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There it is again: Bryce’s grin revealing how my ill-chosen words are transcribed in his mind into something perverse.
I’ll shut up now.
We’re both silent for a few minutes, Bryce focusing on the road and me scolding myself for stealing glances at his profile.
“We’re almost there. Tell me who you’re expected to talk to tonight,” he prompts again.
“The board members of the charity,” I answer resignedly. “Petrov Shipping executives, people with political interests and deep pockets. The usual.”
“This charity is important to you.”
“As a representative of my company, yes. We support a lot of charities.”
“STEM Equity Initiative is the only one you work with closely. Why is it a top priority?”
“Don’t read too much into it, Bryce. I enjoy giving out robot kits, that’s all.”
“To underprivileged schools,” he says proving he didn’t need to ask me any of these questions. “Ana the activist, huh?”
Is he making fun of me? Not that I care. Repeat: I do not care what Bryce MacElroy thinks.
“Funding a few robotics clubs is hardly activism. Besides, some business will be ironed out tonight. Since I’m not part of the old boys’ club, there are certain people I can only reach during events like this.”
“Any of them see you as a problem?”
“The majority of Petrov Shipping executives see me as a problem. It’s no secret that the ballast-free ship design is controversial.” The words leave my mouth with no context or explanation. This design is why I moved back to the US.
It is a significant step toward lessening the ecological impact of shipbuilding and ocean transport. We’re building ships that are less harmful to aquatic organisms while maintaining stability and maneuverability. It hasn’t been done before. Petrov Shipping could be the first to implement the technology into its entire fleet.
“That’s your initiative. The design would limit the discharge of contaminated water harming native species,” he says, surprising me. It’s almost as if he understands how important this project is to me.
“Let’s start there,” Bryce continues. “If the executive body doesn’t like what you’re doing, how are you able to get it past them?”
“One phase at a time. If I disclose any more to you, we’ll be falling into proprietary technology,” I say, mimicking Kina’s dodgy response to my previous questions.
He glances at me from the corner of his eye and a muscle in his jaw ticks. “You’re talking about the car following you today.”
“That’s right, Bryce. You have apparently been tracking its,” I put my fingers in air quotes when I say, “sporadic yet distinct pattern.”
Stone-faced, he doesn’t respond.
“How long have you been following me without my consent? Weeks? Months?”
“I don’t even need days of following you to know what’s happening,” he says with an arrogant smirk. “Once Sergei and I talked about personal security, I deployed my”—he uses one hand to indicate air quotes—“proprietary technology with artificial intelligence to identify anomalies. Thousands of hours on public surveillance cameras and air traffic drones analyzed in the blink of an eye. The blue Camry following your route jumped out immediately.”
That gives me reason to pause. “I’m not sure if I’m impressed or terrified you have that kind of technology.”
“You’re a great multitasker, Ana. No doubt you can be both,” he says with a smile as infuriating as it is gorgeous.
I tear my eyes away from him when we approach the historic mansion where the event is taking place. Built at the end of the nineteenth century, it’s a remarkable structure in the Georgian style. Large windows emphasize symmetry while bracketing each side of an impressive wood door with wrought iron ornamentation. Above the door is a fan-shaped glass design through which sunlight enters during the day and chandeliers flicker at night.
It’s ten thousand square feet of opulence and pretense—exactly the scene I had hoped to leave behind after my debutante days. Unfortunately, there’s no avoiding the rich and their whims. Business decisions are not only conducted in conference rooms. There’s another kind of capital that circulates in these parties.
Bracing myself for the fake smiles and cold handshakes of the next few hours, I don’t notice that Bryce has unbuckled himself almost before we’ve fully stopped. He’s at my passenger door in a blink, giving the key to the valet. When I slip out of the SUV, Bryce steps in my way. To escort me or block me, it’s hard to tell which.
He leans over so our cheeks are a centimeter from touching. His body wraps me in an aroma of herbal earthiness, subtle and familiar. I’m instantly transported to eighteen-year-old me throwing myself at Bryce MacElroy all over again.
“There are reporters covering this for the society pages,” he whispers for my ears only. “Having our pictures taken together is a shortcut to selling the ruse.”
