Page 25 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Graham

I know she received the Hunt invitation—Preston's assistant confirmed delivery last week.

I also know that I'm not just letting her walk into this completely unprepared, no matter how entertaining it might be to watch her figure it out on her own.

The preliminary meeting is in six days, which gives me exactly enough time to have the conversation we both know we need to have.

Dinner is the perfect excuse.

I'm also well aware that she doesn't want me coming upstairs to her apartment, and honestly, that's fine by me.

I know the place is barely furnished, know she doesn't actually live there in any meaningful sense.

The whole thing is such an elaborate performance, so beautifully crafted, each attention to detail.

She's created an entire identity complete with rental agreements and utility bills, all to support whatever game she's playing.

It's absolutely fascinating.

So when I pull up outside her building at exactly seven-thirty PM, I'm not surprised to find her already waiting on the sidewalk.

She's wearing that black wrap dress from earlier—the one that hugs every curve and makes my mouth go dry—clearly chosen to distract me from whatever conversation she thinks we're about to have.

And fuck, it's working.

I get out of the Aston and lean against the hood, taking my time appreciating the view. "Come here, baby."

She approaches with that predatory grace I've come to associate with her, but stops just out of arm's reach. "I'm quite certain you aren't allowed to talk to your employees that way."

"Oh, I thought this was after hours," I reply, straightening up and moving closer. "Completely separate from our professional relationship."

"Is it?" She tilts her head, and that innocent expression doesn't fool me for a second. "Because last I checked, you were still signing my paychecks."

"Technically, HR signs your paychecks. I just approve the astronomical salary I'm paying you to organize files and look devastating in pencil skirts."

"Astronomical is a bit of an exaggeration."

"Is it? Because I'm pretty sure I'm paying you more than most people make in five years." I step closer, close enough to catch that intoxicating scent of her perfume. "Though I have to say, you're worth every penny."

Her breath catches slightly as I reach around her to open the car door, my body brushing against hers in a contact that's brief but electric.

"Such a gentleman," she murmurs as I help her into the passenger seat, my hand lingering on her lower back perhaps longer than strictly necessary.

"I have my moments," I reply, enjoying the way she shivers at my touch.

The drive to the restaurant takes us through SoHo's narrow streets, past galleries and boutiques that cater to people with more money than sense. I keep stealing glances at Delilah—at the way she watches the city pass by, at how she unconsciously toys with the hem of her dress when she's thinking.

"So, where exactly are we going? You mentioned duck confit, but you're being mysteriously vague about the details."

"Patience, beautiful. I promise it'll be worth the wait."

"That's what every man says right before disappointing a woman."

I laugh, genuinely delighted by her sharp tongue. "Ouch. Remind me never to make promises I can't keep."

"I'll hold you to that."

When we arrive at Altura—a Michelin-starred rooftop restaurant that typically requires six-month advance reservations—the scene outside is exactly what I expected.

A steady stream of well-dressed, clearly furious patrons are exiting the building, some of them gesticulating angrily at the apologetic hostess stationed near the entrance.

Delilah notices immediately, her eyes scanning the crowd with the kind of sharp attention that suggests she's cataloging potential threats. "Um, is this place bad or something? Because those people look like they want to burn it down."

"No," I say, getting out and moving around to open her door. "It's completely booked months in advance and considered one of the best restaurants in the city."

She accepts my offered hand but doesn't move toward the entrance, clearly puzzled by the exodus of angry diners. "Then why does everyone look like they're about to call their lawyers?"

"Because I own it," I say simply, guiding her toward the entrance with my hand on the small of her back. "And I shut it down for the night. Sent everyone home so you and I can have dinner in peace and quiet."

She stops walking entirely, staring at me with an expression that's equal parts horror and fascination. "Oh my god. Is that why everyone was so mad?"

I shrug, unbothered by the display of conspicuous wealth and casual disregard for other people's evening plans. "They'll reschedule. Besides, most of them will get vouchers for future meals. Everyone wins."

"Everyone except the hundred people whose dinner plans you just destroyed."

"Details," I say dismissively, though I'm feeling the opposite considering her first thought is for the inconvenienced diners rather than the obvious display of power and money. "Shall we?"

The hostess recognizes me immediately and leads us through the empty restaurant to the best table on the rooftop terrace.

Manhattan spreads out below us, the city lights reflecting off the Hudson River in the distance.

It's the kind of view that usually makes people gasp and reach for their phones to capture the moment.

Delilah just settles into her chair and raises an eyebrow. "This is either the most romantic gesture I've ever experienced or the most psychotic. I'm not sure which."

