Chapter 4
Gen
Watching Anton Wolff—billionaire tycoon, philanthropist, celebrity and veritable ecosystem—walk into a room is reminiscent of listening to Carly Simon sing You’re So Vain.
Except I don’t think it’s vanity that gives him his walking-onto-a-yacht swagger so much as unshakable confidence. And I suspect with that confidence comes the sense of entitlement that he not only belongs in any room but can dominate it, too.
It’s always odd meeting someone in the flesh when you’re familiar with them from the media. Sometimes it’s even surreal. But in this moment, my overwhelming perception as he walks towards me is that Anton Wolff is more.
More of everything than he is on screen.
Taller.
Broader-shouldered.
More heavily built, with a toned bulk I wouldn’t expect from a guy who’s apparently fifty-two years old.
More tanned.
More lustrous and floppy and dark of hair.
Better looking, though his features are stronger, craggier, in the flesh.
And generally more imposing.
More… more.
Jesus Christ. Now is not a good time for my basic articulatory skills to leave the building. Pull it together, woman, for fuck’s sake.
He’s clean-shaven and dressed in that standard wealthy-businessman uniform of impeccably cut charcoal-grey suit and white shirt.
Top two shirt buttons open.
No tie.
It fucking works.
I’m five-eleven in heels, but he must be pushing six-foot-four. He’d be lanky if it wasn’t for those immensely broad shoulders. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a rower or a swimmer in his day.
Bloody hell, his tailor is good.
I realise I’m smoothing my hands over my Chanel-tweed-covered hips and cease instantly, holding out a decisive hand for him to shake.
‘Mr Wolff,’ I say in the trademark tone of understated authority I pride myself on. ‘I’m Genevieve Carew. Welcome to Alchemy.’
He stops in front of me, and I have to tilt my head up to meet the discomfiting gaze of his deep brown eyes. His hand is big and warm, his grip strong.
‘Genevieve,’ he says. ‘Call me Anton.’
I nod briskly to cover the inappropriately girly thrill that runs through me at my name on his lips. ‘Anton it is.’
‘That’s better,’ he says, and he full on grins.
To use the only pathetic cliché that comes to mind in this inopportune moment of brain-fail, it’s like the clouds part and the sun emerges.
His smile is astonishing. His features are strong, craggy, even, and indisputably masculine.
But when he grins, two delightful dimples flash before getting swallowed up in a deep pair of laughter lines.
It’s boyish and mischievous and sparkling.
It’s quite something.
Also, he has excellent teeth. I’m pleased to note his incisors look very much human.
The guys will be disappointed.
‘Coffee?’ I ask, extricating my hands and taking a step backwards to put a little space between us, because he’s a lot, and he smells really great too, in an understated, herbal way.
‘Espresso, please,’ he says easily, but I don’t miss the fleeting once-over he gives my figure.
Enjoy the view, pal.
It’s all you’ll get.
‘Have a seat,’ I say.
I head to the Nespresso machine. I tend to make the coffees for prospective members myself, because I don’t want our receptionist interrupting what are sensitive conversations.
But, really, I’m grateful to have something to occupy myself with, because for some reason the Big Bad Wolff has me nervous, and I have no idea why.
It’s probably just because the guys have been winding me up all morning.
Fucking Cal.
‘Busy morning?’ I enquire in an inelegant attempt at small talk. I glance over at him to find his gaze planted squarely on my arse, a discovery that gives me more pleasure than it should.
‘You could say that,’ he says with a smile that can only be described as smug.
Whatever.
‘How did you hear about us?’ I ask as his espresso pours. I certainly don’t need one of those. I’m jittery enough already.
‘My former EA found you a few months ago. But I ended up in a relationship, so I shelved it.’
I make a polite mm-hmm sound that suggests this is new information for me.
‘We’re always happy to consider applications by couples,’ I say noncommittally.
Digging much, Gen?
His coffee’s ready. I pick it up and take it over to where he’s settled himself on the big corner sofa. Setting it on the coffee table in front of him, I take a seat adjacent to him but not too close and cross my legs.
He appears to be choosing his words. ‘My most recent ex was a lovely woman, but this kind of thing wasn’t her bag.’
‘Of course,’ I say.
‘It can be hard to find someone who ticks every box,’ he continues. He twists his mouth and gestures around the room. ‘Especially this box. You know?’
Better than you realise, mate.
His tone, his demeanour, and his gaze are all confiding. This is why guys like him are so successful, right? They draw you in, make you feel like you have their confidence and they have yours. They make you feel like the only person in the room.
He’s good.
I mean, he’s also very much correct. His subtext is precisely what I’ve been bemoaning in my own life recently.
But again. He’s good.
So I’ll be circumspect.
‘I understand,’ I say. If he’s looking for me to confide in him in return, he’ll be disappointed. ‘That’s why we set up Alchemy. It’s a safe place where like-minded adults can tick whatever boxes they like.’
I am an emancipated woman who runs a sex club, for fuck’s sake. So I’m unsure as to why all this talk of boxes with Anton Wolff is making me sweat.
‘Sounds intriguing.’ There’s that grin again. Oh my Lord.
Cal may have been onto something.
He’s definitely a wolf.