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From a quick glance, I count three who enjoyed the services of E. And even one who I recognize from back in my days with the Spider’s Den.
This isn’t my favourite place to dine, but Noam enjoys coming here since he likes everything that has his name on it. It’s a high-end restaurant in a very nice hotel that succeeds in the aim of intimidating with all-white tableware and a multitude of gleaming glasses and cutlery.
It looks like money. It smells like—
It actually smells like well-done prime rib. While stunning in appearance and excellent service, Tates’s really falls short on food with a few varieties of the meat and potato meal.
Now that I don’t have to appear naked every night, I’ve found that I enjoy good food.
“My dear girl.” Noam Tate attempts to get to his feet, but I make it to his side before he manages it and drop a kiss on his cheek.
It hurts my heart to see the formerly vigorous business dynamo reduced to a shell of himself. His face seems to have started to sink into itself; his own towering frame, kept fit from skiing and squash—otherwise known as sports of the wealthy—shrinking more every time I see him.
“Don’t get up.” I kiss his other cheek and wipe off the smear of lipstick I left on the wrinkled skin.
Noam clutches my arm, and I can’t help but notice his grip is so much weaker than it was when I first met him. “You look severe.” His voice is still as firm and deep as ever.
How is it possible that a person can sound the same as years past, but look so different? Noam has aged, with lines and gray hair replacing the last vestiges of black. He’s still a handsome man, but there’s no doubt he’s an old one. Yet his voice still commands respect and a touch of fear.
The opposite could be said of me. I look almost the same—same bright red hair, same lithe figure that attracts all eyes, albeit with a few more pounds, since I started appreciating food. Same mask of non-emotion and disinterest that I drop into place.
But I’ve changed. I’ve changed so much.
“I’ve been in meetings all day. I feel severe.”
And this is the last of them. As much as it’s fluffed with something to make it nice, this dinner is a recap. A debrief.
An interrogation.
I stopped dressing to impress years ago; now what I wear presents an image, and tonight, it’s don’t mess with me. The dress is fitted but not tight, a column of black from my shoulders to below my knee, nipped in at the waist. The only adornments are the leather shoulder caps and patches of leather that start under my breasts to look like scales.
“Did you get the island?”
Preston Tate sits beside his father. The waiter patiently holds the chair across from Noam for me, and I sink into it with a nod of thanks. “We’re still in negotiations.”
“Sandflower is still in the picture,” Preston sneers. He’s always sneering or scornful; there is nothing pleasant about the man. And to think, Noam thinks we would be a great match.
If we were together, it would keep all of Noam’s business interests in a pretty little pot, and tighten the leash even more around my throat.
“I’m happy you could meet me,” Noam continues. “I know how busy you are.”
“I can never say no to you.” I smile tightly at the older man as I unfold my napkin in my lap. Noam Tate might be more Gordon Gecko than Don Corleone, but when he summons you for a meal, you show up. He’s one of the richest men in Canada—possibly the world? I’ve lost track of trying to keep up with all his business ventures. And at eighty-six, he still keeps plenty of fingers in his pies. And in my pie.
I can tell we’re the focus of the restaurant—the old man and the much younger woman who clearly doesn’t belong in his world.
Except I do.
“Tell me the news,” he booms without a care that the tables closest to us will be listening to every word. “Did that club take you on as an investor?”
I look pointedly at Preston. Noam may trust his son, but I don’t, not with my business. As much as Noam wants us to be a big, happy family, it’s never going to happen.
“Preston waited with me so he could say hello to you.” There are similarities between the two men in their facial structure, stature, and both with thick, beautiful hair, but that’s it. Noam Tate is a lion of the business jungle and his son is an irritating hyena.
“Hello,” I greet him in a flat voice, unwilling to show my wariness. Preston may be an irritant, but he’s still dangerous in his own slimy way.
Preston sniffs. “I hope she shows you more respect, old man.”
“Pres,” Noam warns. “You can go now.”
