Part 2 (1/2)

When Tom had told me that, I once again saw the suspicion in his eyes. It was easy to attack Tom's mannerisms, even his management style, but not his intelligence. I made up a story as to how I had met Mr. Dade. How I had told him what I did for a living and boasted of professional successes as we stood in a painfully long airport security line. I said I had given Mr. Dade my card but been separated from him before getting the name of his company.

Even as I utter my explanations and excuses, I can see their transparency. But I so want Tom to suspend disbelief. I want him to accept the ridiculous idea that I inadvertently and unknowingly gave a powerful CEO the pitch of a lifetime. I want him to put away that curious smile he's been sharing with me these days. I want him to stop looking at me like he suddenly realizes that I might be hiding something under my boxy blazers and wide-legged pantsuits. I want him to stop treating me like I'm as unscrupulously ambitious as he is.

Tom now stops to talk to me on a daily basis.

But right now I'm not in the office. It's Friday morning. I take extra care with my appearance. I pull my hair back into a severe twist. My navy blazer falls in a straight line to my hips without so much as a hint of femininity. I pair it with a matching straight skirt. There is no invitation whispered within the folds of this fabric. There's nothing here to entice.

As I stare at my reflection in my pale blue bathroom, I debate the problem of make-up. Without it I look softer, younger, more vulnerable.

I always wear make-up.

I drag a moist sponge across my skin, spreading foundation over my little imperfections; a small pimple along my hairline, the few freckles I earned while bicycling through those childhood days of summer . . . covering up all the tiny details that make me human. I darken my cheeks with bronzer and press a gray pencil against the tender flesh beneath my lower lashes.

This is the version of me that I'm allowed to show the world. This is not the woman Mr. Dade met in Vegas.

I buried that woman in a garment bag.

BECAUSE I ARRIVE at the offices of Maned Wolf Security Systems fifteen minutes early, I can pause to admire the building that houses them. It should have been cold with its darkly mirrored exterior but here, in Santa Monica, it reflects the sun and the palm trees that surround it, adding warmth to its power.

And he had been warm when I had touched him. The kisses against my neck had been gentle even as he had pinned me up against the wall. Then there had been his fingers . . . when he had stroked me with them, pushed them inside me, playing me just so as if he was a master pianist bringing forth the aching notes of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata . . . warm, powerful. . . .

My purse vibrates as my phone jerks me back to reality.

”h.e.l.lo?”

”Miss Fitzgerald? I'm Sonya, Mr. Dade's executive a.s.sistant. There's been a slight change of plans. Mr. Dade would like you to meet him at the bar Le Fte. It's located one block south of our office building.”

”Any particular reason for the relocation?”

”Mr. Dade will of course cover the expense of anything you order and the valet.”

That hadn't been my question but it seems unlikely that this woman would have been able to give me a satisfactory answer.

I look back up at the building and then down at the briefcase in my hand. ”I'll be there. . . . My firm will cover all additional expenses.”

”May I ask how far away you are?”

”I'm here,” I say, ”at your building. One block away from Le Fte.”

I hang up and walk past the building, with its darkly tinted windows and reflected palm trees, to Mr. Dade.

HE LOOKS THE SAME. I stand by the host station so I can discreetly observe him. He sits alone at a small bar table while he reads something on his iPad. He's wearing a light gray cotton s.h.i.+rt with black trousers. Still no tie, no blazer, nothing that demands deference from the world he controls.

Then again, Mr. Dade doesn't need clothes to announce his authority. That statement is made in the way he holds himself. It's in the intensity of his hazel eyes, the obvious strength of his body; it's in the confidant smile he's directing at me.

Oh yes, he's spotted me all right, and under the intensity of his gaze I have to work harder to remember the little things: keep your head up, walk with purpose, breath, don't forget who you are.

I walked through the maze of tables to his side. ”Mr. Dade.” I keep my voice cool and professional as I offer him my hand.

”Kasie.” He gets to his feet and presses his palm against mine, demonstrating a firm grip and holding on for far too long. ”I am so glad to see you again.”

He's moving his thumb back and forth over my skin again. It's such a small thing, something I should be able to easily brush off. But instead goose b.u.mps pop up all over my arm.

He notices and his smile gets a little wider. ”Last time I saw you this fell out of your purse.” He holds up my business card. ”I found it on the floor of my suite.”

I yank away my hand and take a seat.

”I always conduct my meetings in offices, Mr. Dade.”

”Ah, but I'm afraid my office was ill-equipped for you today.”

”Ill-equipped?”

He nods and out of nowhere a waitress appears with two gla.s.ses balanced on a tray.

”Iced tea.” She puts the tall gla.s.s in front of Mr. Dade. ”And scotch on the rocks.”

I feel myself heat up as she places the much shorter gla.s.s in front of me.

”I thought of ordering a gla.s.s for myself,” he explains, ”but then I remembered your willingness to share.”

I stare down at the bobbing ice cubes in the light copper liquid.

I know what can be done with those ice cubes.

”I'm here for business, Mr. Dade.”

He smiles and leans forward, propping his elbows on the slightly unsteady table. ”You know my first name now. You're allowed to use it.”

”I think it's better if we keep things professional.” There's a slight quiver to my voice. Against my better judgment I reach for the drink.

”Very well. Continue to call me Mr. Dade and I'll continue to call you Kasie.”

I take a long sip of the whiskey; the taste's too familiar, the memories are too animated. ”I'm here to talk to you about my ideas for Maned Wolf Security Systems.”

”For the sake of convenience, let's just call it Maned Wolf.”

I nod. It's the first nonloaded thing he's said and I'm incredibly grateful for this small gift. ”If you're seriously considering taking Maned Wolf public, and the doc.u.ments your staff e-mailed me suggest that you are, you need to grow your personal Internet security business. Everyone knows the government relies on you to keep its files safe. The average customer will want to feel like they're buying in to that same level of protection.”

”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.