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Surprised by this comment I do not expect, I dare to look at him. “About what?”
“You handled the room well tonight.”
When Gabe had complimented me, it had felt nice, but from Reid, it’s unexpected. It’s different. It stirs a funny feeling in my belly that I want to reject but instead hold onto, pull close. “And you,” I say, considering him, “gave me room to do it.”
“I told you, Carrie.” He turns to face me, compelling me to do the same, as he adds, “I’m not your enemy.”
“I’m trying to believe that.”
“As I am of you,” he says.
“Why would you think that I’m your enemy?”
“Our first meeting wasn’t exactly friendly once we got past the orgasm.”
“No,” I say, hating the memory of his tongue on my clit now in my mind. “I suppose it wasn’t.”
“Then you know why I might be concerned that you’re an enemy. We need to learn to trust each other.”
“How?” I dare to ask, when he may well deliver one of his crass comments in reply.
“How indeed,” he says, but the elevator dings before I can object to that non-answer, and he’s already holding the door for me. I walk past him and he is immediately on my heels, the two of us walking toward the exit with him doing nothing to make good on his claim to have something to show me. We step outside and he motions to the right, my normal evening path toward Battery Park.
“I’ll walk you home,” he says.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I walk home every night by myself and,” I frown, “how do you know where I live?” I hold up a hand. “Never mind. We already determined that you had me investigated.”
“That, and I too live in Battery Park.”
I blanch. “How is that even possible?”
“Exactly what I said when you left me in that hotel room.”
My eyes go wide. “Did you, Reid Maxwell, actually just make a joke and at your own expense?”
“Never. I don’t tell jokes.” He motions me forward. “Let’s walk.”
But he did. This hard-as-stone man made a joke with himself as the punchline. This tiny glimpse of the man beneath all the hardness has me curious enough to happily comply. I turn and start walking and Reid is easily by my side, keeping pace. “Not that I’m trying to get rid of you or anything like that,” I say after a few steps, “but isn’t it hard on your firm for you to be away like this?”
“Gabe runs the firm day-to-day,” he says. “And I make a hell of a lot more money doing what I do instead of managing a regular caseload.”
“How did you even start doing this kind of thing? It’s not exactly standard corporate lawyering.”
“When I was still fresh out of law school my father managed corporate takeovers for Jean Claude Laurette.”
“The billionaire behind some of the biggest hostile takeovers ever done, and who is also a real estate developer?”
“Exactly, and no, he’s not involved with your company.”
My company. I like that he says this.
“I handled a great deal of the legal filings for my father in relation to his affairs, and it slowly morphed into more.”
“So, you’re more corporate raider than attorney?”
“My father’s the corporate raider, or he was until he had a stroke last year and finally decided to slow down.”
“He’s okay now?”