"Can't it be both?"

"With you? Probably."

The sommelier appears with a bottle of wine that costs more than most people's monthly rent, and I wave him away. "Just bring us the tasting menu. Whatever the chef recommends."

"Of course, Mr. Ellsworth."

As the staff disappears, leaving us alone on the terrace, I study Delilah's face in the candlelight. She's beautiful, obviously, but there's something else—a sharpness, an intelligence that most people miss because they're too distracted by the package it comes in.

"So," I say, settling back in my chair, "how are you settling into the job? Finding everything you need?"

"It's been... educational," she replies carefully. "Your filing system is surprisingly organized for someone who projects such chaos."

"I contain multitudes. What else have you discovered in your week of employment?"

"That you have excellent taste in coffee, terrible taste in conference call scheduling, and a concerning tendency to make impulsive business decisions."

"Impulsive how?"

"Hanging up on Bradley Morrison in the middle of negotiations, for one. Most people would consider a fifty-million-dollar deal worth finishing a phone call."

I lean forward. She's been paying attention to more than just access codes and security protocols. "And what would you have done differently?"

"Let it go to voicemail in the first place. Nothing Morrison was going to say was going to change your position, and taking the call just gave him the impression that his opinion mattered."

"Ruthless. I like that in an assistant."

The first course arrives—some delicate seafood preparation that probably took the chef hours to perfect—and we eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The wine is exceptional, the food is flawless, and the company is dangerously entertaining.

"Can I ask you something?" Delilah says, setting down her fork.

"Of course."

"Why did you really hire me? And don't say it's because of my organizational skills, because we both know that's not the real reason."

I consider lying, maintaining the pretense that this is all just business. But there's something about her direct gaze, the way she's looking at me like she can see straight through every defense I've ever built, that makes me want to tell her the truth.

Or at least a version of it.

"Because you're the most interesting person I've met in years," I say finally. "Because you make me feel like life might actually be worth living instead of just worth surviving."

Something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe, or recognition. "That's a lot of pressure to put on an employee."

"Good thing this isn't really about employment, then."

We continue through the courses, the conversation flowing as smoothly as the wine.

She tells me stories about growing up in Connecticut—carefully edited, I'm sure, but amusing nonetheless.

I find myself sharing more than I intended about the crushing boredom of having unlimited resources, the way money insulates you from genuine human connection until everything starts to feel like performance.

By the time we reach dessert, I can feel the weight of the conversation we need to have pressing against my chest like a physical thing.

"Sophia," I say, and her name tastes like a carefully constructed lie on my tongue. "There's something we need to discuss."

Her entire body goes still, though she continues eating her chocolate soufflé with apparent calm. "That sounds ominous."

"Did you receive an invitation recently? Something exclusive, invitation only. Takes place in a few days."

She sets down her spoon and meets my gaze directly. "The Hunt."

"The Hunt," I confirm, watching her face carefully.

For a long moment, we just stare at each other across the table, the pretense finally falling away. Then she leans back in her chair with that dangerous smile I've been waiting to see all week.

"Do you really want to go through with this?"

She tilts her head, considering me with those calculating eyes. "I'm going to win the prize money."

The prize money. As if that's what this is about anymore.

The possessive feeling that's been growing in my chest all week flares hot and immediate.

I don't want her in that Hunt. I don't want other men looking at her, touching her, claiming her as their prize.

The thought of some other bastard's hands on what I've already decided is mine makes something dark and territorial unfurl in my gut.

"The prize money?" I lean forward, my voice dropping low. "Sophia, the prize money is nothing. I could make that your starting salary right now. Don't enter the Hunt."

I can't tell her the real reason—that the idea of her participating makes me want to burn the whole fucking thing to the ground.

That somewhere between her smart mouth and the way she feels against me, I've developed an inconvenient attachment.

She'd run if she knew how possessive I've become, how the thought of anyone else having her makes my vision go red around the edges.

Something flickers across her expression—surprise, maybe calculation. "How can I not? I'm already in the catalog."

Every muscle in my body goes still. The catalog isn't something she should know about—not the terminology, not the specifics, not anything beyond what would be in her basic invitation packet.

My brilliant, resourceful little con artist has just revealed exactly how deep her research goes.

Proof that Delilah Monroe is exactly as dangerous as I suspected.

I study her face with new intensity, a slow smile building. "Oh, and how would you know about the catalog?"

Either she's been playing this game longer than I thought, or she's resourceful enough to dig up secrets that most people would kill for.

Either way, I'm intrigued. And more than a little aroused by just how good she is at this.