Then the heat in his eyes cooled, and the disappointed she’d grown used to returned.
Keep dreaming. She’d have better odds searching for a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow than him suddenly noticing her as a woman, finding her attractive, and asking her out on a date. She’s never had any luck when it came to men. The ones she wanted didn’t want her, while she tended to be a magnet for the most socially awkward male in the room. Such is life. The thought was followed by a resigned sigh.
Isaac cleared his throat. “I’ll call the hotel and have our driver pick us up here.”
She shrugged. “Sounds good.”
What she hadn’t expected was Isaac’s request to have every dress and suit she’d tried on sent directly to her hotel room. She argued and pleaded with him—to no effect. He ignored her protests and had everything boxed, bagged and ready for delivery, along with a few important undergarments the clerk had gathered on her behalf. And footing the bill for it all.
No matter how much she insisted she pay her part, he refused to allow her to contribute to the cost of her new wardrobe. Every time she’d encountered Isaac and seen how much he supported his team and went to bat for his employees, she’d never seen this stubborn side of him. He wouldn’t even listen to reason. While she might not have been able to afford all those dresses, that should’ve been her decision to make. Isaac took the choice right out of her hands, charging the entire purchase on his credit card without even consulting her.
The extent of his stubbornness proved infuriating. But he made it very clear that if she so much as opened her wallet to pay for anything, he’d throw her entire purse away. And he seemed pretty serious, so she decided not to test the level of his persistence.
During the hour-long car ride to their destination, she asked Isaac to share what he knew about the precious metals industry in Russia. A lot, it turned out, as he relayed that Russia held an enormous stake in the gold and silver. The country’s repository in that realm far exceeded South America and even China. The country of Russia held vaster, richer reservoir of mines, minerals, and deposits than the U.S. could even dream of.
“No wonder the Markovs want someone to like Soren Security Bodyguards to help defend them against their rivals,” she said.
“Exactly. The Markov’s connection with their own government only goes so far. They don’t accept trade agreements like we do in America. The United States offers numerous advantages to owning your own business, even if your business thrives off the land. Russia holds no such assurances. To anyone.”
Then he mentioned his family’s ties to major players in the precious metals industry, and she wondered if that was where the famous yet mysterious Atlas fortunes had started.
“I guess it really is all about who you know,” she said.
“Luck and timing have their place in creating success in business,” he replied. A thoughtful expression softened the handsome angles of his face. “Hard work is seventy percent of the equation. Knowledge is another twenty percent. But the most successful people I know won’t hesitate to admit that fate has something to do with the other ten percent of their success.”
“Oh, and that’s so easy?” Luck and timing, two things that seemed to elude her over and over. “No mystical chanting or praying to the gods of fortune?”
He snorted. “No sacrificing small animals either.”
She threw her arms up. “Well, that’s a relief. No telling where we’d find one of those nearby in a Russian city-suburb.”
He laughed, and the sound resonated along her spine. Why did everything about him have to be so darn sexy? It really wasn’t fair.
Out of nowhere, a Helen quote jabbed at her brain. Fairness is what people beg for as a consolation prize, when they don’t do the work required to excel.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“What? Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”
He slanted her a look that said, If you don’t tell you me, I’ll make you .
Then her shoulders dipped. “My mother,” she said, something she’d never revealed to anyone. “She has a saying for every situation, and they pop into my head at the strangest times. I call them Helenisms.”
He peered at her intently. “Okay. What Helenism were you thinking about?” When she repeated the phrase, he grinned. “I like her already. Maybe I can meet her someday.”
“You might already know her. She’s Helen Sanders, or ‘Slanders,’ as she used to be called when she was the most cutthroat journalist of her time. Then she had a family—well, me and my dad—and blamed us for her stymied creative flow. So she became a lesbian, and my dad still loves her, and I’m still not good enough. And there you have it. I can give you as many Helenisms as you can stand. They troll through my brain on a daily basis.”