Page 142
“Nothing sinister, Scout’s honor.” He holds up his hands in mock surrender and laughs. “Just dinner. Dancing. Maybe a nightcap at my place in the Hamptons. I have an excellent wine cellar.”
“How very civilized of you.”
“I can be civilized when the occasion calls for it.” His eyes drop to my lips for just a moment before returning to meet my gaze. “Though I’ve been told I’m more fun when I’m not.”
The line lands somewhere between flirtatious and predatory. I can’t quite decide which.
What Icandecide is that the wine has gone straight to my head on an empty stomach, and Preston Howell is starting to look like a viable option for making a certain cold-shouldered billionaire jealous.
That, of course, is when Lukas arrives.
He materializes beside my chair, one hand coming to rest on the back of my seat exactly where Preston’s was just a moment ago. Except where Preston’s arm had been casual, almost lazy, Lukas’s presence is a white-knuckled declaration of war.
“Preston,” he says, his voice surface-level pleasant in a way that says it’s anything but that beneath the surface. “I see you’ve met my assistant.”
Preston’s smile doesn’t waver, but something behind his eyes does. “Just keeping her company, Lukas. You seemed busy.”
“I was.” Lukas’s gaze finally drops to me, and the weight of it pins me to my chair. “But I find myself with a spare moment.”
He leans down, and for one giddy, rom-com-poisoned second, I think he’s going to kiss me right here, in front of everyone, in front of Preston Howell and a dozen Wall Street sharks.
Instead, his lips brush the shell of my ear. His breath is warm. His voice is ice.
“You’ve been a bad girl tonight, Ms. Everett,” he murmurs, so quiet that only I can hear. “Take off your underwear and give it to me.”
47
RAE
LAZAREV GLOBAL EXECUTIVE SERVICES
DRY CLEANING PICKUP — Rush Order
Item: (1) Black silk pocket square
Owner: L. Lazarev
Condition: Stained.Again.
I laugh.
He’s joking, of course. I mean, hehasto be joking. Even Lukas Lazarev, king of boundary violations and inappropriate workplace conduct, wouldn’t actually expect me to—in a Michelin-starred restaurant full of witnesses?—
I glance over my shoulder, but he’s gone. Drifted back to his end of the table like nothing happened.
Okay. Fine. He’s testing me. Seeing if I’ll squirm, if I’ll blush.
Well, joke’s on him. I’m a lost cause, duh, but he’ll have to try harder thanthat.
“Everything alright?” Preston asks when we’re alone again.
“Fine!” I chirp, forcing as much brightness as possible into my voice. “Just a little inside joke. So—you were telling me about your wine cellar?”
Preston launches back into his wine cellar saga with renewed enthusiasm. Something about a 1982 Château Margaux and a bidding war at Christie’s. I nod along, making appropriate noises of interest, while my brain runs through increasingly elaborate rationalizations for why I should not excuse myself to the restroom to follow Lukas’s orders.
Because I’m not going to do it. Obviously. That would be insane.
Sixty seconds tick by. Then ninety.
