Chapter Three
Ayana didn’t know who was more astonished that he agreed to her lunch invitation. She read aloof as his set point. So why waste an hour of her time?
Curiosity.
Her set point. And a deep character flaw according to the Family.
They rode down the private elevator in silence. The restaurant on the second level of the impressive black granite building had a private entrance for members.
For the plot, indeed.
Vesna would have loved this.
A sleek, elegant hostess in a body-con dress led them through the private room to a private booth that had peacock blue velvet drapes, which she partially closed.
She handed them each a menu and a wine list and left.
Ayana tensed as the room shrouded—why would anyone want privacy to eat in a restaurant—a celebrity maybe. And now she was closed in with a man she didn’t know, who was a member here.
No doubt a lot of secrets played out in this elegant place—especially behind the curtains of a private booth.
She left the menu untouched and eyed him much as she would a cougar while out hiking.
She breathed in through her nose and forced her body to relax.
She knew how to defend herself. She’d taught herself how after she left the Family.
“You and Cam engage often in midafternoon debauchery?”
He leaned forward, and it took every molecule in her body to force herself not to lean back.
She’d initiated this lunch. She’d taken Vesna up on the tickets and the hotel suite to give herself a few days to plan her immediate future in comfort and explore a new city.
Who knew? Maybe she’d like Denver and could find a job here.
With a flick of his wrist, he flipped her side of the heavy curtain open and tucked it behind the brass holder so that she was in full view—but not him.
“You’re not the woman who answered Cam’s ad for a bride.” His voice was clipped.
His suit was perfectly tailored to his tall, rangy frame.
Every message delivered was that this man was too civilized and aware of his importance to debauch a woman or himself in a public arena at lunch.
He didn’t look like a candidate for after-hours either, though looks could be deceiving.
She was sure she wasn’t his type, not that that always stopped men.
“Like I want to be a bride?” She rolled her eyes.
She couldn’t help it. She was still reactionary to her early programming from the Family and disappointed by Vesna’s desperation.
“Noted. Why then are you here?”
So not as tame and dismissive as she’d initially read.
If she were going to design a hero in a romance novel, his body would definitely make readers drool.
Pacific Ocean eyes. Chin she could hang an ornament on, complete with a divot—and the cheekbones so high and hollowed out—like Robert Pattinson in Twilight—only with more pigment and life miles.
“Curiosity. It’s a flaw,” she said ruefully, before remembering to smile. Maybe she should flirt. See how he’d react.
“I’d say it’s a characteristic that tops a list of advantages.”
The rush of pleasure disturbed her. She wasn’t here to be charmed by the suit.
It was easy to school her expression. She’d learned to hide her thoughts and feelings early—not always as successfully as she’d needed, but after years of being a waitress—first at small mom and pops, then chains before the cruise ship, she’d honed her poker face to a work of art.
He flicked back his side of the curtain, putting them in full view, not that the dining room was crowded. It was early for lunch, but also, Ayana had learned, wealthy people didn’t like to be crammed together with everyone. They wanted attention. Impeccable service. No waiting.
A server bore down on them, a look of polite expectation on his face, but her companion raised a finger, and the server peeled off.
“Maybe I’m here to do the right thing,” she said slowly, as if the words were in a language she was just learning.
“It’s that foreign?”
She grinned—unexpected to be caught out.
“I’ve been on my own since I was sixteen.” Before that she’d also been in survival mode. “It’s second nature to look after myself.”
He didn’t say anything for a long while. And though his gaze appraised her, it wasn’t sexual. And why was that deflating?
“We have that in common, yet I always had Cam.”
“So, friends and colleagues. Business partners.”
“Yes.” He shifted as if the conversation made him uncomfortable.
“Will he be hurt?”
“Pardon?” He jerked back like she’d right-hooked him.
“Cam. Will he be hurt that Vesna didn’t come?”
He struggled to answer and took a sip of water then waved the waiter over with another barely noticeable move of his index finger.
“Welcome back, Mr. Crow. It’s good to see you. I wanted to express my—”
Mr. Crow waved his hand, halting whatever the waiter was about to say. Interesting.
Crow. Suited him. He had the thick glossy blue-black hair and strong bone structure that punched through bland like a middle finger at an upscale cocktail party, and his eyes had been unfathomable.
