The Stranger Just One Night Part 1(9)

“Why try to reach so many when I can reach a few who will pay me so much more?”

“Because the greatest growth and most impressive profits fall to those who value volume over exclusivity. A single high-volume Starbucks will always be more profitable than Le Cirque.”

“I see.” I watch as his mouth forms the words with exaggerated slowness. I like his mouth. Some would say it’s a little too big for his face but it’s sensual. “So you’re not a fan of exclusivity,” he continues. “You like to mix it up.”

The innuendo is clear.

“Mr. Dade, are you familiar with the sexual harassment laws of California?”

“Kasie, are you telling me that you’re ready to go public with our little escapade in order to charge me?”

I don’t answer. My hand’s clenched around the handle of my briefcase.

“Have another sip of your drink . . . your ice is melting.”

“Did you ask me here because you want to hear my proposals?” I want the question to sound like a challenge, not a plea.

I’m not entirely successful with that.

“Yes,” he says firmly. “I’ve done some checking. You’re a rising star at your firm. I’m paying for your expertise, that’s all.”

I drink more of the scotch and wait for it to give me the artifice of courage. “You don’t need me.”

“No, I don’t. But I do want you.”

Another sip of scotch—it burns my throat and sharpens my edge. “My proposals.” I carefully prop up my briefcase on the edge of the table and then manage to take out a folder filled with material without dropping anything on the floor. “Shall we go over them now? Or should we reschedule?”

I watch as his body shifts, changing its posture from one of provocation to one of welcome. He gestures to my file. “Please.”

Even that simple word is a reminder.

And yet I manage to keep my focus. I tell him stories of growth, unfathomable prosperity, the kind even a company like Maned Wolf has yet to achieve. But they could. My team could get them there. I could get them there. Given the chance, I can find those little flaws that can quietly hold a giant back from achieving an ultimate conquest. Sometimes those imperfections can be cut out, removed entirely. Sometimes they just need to be covered up with a little foundation.

Mr. Dade listens. He’s an active listener. He doesn’t have to say a word. I can see he understands; sense when he approves, when he’s impressed, and when he’s not. I feed off this, changing my pitch ever so slightly with the changes of his expressions. I know when to give him more details about one thing, when to brush over another. We’re in sync.

It’s business. It shouldn’t be sexy.

And yet . . .

Eventually he steeples his long fingers. He’s the businessman, the pianist, the devil. “Of course you’re speaking in generalities,” he says. “In order to get specifics and introduce any idea that’s implementable, you’re going to have to look at our company a little more closely. Talk to the directors of the different divisions. You’re going to have to get inside the walls of my world.”

“But I’m going to do so much more than that,” I quip. “I’m going to break those walls down. It’s the only way you can reach your potential.”

He laughs. I’m feeling relaxed now. I’m enjoying myself.

More than I should be.

He places a credit card on the table; it’s the only hint our attentive server needs. It’s all I need, too. I get to my feet but he stops me with a small gesture of his hand.

And again I find myself held by his gaze.

The waiter charges the card, returns it; Mr. Dade writes in a ridiculously large tip before escorting me out. “Where did you park?”

I jerk my chin in the direction of my car.

He starts walking with me. He doesn’t ask if it’s okay.

“I hate your suit.”

“Good thing you don’t have to wear it,” I say. There’s my car, parked parallel on the street, ready to spirit me to safety.

“Neither do you.”

I stop in front of my car. My keys are in my purse. I need to get them out, right now. Why can’t I move?

I feel his hands even though they’re not touching my skin. They’re on my lapel. He’s unbuttoning my jacket, removing it from my shoulders, pulling it off of me, right here in the middle of a busy sidewalk. I can’t let people see him doing this to me. I can’t let him do it period.

Sometimes I’m shocked by how weak the word can’t can be.

“This is my suit,” I whisper.

“It’s a habit.”

I look up at him, making a silent request for clarification.