drinks arrive and Ryder places a hundred on the bar. I glance at him.
“I’m not showing off. It’s what I have and this place doesn’t do plastic or digital. It’s old school.”
I pick up the drink and take a sip for something to do. It’s perfect. I’ll give the man this, he likes quality.
“Tonight’s about the rules. I’ll go over them again tomorrow—”
“No sleeping about, no flirting and not even with you, work hard, be early and you’ll be fitting me with a gilded cage right after the shopping spree.”
“I was thinking plain iron bars.”
“You have no soul. Gilded.”
“Tacky.”
He clinks his glass to mine. “We’ll agree to disagree.”
“I’m not getting pulled down into your charm.”
“You think I’m charming.”
“It’s a version of charm.” I stop myself. I’m verging on flirting with him, and that’s dangerous. Not to mention completely a waste of time. “Basically, while we spend some time together in the next couple of days, those are the ground rules. I’m going to get to know you a little better. And you’re not going to make a decision outside of work without my approval.”
“Are you offering to be my babysitter, Elliot?”
“I need control—”
“No. I see my brothers. I go out. I—”
“Get yourself embroiled in scandal. We’ll work on that all tomorrow. Right now, I need to know about you. Family, schooling, skeletons in your closet.”
He nods slowly and then leans an elbow on the bar. “All my skeletons are strictly closet-free.”
“No friends?”
“I have friends, but I don’t hang out on a regular basis like I do with my brothers.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“What about you?”
“We’re not here to talk about me,” I say with a frown, fingers going tight on my cold glass.
His gaze is back on my mouth again. “Maybe we should.”
“Maybe we should stick to the plan.”
“I’m the youngest of four. My parents split when I was maybe six.” He downs his drink and I get the feeling he knows exactly when and this is his spiel.
“My mother never remarried. My father had a string of ex-wives, younger and younger and all unnervingly similar to our mother. And for some reason they remained close. My parents. Not my father and his exes. We were instilled with a work ethic from him early on.”
“And you rebelled?”
“Some might say I’ve got his eye for the ladies.” He pauses. “Although they don’t look like my mother. That would be weird.”
I laugh, I can’t help it. “Positively Oedipal.”
“And look what happened there.” He pauses again. “You know I went to Princeton, but I got in on my own merit. I worked for it. That was the rule. We work for what we get.”
“You didn’t want to go?”
“It’s one of the best schools.”
“But you’d have preferred elsewhere.”
“Why would you say that?” he asks softly.
“Your expression. I don’t know. Tell me about your family and your business.”
Ryder does, and he spins charming tales out of everything. He’s smooth and slick and weirdly lacking in artifice, even when I know he’s speaking by rote.
And through this, even though he gets looks from women who come in, I can’t tell if he sees them, he’s focused on me. Or should I say, he’s doing what I asked.
As we call it a night at two am, I wonder what it would be like to have that focus on me with such intent behind it, but I know I’d never stand a chance.
It’s seven a.m. and I don’t expect Ryder to be up, but he is. He’s dressed and looking far perkier than I feel after a late night and a few more drinks than I usually have. I’ve gone extra professional today with my suit and pulled back hair and the way he looks at me makes me think he knows it’s some kind of armor.
He stands in the doorway of his loft in TriBeCa with two cups and he says, “I’d ask you in, but you look dressed to murder the day.”
“Shall we?” I ignore his comment. “Time’s wasting.”
“No store is open, Perry,” he says, handing me a sleek to-go cup made of darkly brushed metal-finish. The coffee smells like heaven.
I take a sip. It tastes better than heaven. “This one is. I’ve a car waiting.”
We drive across town to East Fortieth, just off Fifth Ave, and Ryder’s dark head is bent over his phone as he sends out whatever he’s sending on his phone. It looks like texts and emails, probably to do with work.
He doesn’t say a word as I lead him out on the already busy street—people have places to go and deals to wield. The door is non-descript, just a sign on it that says Harold Daley’s Custom. I buzz and it opens and we step into another era.
Custom-made suits, ones where every detail is considered, is an art, and this cool, quiet store with the dark wooden floorboards and sparse fittings is from another world.
Harold Daley is the best, and he dresses CEOs, presidents, celebrities, and the rich.
“Harry!” Ryder grins at the graying man in the sharp suit, who slaps him on the shoulder like an old friend. “It’s been a while.”
“A month.” Harold looks from Ryder to me and back again. “Topping up? I’ve some styles and fabrics you’ll love—”
“Actually,” I say, “Ryder’s here for a makeover…”
I look at him as we step out of the store. Ryder has a new wardrobe coming, and fast. One of the beautiful things with Harold is he can work as slow or quickly as a client can pay, and as Ryder’s one of his best customers and can pay, we’ll have his new wardrobe by Monday morning.
“Well?”
“That wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”
“Harold was out of specialty cages and leashes—”
“Leashes? I didn’t know you were kinky. Tell me more.”
“—so the suits had to do. I figured no one’s going to believe you showing about town in a regular suit, even if it’s made to order. But something with a touch of Ryder flair without the…erm flair works. Conservative but you.”
He smiles. “I’m not sure whether I should be insulted or flattered.”
“Settle for a bit of both,” I say.
My phone buzzes and I dig it out of my pocket and click on the alert I’ve set up for anything Ryder related. All goodwill disintegrates as I read.
“I’d ask but your face is telling me it’s not good.”
“Is anything to do with you good?”
“I haven’t done anything. I haven’t had time.”
I hand him my phone. “You have at some point. Another scandal?”
“Elliot—”
“No.” I turn and glare. The article is every single reason why it’s a bad idea I’m working for a guy I’ll crush on for his looks. Hell, I can already feel the lust in my blood. I’m not sure who I’m disgusted with more. Me for being so horribly shallow, or him for being, well…him. “This one says you are her secret lover. Emphasis on are. Every single thing there is believable. You going to tell me I’m wrong?”