Dark—she thought—as he’d been backlit from what a realtor would call a wall of windows, but now, out of his office and up close, she thought they were a dark blue.
Or navy. Beautiful. Powerful, but his eyes looked like he could swallow her.
Though she had the impression of sorrow, not so much from his expression or eyes, but more …
like an aura—a sense the Family had wanted her to cultivate, but she wanted to tamp down …
especially now out on her own and often surrounded by clanging personalities, all of them wanting more from her.
That life’s over.
And though the money had been good and living expenses low, she didn’t grieve the loss of her job. She was used to starting over. She would have just preferred it to be her choice, so she’d had her next plan in place.
“Madam, can I bring you a beverage to start?”
“Yes.” She smiled up at the waiter, wondering what to order, but she shut down her worry.
Who cared what tall, dark, and sinfully handsome Mr. Crow thought?
She flicked open the wine list to champagne.
No prices. Nothing by the glass. But the way the waiter or sommelier looked at her made her a little reckless.
She didn’t want to be a jerk. But she’d seen that sterile penthouse office.
The suit. The ticket. The hotel suite. Even the eye-popping deal Vesna had agreed to if this weekend worked out and both parties were amenable to signing the agreement and proceeding.
“Pierre Peters Cuvee Reserve, Blanc de Blancs,” she said airily as if she ordered champagne all the time, which she didn’t, but she’d had bubbles aplenty—usually sparkling water.
She might as well have some fun and be on the other side of the table for once.
Until the waiter flicked a glance at Mr. Crow—who was paying for this, she reminded herself, although she could. She made her own money. Saved it. Raked in tips. Before she was fired.
“Good choice,” Mr. Crow said, “but since today is our first meeting, perhaps you’d like to try one of Cam’s favorites in his honor.”
He spoke like he was giving a presentation at a board meeting. What would it take to fluster him? Watch him ditch that measured deep tenor that heralded he thought he knew best.
“The Jerome Prevost Les Beguines.”
The waiter nodded once and retreated. Ayana hadn’t realized she was holding her breath.
“Why is that Cam’s favorite?”
“It’s not. He liked beer. But it’s something he would order here with Vesna or you just to flex.”
She laughed, delighted to see the spark of personality. “We’re flexing?”
“Seems like.”
She leaned an elbow on the table—probably something that was forbidden but considering how corrupt and feral most rich people seemed to be at heart, judging from her news and political feeds, her tackiness was minor league.
She twirled a lock of her hair around her finger.
“And if I don’t like this champagne that isn’t Cam’s favorite? ”
“Order something else. But you’ll like it.”
“That confident?”
“You strike me as a woman who can easily talk herself into many misadventures. I posit experiences top that list.”
“Posit,” she repeated. Who talked like that? “Okay Mr. Suit and now Ivy League.”
“No college for me. Learn from experience and self-study. Cam went to UT Austin for undergrad and his MBA. I’m self-taught.”
“Did you teach yourself about wine?”
“Had to. Cam usually entertains the clients, but I need to step in on occasion. Cam always dreams big and prepares to climb the next rung. He too grew up scrappy. No trust fund or inheritance for him or me.
“Jerome Prevost inherited his Les Beguines from his grandmother. The weather in Champagne sucks so many vintners purchase grapes from around the region, press, ferment, barrel, and age the juice and ultimately make the wine by blending grapes from different years and vineyards and barrels. Prevost’s winery, La Closerie, makes wine from only one grape—Pinot Meunier—from his vineyard, from one vintage at a time.
Rare. Takes spectacular trust in self, time, and Mother Nature. Not many restaurants carry it.”
“I already love it.”
No smile, but his eyes did lighten momentarily, and she looked closer, trying to read him.
He’d be a challenge at a high-stakes card table, and she wondered if he played and where, and if her experience dealing on the cruise ship this past season would be enough to get her a job in Vegas. Or maybe she’d have to start in Reno.
None of it appealed. But she’d have to get work soon. This long weekend was going to go by fast.
“You know Cam best.”
“Yes.” He inclined his head, then broke eye contract and took a quick drink of his water.
“Will he be angry that I came instead of Vesna?”
“Cam … he … he has a sense of adventure unlike anyone I ever met.” He was quiet for a moment, seemed to be debating something.
He opened his mouth. Closed it again and picked up the water glass, then put it down.
“Why did you come? To tell Cam Vesna’s not coming, or to take her place?”