"I would wear those proudly," he informed me. "You won't find it."
"Bet I will."
He stretched an arm along the seat behind me. "Babe, I never met a bet I couldn't win."
I winked and held out my glass to be refilled. "Bet you've met your match in me."
Under Samson's appraising look, I leaned back, smug.
Samson held up his phone and snapped a photo of me.
"What's that for?"
I leaned over his shoulder in time to see him upload it to his management company's Twitter feed with the tweet, "Intriguing and cocky. Apparently, I've met my match." He'd barely hit send before the likes started coming in.
Samson's social media presence. That would play a huge role in all this as well. If he was a demon, he could very well feed off both his clients' own emotions and those of anyone engaging via print and social media. Every new client he signed put another stone in his well-defended fortress that no one even realized he was building.
Interesting that Samson had offered Rohan, someone he couldn't stand, the chance to be part of this. The chance to toy with him, building the former rock star up before orchestrating his downfall. Banking on Rohan doing the theme song as an indication of his desire to recapture his fame. Samson would have read that situation right, except for one thing.
He wasn't the only one moving pieces on this chessboard.
15
Samson let the champagne bottle fall to the floor. It was just about empty, but a few drops settled onto the lush backseat carpet, staining it. "You've gotten awfully quiet, Lolita. In my experience that means that women are thinking about me in all the wrong ways."
"You're incorrigible."
"I'm positive that is not one of the many adjectives applied to me."
"This oughta be good. Please. Enlighten me." I tipped back the rest of my drink.
"Charming. Gorgeous. Witty. Insanely talented."
I gasped. "You read your fan sites. I knew it."
He covered his face with one hand. The other one, still holding the champagne glass, he raised in the air. "Guilty as charged."
I'd intended to blind Samson by my light but I was remembering why we mere mortals weren't supposed to fly too close to the sun. Even this brief exposure to his undivided attention had left me dizzy, with feverish chills. First-degree emotional sunburn.
Still, that didn't conclusively make him a demon because I suspected that near proximity to Theo James, especially if he spoke in his normal British accent would have the same effect.
Brickie opened the door, revealing a swank-looking steak house. I welcomed the rush of cool night air as I stepped onto the sidewalk.
Samson pressed a hand to my cheek. "Looking a little flushed."
I swallowed, scrambling to pull myself together. "Don't try to distract me. I'm pondering your terrible tastes so that I may rescue you from yourself."
He spread his arms wide as if daring me to try.
"Black silk sheets." I pointed at him. "No. Satin. With mirrored ceiling tiles." I clattered up the walk to the steak house.
"Wow. You think that I –Wow." He held the door open for me. With a smirk, I ducked inside the restaurant that he had booked expressly for our private use. Chandeliers cast warm light over dark wood and crisp white linens.
Our waiter took our coats, pulled out my chair, and brought us more champagne all with perfect aplomb. Just as I was thinking that I needed good help like that, he placed my meal before me. The meal I hadn't yet ordered.
"I was thinking I'd start by seeing a menu," I joked.
"I ordered for you." Samson unfurled his napkin. "Châteaubriand in case you mistakenly slummed it with T-bone."
Subtle. I pressed my hand to my heart. "Now who wounds?" I slugged back another glass of champagne in order to muster up an appropriate level of enthusiasm for the bloody hunk of meat on my plate, topped with two dollops of green foam.
It looked like a demon kill, not dinner.
Samson dug into his steak with relish. "I wasn't wrong about your tastes, was I?"
"Not at all." I eyed the offensive slab, finding a less raw edge to saw at. "Only the best for me."
"Glad to hear it because if you sign with my management company, we'll have some spin to do on your image."
"Such as?"
He laid down his knife. "I'm gonna be blunt. Being Rohan's groupie is not going to inspire anyone to follow you."
I snapped a breadstick in half. "Oh?"
"Is that a touchy subject? I heard you two had a fight. And, well," he placed his hand on mine. "It's worse if you're only his former groupie. We have a lot of work cut out for us."