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“Yes. We have a club.” He took another sip from his glass. “We go rowing on the weekends.”
“Don’t get cute,” I admonished him, the same way he would have me. “You didn’t want that paper to run a story about you. It’s a legitimate concern on my end. I don’t want to expose any information you don’t want me to make public.”
“Just don’t use my name or identifying information,” he suggested. “If someone figures out who your mysterious, rich boyfriend is, then so be it. I didn’t make you sign a non-disclosure agreement when we started dating. You own the details of your life, and certain details of mine that get mixed in with yours. So long as you’re not printing out my banking information, I don’t see the trouble.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said, avoiding his eyes. “I really will. You’re absolutely right, I need to get back out there and start taking care of my career. And I probably also need to speak to a therapist.”
“A real therapist. Not Holli,” he preemptively scolded.
“Oh, you think you know everything.” I swished my ponytail behind me as I stalked away to the sounds of his laughter.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I’d thought that inviting someone over for sex would be really awkward. As it turned out, it wasn’t so bad. Emir was pleased to hear from us again, and we set up a meeting for the end of Neil’s second week in the cycle, when he would be feeling more up to company.
“Emir” from the dungeon turned out to be El-Mudad ibn Farid ibn Abdel Ati, a billionaire’s son from Bahrain. He arrived for lunch on a very expensive, very Italian motorcycle that he and Neil discussed at length, until I had to politely remind them that at least one of us could not subsist on engine talk alone, and they humored me by coming inside.
Over lunch, El-Mudad explained that due to his father’s business, he had a high profile not only in Bahrain, but in England, France, and Australia, as well, so he’d crafted the identity for privacy, as per the club rules.
“Even if someone recognizes me there, they won’t break the rules and mention it on the street, or to my father. They would lose their membership.” He waved a hand as though it would be unthinkable to sacrifice admittance to the club for a little bit of blackmail. “But you can call me Emir. I’m quite fond of the name, and I prefer to use it in these situations.”
With an easy smile, he sipped from his glass of white wine. He’d come dressed in a crisp white button-down, untucked over faded jeans. He’d arrived in a leather jacket that had looked so good on his broad shoulders, I personally resented Matthew, the quasi-butler, for offering to hang it up.
“I’m not really Chloe. I’m Sophie,” I said with a nervous giggle. I felt Neil’s eyes on me, watching in amusement. He was so going to enjoy seeing me squirm during this meeting.
“And you’re not really Leif,” Emir said, pointing to Neil with a smirk. “I’m sorry, I recognized you immediately. You sold a very expensive car to my father about four years ago.”
“Yes! The Reventon.” Neil leaned forward, elbows on the table. He looked so amazing today. Just the prospect of sex had invigorated him enough that he’d gotten dressed in something other than sweatpants. He wore steel gray trousers, and a lighter gray shirt with a slight sheen to it. Monochromatic looked impossibly good on the man. He gave me a sheepish glance. “Elizabeth felt that a Lamborghini was impractical.”
“Imagine.” I laughed with a roll of my eyes.
“Your loss is my father’s gain.” Emir lifted his glass. He didn’t hold it by the stem, but cradled the round bowl of it in his palm. All I could think of was how those fingers would feel curved around my breast, and all the blood in my body split into two factions, one marching south, the other rushing into my heated face.
“So,” Emir said, between sips. “I must know where Leif Arden comes from.”
“Two family names,” Neil said. “And I gave Sophie the name Chloe.”
“A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.” If anyone other than Emir had said it, the words would have been impossibly cheesy. Lucky for me— and my intensely throbbing girl parts— it had been him saying it.
“Just so,” Neil agreed. I bet he thought it was a corny line. I didn’t care. “And Emir... where did you find that name?”
“An beautiful Turkish man I met at university in Paris.” Emir smiled thoughtfully at the memory, his long fingers turning the glass in his hand. “He was the first man who ever fucked me.”
Holy mother of what, Scaife, are you a hot bisexual billionaire magnet? If ever there were a time that it would be appropriate to high-five one’s self, this would certainly have been that time.
