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When he first suggested years ago that I stay with him so he could hold me, I balked because I’ve never laid in a bed with a man without some sort of physical activity happening. And that was the last thing I wanted with Noam. He’s a father figure to me. He’s like my grandfather.
But I agreed. And I was surprised when his holding me was all that happened.
There’s nothing sexual to it. There’s never been anything sexual between us. It’s still slightly awkward, but not as bad as I once feared. When we meet for dinner, we go back to his hotel room. Noam gets ready for bed and I stay with him until he falls asleep. At eighty-six, it doesn’t take long.
It comforts him, he says.
I’m not sure exactly what it does for me.
After I stopped to greet Marcus, I led Noam to the private elevator in the back of the restaurant. I felt the stares and heard the judgments, but didn’t turn around. I can pretend those things don’t upset me, don’t make me uncomfortable, but it would be a lie. Over the years, I’ve put up the walls and grew the thick skin but certain things—usually when I least expect it—break through.
That woman in the restaurant was one of those things.
She was with another woman, both older, and well-dressed. Rich.
They had their champagne cocktails, laughing over their salads. Friends taking advantage of their husbands being away. I didn’t merit a glance from the one, but the other one…
The way her gaze swept up and down me said she knew where I’d come from, and didn’t think much of it. Even though I could buy and sell her before breakfast, she looked at me like I was something to be scraped off her shoe. Even with the dress and the hair and the jewelry…
I tell myself again that I don’t care what these people think of me. But I worry about Noam’s family. Preston. His younger brother David and his wife Penelope.
And not what they think—what they say.
Noam has seven children with three wives, and all of them resent the time he spends with me. He never mentions it, or maybe he doesn’t realize it. They think I’m a threat—probably to their inheritance. And like a threatened animal, they fight with tooth and claw.
I’ve lost out on deals because of them. My reputation will never recover from what they’ve said about me. Noam knows nothing about it, and I’ve never said a word, but I have people who are very good at finding out things.
I know it was Penelope who started the community group that targeted Pink Gardens which led to me selling it at a loss. I know it was David who was behind me not getting the property in Calgary. I also know it was David who threatened the dancers at three of the clubs, scaring most of them so much that they quit and left me with a workforce who couldn’t trust I would protect them.
And Preston is worse than the two of them together. I can’t believe Noam suggests I become involved with him. I tolerate him because he’s Noam’s son, but there’s no way I’d ever get into bed with him. And romantically?
I worry about what would happen if they knew I didn’t say goodbye after dinner. If they knew I tuck him into bed…
If Preston ever found out I was here with Noam, he might well go after control of the company. He would say being with me—because they would imply that it was dirty and tawdry and people would lick it up like a melting ice cream cone—proves he’s losing his facilities, and the others would back him up.
Noam loves his family, especially his grandchildren, and it’s impossible to tell him how bad his sons are. He’s so sharp that it’s almost impossible to think he isn’t aware of what they’re like.
They scare me. Not what they could do physically, but how they’re, inch by inch, using innuendos and gossip and outright lies, trying to destroy what I’ve built. Because their father gave me his attention and advice to get where I am.
They’re jealous, and I know that, but it doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.
To avoid thinking of worst-case scenarios, I let my mind drift back to dinner.
To Maximus Steele.
It doesn’t drift; it flies back to him at the speed of a bullet.
I’m sure he was the one I felt staring at me all evening.
I’ve had a lot of men look at me like they’re undressing me, but no one has ever looked at me quite like Max Steele. There’s a hunger in his eyes, but not the angry frustration I often see. The man looks happy.
It makes me suspicious. I wonder if he knows I’m after Tingel Island as well, or if my precautions masked my interest; if he does know, he’s a darn good actor.
But I liked the way he looked at me. Dark eyes watching behind glasses—glasses. I’ve never been interested in a man with glasses. Or one with shaggy curls that need a cut, wearing black Chuck Taylors that have seen better days.
It wasn’t what I expected of the son of Dalton Steele.
There was money there, but it’s not flaunted. I’ve seen men with zero in their bank account dress better than Maximus, and I haven’t even looked at a man wearing sneakers in a very long time.
