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A flash of guilt crosses her face. “You did say some pretty awful things about our program—that thing about us wearing tin foil hats? Or when you told GQ the entire foundation is a massive embarrassment to you and that you couldn’t wait to distance yourself from every single one of those ‘ridiculous time and money-wasters.’ I’m sure you can understand how people on my side of those comments would feel threatened.”
“And hurt?” I ask, guilt coming over me as I reflect on my own words.
Nodding, she says, “That too. But now that I know a little about your background, I think I can understand what made you this way. Nobody’s born cynical. They get that way by being hurt themselves.”
“Wow, you cut right to the heart of the matter, don’t you?” I turn to her and prop my arm up on the side of the pool so I can focus on her.
“You asked,” she says, looking up at me from under her thick eyelashes. “Were you expecting a less direct answer?”
“Yes,” I say, and we both laugh a little about it. “I thought you might say something about me being a self-made man or how impressive it is that Richard and I turned one little idea into a fortune.”
“You assumed I would flatter you,” she says, touching her collar bone with her fingertips.
“That’s what usually happens in these situations.”
“Is this a typical situation for you? Alone in a natural hot spring with a woman late at night?” Gwen asks, pushing away from the side and turning to face me from the middle of the pool.
“I didn’t mean that. I meant … when I’m dealing with someone who wants something from me.”
Her smile fades and she says, “I’m guessing that’s almost everyone you meet.”
“You’d be right about that.”
She spreads her arms out to the sides, skimming the top of the water. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“The one about whether I frequently find myself alone with a beautiful woman?”
“I never said anything about beautiful.”
“My mistake. I thought you did.” Not my mistake. Just my way of telling her she’s beautiful without actually saying it. You know, since I really shouldn’t be saying it again.
“Well, I didn’t. You still haven’t answered.”
“I don’t want to.”
She grunts a little, then says, “I’ll take that as a no.”
I laugh at her answer. “Why wouldn’t you take it as a yes?”
“You don’t want to lie to me because you know I’ll see through it, but you also want me to think you’re some sort of player, because deep-down, you want to impress me.”
Grinning at her, I push myself away from the edge and swim toward her a few feet. “I’m not trying to impress you, but would that really work? If you thought I was a total dog?”
“No, but you might think that would work better than letting me believe you spend most of your nights hanging out at home with your brother.”
“I do spend most of my nights at home with my brother,” I tell her, moving a little closer. “We play cards and watch a lot of documentaries.”
“Let me guess—in your home theater with a massive screen, huge leather recliners, and one of those big red popcorn machines?”
“Home theater with a relatively large but not ridiculous screen, a big, comfy sectional—velvet, not leather—and gingerbread cookies.”
“Gingerbread? Really?” she asks.
“Yes. Soft ones. Fresh from the oven.”
She smiles, looking slightly surprised. “And do you bake them yourself?”
God, this is fun. So very much fun. “Greta makes them. She’s my housekeeper, and she looks after Michael for me when I can’t be home. Your turn.”
