Ruthless In A Suit(26)

She tosses her hands out to her side. “Like this! In a private room. The chef just came out here. I mean, I don’t know anything about the food world but I can take one look at that,” she indicates the canapé, “and know that this is fan-cy.” She says it like two words, clearly on purpose. It’s at once adorable and sexy.

“It’s very good, yes,” I concede. “The best in the city, actually. But you wouldn’t believe what I have to pay that guy to keep him from going to New York or Paris. It costs a lot to keep talented people around.”

“You’re used to getting what you want, aren’t you?”

I shrug. Of course I’m used to getting what I want. I work hard to get it, but I always win. “Usually,” I say. I hold up my glass, looking Emily in her eyes. “To the Children’s Education Fund.” She raises her glass we touch rims touch.

As we begin the appetizer I realize I need to calm myself—watching Emily take a sip of wine or touch a morsel of food to her lips might make me explode.

“So tell me,” Emily says, dusting off her hands—the napkin is right there in her lap. She leans forward on the table just enough to push her breasts up a little more. “Is it true that you really don’t care about charities like you said?”

Averting my eyes, I say, “That may have been a slight exaggeration.”

“I knew it,” Emily says, victorious. Unfortunately, she sits back in her chair again and I lose that spectacular view. The good news? I can see more of her body—at least from the waist up. I remember the feel of my hand on her back, and realize how much I want to touch her again.

“No one can not care about charities.”

I gently wipe my hand on my napkin. “You’re right. I care about the tax advantage they give me.”

“You’re terrible,” she says, looking for a moment like she’s going to throw her own napkin at me. “Were you raised to only care about money?”

“Yes,” I say. “And power.”

She smiles, thinking I’m joking.

“I bet you were raised in Beacon Hill and played rugby and had chef-prepared meals every night.”

“Pretty close,” I say. “I was raised to fight but in a custom-made Italian suit.”

“Ha,” she says. She reaches across the small table and takes my wrist, tugging it toward her. “And this thing,” she says, touching the face of my Rolex. “I bet this matters too.”

Her fingers so close to my skin make me burn. “It matters as a symbol,” I say. “A symbol of what I’ve achieved.”

“Let me see this thing,” Emily says. She’s not exactly gentle as she tugs my arm closer to her for a better look. She leans on the table, that spectacular view back, and inspects the watch. “Was this a gift or did you buy it for yourself?”

“Bought it myself.”

She traces the face, looking at it so closely it’s as if she’s never seen a watch before. “Some lady didn’t buy this for you?”

“My relationships don’t exactly go like that.”

Emily looks up at me, her fingers lingering on my wrist. “What do you mean? You don’t like women buying you gifts?”

I try to concentrate on her question, and not the softness of her fingers on my skin. “It’s not that,” I say. “Although I do prefer to do the buying. But honestly, I don’t stay in relationships long enough for this kind of gift.” Or much of anything else, I almost add.

“Come on. I bet you have women lined up around the block for you.”

“Emily, I said relationships. Not women.”

“Oh,” she says, blushing slightly. “Does that mean that work is the true love of your life?”

Keeping my eyes on her, I say, “Maybe.”

She holds my gaze, unwilling to back down—that is, until she does. I would never break first. Her fingers slide away from me, and she crosses her hands under her arms—elbows on the table and all—giving me the view that is going to drive me insane.

“Well,” she says looking back at the Rolex, “it looks ridiculous.”

I laugh out loud. I can’t help it. What is it about her that makes me delighted and furious, that makes me want to run to her as quickly as I want to run away?

“Let’s see yours,” I say. “You probably have something practical with a thin leather strap.”

She immediately moves her arms down into her lap.

“I knew it,” I laugh. “Let me see. I won’t tease you.”

“You won’t?” she asks, looking at me carefully.

“Promise,” I say. She slowly moves her hands back onto the tops of the starched tablecloth. Her fingers and wrists are bare of any jewelry. “A minimalist?” I ask. I take her hands in mine as if I’m inspecting them for hidden jewels. I run my thumb over her palm.