New York Billionaires Series

“People at the company might gossip.”

I shrug again. “Only if they find out. Besides, none of them will say anything to me.”

“No. No, I suppose that’s true.” A half-smile plays at her lips.

It bothers me. “What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s just… I didn’t know you were aware of your reputation.”

“My reputation?”Content held by NôvelDrama.Org.

“Well… people are afraid of you.”

I snort. “Only because I can have them fired.”

“Yes,” she says. “Only because of that little detail.”

When the food arrives, my beef looks as good as it always does. I’m here often enough that they don’t have to ask for my preferences anymore.

“Fresh parmesan?” the waiter asks. Cecilia nods and we both watch as he grates a fresh block over her plate. They exchange smiles when he’s done, like he’s just climbed Mt Everest instead of doing his well-compensated job.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” he tells her.

“I will. Thanks again.”

“Of course.” His gaze slides to me. “Enjoy your evening, sir.”

I’ve been to Salt more times than I can count, and I’ve never seen this level of service from them. They’re typically brisk. Businesslike. Not personable.

“He’s nice,” Cecilia says. She bends closer to her food and takes a deep, appreciative breath. A tendril of dark hair falls from behind her ear and curls at her neck. “You’re missing out here, St. Clair. Mushroom or no mushroom, this pasta smells amazing.”

I frown. “Sticking to what I enjoy is a solid strategy.”

“Yes,” she murmurs, “and God forbid you don’t have a strategy when you eat.”

There it is, the fire, and I stare at her while she cuts into her pasta. She’d said that people are afraid of me. Is she?

We eat in silence for a while, but then she straightens, eyes meeting mine. “So… what about other people?”

“Other people? The ones you wanted to tell?”

She turns her wineglass around by the stem. “No. I mean, I don’t expect you to be celibate for a year. Are we both allowed to date? Your lawyer sent over the contract, but it didn’t mention dating.”

“Dating is allowed, for both of us. But I’d prefer it to happen outside of my apartment.”

“Right, and the same would go for you?”

I have to agree to that. Fair is fair, after all. “Yes.”

She nods, skewering a ravioli and lifting it to her lips. They’re glossy tonight, reflecting the single lit candle between us on the table.

Does she date?

A week ago I wouldn’t have been able to answer that question. Now, with her in front of me in an half-buttoned blouse and glossed-up lips, I don’t know. Not sure if I want to know, either.

“There’s one thing I can’t quite figure out.”

I cut into my steak and swallow the comment that comes naturally. Only one?

“Why do you want your inheritance so badly? You’re already wealthy,” she says. “So why go through with this?”

Her words betray an ignorance of my world that would make another man smile. They just make me annoyed. Because on the surface of things, she’s right.

There’s being rich, and then there’s wealth, and my grandfather had the latter. He’d kept the St. Clair family fortune intact over decades. The fortune my father had helped shepherd. The fortune I’ve heard the story behind over and over and over again for my entire life.

But I don’t need it.

I can live a life better than most with what I have, what I’ve worked for. The fortune is hard to let go of, but not impossible.

“It’s not just money,” I say. “There’s a house, too.”

“A house?”

I reach for the collar of my shirt and undo the top button. “Yes. It’s on Long Island.”

Cecilia rests her chin in her hand, gaze on me. “You won’t get it if you’re not married?”

“Exactly. My grandfather had certain… ideas. I’m sure this is his way of ensuring they’re followed, even from the grave.”

Her voice lowers. “I’m guessing our contract wasn’t a part of his plan.”

“Probably not.” I reach for my wineglass, watching the deep red swirl. “How were the mushrooms?”

“Earthy,” she says, “and delicious.”

“You dressed up for tonight.” My eyes drift down, to where the tight skirt curves around her form in a way the straight pencil skirts never do at work.

She smoothes a hand down her blouse. “Oh. I’m going out after.”

“You’re going out. Where?”

“To a bar.” Her cheeks are flushed with life again, eyes alight. “My best friend insisted on a bachelorette party.”

I stare back at her, at this woman I’ve only ever seen as my assistant, with plump lips and long, wavy hair.

She’d accused us of being strangers.

Maybe we are.