Page 16

FIFTEEN

NATALIE

Welcome to the lion’s den!

Nick opens the door to let me into the office, and I step in, balancing a tray with food.

The spacious room is almost empty. A Persian carpet. An oversized artificial bonsai tree in the corner. At the far end of the room, armchairs and a coffee table are arranged in a semi-circle in front of a massive mahogany desk and a leather chair. Behind them, there’s a giant painting of ultramarine water and a tiny goldfish in the very center. There’s no other furniture in the room, which makes the walk along the stone-like walls to the desk feel ceremonial, as if I’ve come to a meeting with a king. I’m assuming this intimidating design is intentional.

The Man of the Year is even more handsome in person.

Geoffrey Rosenberg stands by the side of the desk, his hands in his trouser pockets as he studies the painting on the wall in deep contemplation. It gives me a chance to place the tray on a small coffee table while I observe him.

He’s tall, with neatly combed red hair and a short-trimmed beard, in stylish contrast with his mint-colored dress shirt. He is silent and motionless yet somehow emanates power and confidence. A Manhattan, Van Winkle, and Cartier man. Definitely a bourbon guy. Maybe cognac.

“Boss?” Nick prompts.

Rosenberg slowly turns in place, his gaze instantly locking on to me.

I straighten like a soldier.

For a second, my heart does a panicking thud—after all, I was with Cara when they hooked up at the club. I didn’t pay much attention to him that night, just another fancy-suit-and-expensive-watch-Wall-Street-type. Also, I looked different—my hair loose and styled, a minidress, high heels, and tons of makeup. It was dark. Hopefully, he was intoxicated enough not to remember me, and I pray to God that Cara never mentioned my name.

“This is Natalie, the new housekeeper,” Nick says, tilting his head toward me.

Rosenberg doesn’t bother approaching, doesn’t even take his hands out of his pockets. “Natalia?” His investor-friendly voice is low and rich, authoritative, and could probably sell snow in Alaska. “Sounds Russian.”

He gives me a thorough up-and-down, which makes me uneasy.

“It’s Natalie,” I correct him.

“Hmm.” He assesses me with lazy curiosity. “Natalia fits you better.”

Asshole. I’ve met many versions of Rosenberg when I tended bar in Manhattan, learned to deal with them, but right now I need to play the part.

There are all sorts of meaningful eye contact. The most powerful flirty one is not batting your eyelashes, no. It’s intense and unblinking. It seems almost inappropriate, as if you are caught off guard by the other person’s charm. Doe eyes with a hint of surprise, as if you’ve just met your soulmate.

I learned that one from Cara. She’s an expert. She can be cocky, playful, shy, brazen—depending on the guy and the situation. And let me tell you, she has a knack for profiling rich men down to a science. But this particular gaze—she taught me, even gave me a training session, “Just in case. Never know who you need to schmooze”—catches most men by surprise.

That’s how I look at Geoffrey Rosenberg right now. Once his eyes meet mine, he blinks away for a second and then returns his gaze to me, as if for a double take, and I’m working, working, working that gaze like my life depends on it.

A man like him is probably accustomed to the advances of women who are hunting for wealthy beaus. But he might not be used to genuine infatuation, or what he thinks genuine is.

He lifts his hand to his face and rubs his chin, keeping eye contact with me.

“Boss?” Nick prompts again.

For Nick, this is awkward silence. For me, it’s a guarantee that the next time Rosenberg sees me around, he’ll remember who I am.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Rosenberg,” I say in my sweetest voice, though my body is so tense that my spine could crack at a touch.

Rosenberg finally looks away. “You should be a model,” he says absently, his attention back on the ridiculous painting of a goldfish.

I turn to Nick, who flicks his eyebrows.

“Anything else?” I ask him.

He looks expectantly at Rosenberg, who doesn’t bother to respond.

Nick shrugs and smiles at me. “Thanks.”

Before I close the door on the way out, I hear Rosenberg’s voice, “She’s pretty.”

This should be a compliment.

Then why do the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end?