Page 104 of How to Belong with a Billionaire

The truth was, Alexander Finesilver kind of scared me. Not in the way that Bellerose—Ilya—used to, with his chilly and impenetrable perfection, but because of his carefully cultivated humanness. He seemed so nice, so normal: this slender, unobtrusive, dark-haired young man with eyes like Elizabeth Bennett. Very much the opposite of the stereotype of the sharkish lawyer, which is exactly what made me wary. Here was someone who wanted to be underestimated, perhaps even disregarded. On top of the fact he worked for Caspian, who would not have put his trust in someone any less talented, dedicated, and ruthless than he was himself.

AaaaaandI was going to be stuck in a car with him for nearly four hours. Fun times. I squirmed in my seat. “All the same, thank you and, like…yeah, thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me either.”

Okay, I was too fucked in the head for this. “Jesus, I’m just being polite. You know, as people are to each other.”

“I’m sorry.” He laughed as easily as he smiled. “I’m not thanked very often. I will admit, my personal preference would incline strongly towards your absence. But since Mr. Hart does not agree, and I work for Mr. Hart, here you are. I’m not going to waste energy resenting it.”

I could see why Caspian liked him. They both valued a brand of emotional efficiency that was pretty much beyond me. “Well, Caspian’s personal preferencealsoinclined strongly towards my absence. So you really do have cause to be pissed at me.”

“On the contrary, Mr. St. Ives.” Finesilver’s eyes glittered with sudden interest. “Given you’ve just revealed your capacity to influence my employer, even against his own better judgement, it doesn’t seem as though being pissed at you would be at all to my benefit.”

I squeaked. “I’m not Anne Fucking Boleyn, you know.”

“I’m sure Anne Boleyn didn’t think she was Anne Boleyn.”

There was a long silence.

“Are you trying to tell me,” I said slowly, “that Caspian’s going to cut my head off at some point?”

“I’m sure he won’t.” A pause. “It’s the sort of thing that’s terribly difficult to mount a defense against in court.”

“You are not helping.”

Finesilver laughed, though it sounded different this time. Harsher and realer and, strangely enough,nicer. “I said I wouldn’t resent you. That doesn’t mean I can’t amuse myself a little at your expense.”

“Is that wise, though?” I fluttered my lashes. “Seeing as how I have the ear of the king and all that. I could have you sent to the tower.”

“You could. But then whenyouare sent to the tower, what will you do for a lawyer?”

“You…” I said, surrendering at least semi-gracefully. “You are basically Littlefinger, aren’t you?”

“Dear me, I hope not. He made terrible decisions.”

We tooled along quietly for a while longer, threading between traffic jams on our way out of London. I was still nervous around Finesilver, but frankly, I had way bigger things to worry about. Y’know, like Jonas. Who had my phone. And was breaking his journey in Leeds on his way to fuck up my family. Bastard.

“As it’s rather a long way,” remarked Finesilver, “would you mind if I put on an audiobook?”

I…had not been expecting that. “Gosh no. Of course not. Be my guest.”

A moment or two later, a nice English voice filled the car:Just because the man looked like Milton’s ruined archangel and chose to appear in the hall like the Demon King through a trap-door it didn’t necessarily mean that I had to smell Sulphur.

My mind reeled with surprise and curiosity. I hadn’t really given any thought to what Finesilver might to do in his spare time, but if you’d asked me to put forward some ideas,listening to Gothic novelswouldn’t have featured.

“Sorry…can I…”

He paused the narration. “Yes?”

“What’s the book, please? If you don’t mind?”

“It’sNine Coaches Waitingby”—his voice had lost some of its usual evenness—“Mary Stewart.”

“Ohhh.I’d thought it might be du Maurier.”

“Mr. St. Ives, are you laughing at me?”

I blinked. “Not at all. I might have grinned a bit, imagining Ellery’s reaction if she knew what you were into.”