Page 26 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

Ryan

“Who are you all tarted up for?” Martine asks as she passes by, all slinky hips and sass.

“Girl, not who; what,” I answer, my attention remaining on the empty meeting room. The office is pretty empty too. Just me and Martine so far, everyone else still suffering from post-Christmas blues, it would seem.

I like to get into the office early, as a rule. I usually check the foreign markets while drinking my first coffee of the day. Maybe get a start on any paperwork before the office fills and the day is inevitably eaten up communally.

“Why do you suppose companies insist on meeting rooms like this?” Arms folded, I nod toward the glass box with its catwalk of a table and the dozen or so ecru Eames chairs. “There’s nothing about the room that would set people at ease or even encourage a flow of openness and trust.”

Martine laughs. “Openness and trust—are you sure you’ve done this job before?”

My smile reflects in the glass.

“It’s all for show, the whole space-age interior thing,” she says with a dismissive wave. “Because the walls of glass are so they can keep an eye on us. Fapping on company time is not allowed.”

I cough out a laugh as I glance over my shoulder at her. “I think it’s probably more a productivity thing than a fapping thing.”

“You have your theories, and I have mine,” she retorts, all playful pique. “And I’ve been here longer than you.”

“Well, that’s true,” I agree, turning to face her fully.

“Wow, check you out, Miss Thing.” She snaps her fingers as her gaze falls over my outfit. “Very stylish, the assassin-favored high-ponytail-and-oversized-blazer look. Also, very Y2K. Of course, I remember it the first time around.”

“When you were twelve?”

“Why, thank you, dollface.” Batting her lashes, she presses the backs of her fingers under her chin. “It’s all thanks to the tweakments.” She blows me a kiss as she takes a couple of steps backward. Then she turns and sashays her tight ass away.

“Is that dress Dries Van Noten?” I call after her, coveting her style, from the leopard-print kitten heels that I’m sure are YSL to the fine-knit claret-colored wool hugging her figure.

“A Mango knockoff,” she replies without turning.

But I don’t believe her as I pull at the front of my shirt.

Underdressed? Too young? Too of the hour?

Second-guessing my Veronica Beard pantsuit, I slide off the oversize blazer and cross the office to hang it in the coat closet.

Or cloakroom, as they call it here, which is just another piece of English whimsy that appeals to me.

My heels echo against the floor as I make my way back.

A slow smile spreads across my face for no other reason than the sight of dust motes dancing merrily in a shaft of weak wintery sunshine.

It feels like a good omen, the sun shining today.

Maybe because London has been nothing but gray since I arrived.

Not that I’m complaining. I’m stoked to be here, whatever the weather.

When I applied for the job at DLC Capital Management in the fall, I didn’t think for one minute I’d wind up working for one of their subsidiaries in London.

Freakin’ London! In my secret reveries, I’d long imagined myself living here, sipping cocktails in fashionable clubs and beer in old pubs with roaring log fires.

In Knightsbridge and Mayfair, shopping till I dropped.

Brunch at Soho House and discovering retro treasures at Camden Market.

Winter walks through Hyde Park with a coffee in my hand. Being here is like a dream come true.

The city is iconic and cooler than cool, from the chimes of Big Ben to the trundle of black cabs and red double-decker buses.

It’s the quaint street names and cobblestone lanes, history and culture, ancient buildings, museums, and galleries.

It’s the Square Mile of towering glass but also the pristine parks and tranquil woods.

It’s the world-class restaurants and hotels but also ye olde pubs.

It’s the home of philosophers and explorers, artists and poets, and yes, grouchy commuters on the Tube ignoring crazy drunk people singing show tunes.

And as of last month, it’s also home to me.

I’d probably put up with ten Brandons and their bullshit to live here, but the icing on the cake is I don’t have to. Theta is a hedge fund, still largely male dominated, but (so far) without the level of noxiousness of Dreyland Capital.

“Any idea what today’s meeting is about?” Martine asks, reappearing next to me.

“You’re a lifesaver,” I say as she passes me a coffee.

I inhale the fragrant steam. There’s just something special about the first coffee of the day.

Though I’ll admit coffee in London hasn’t been quite as enjoyable.

Maybe it’s the water over here. “No idea. I was just invited to sit in.” My new job is a promotion.

I’m a PM—a portfolio manager, though I’m still getting to grips with how things are done within the organization.

“I wonder if all three of them will turn up together?” Martine slips a hunk of her expensive, colored honey-blond hair behind her ear.

“All three of who?” Bringing the coffee cup to my lips, I blow gently on the scalding dark liquid. Before I realize what I’m doing. Low-class Ryan escapes again.

“Maven Inc. It’s who the meeting is with this morning, or so I’ve heard on the old grapevine.”

“Should I have heard of them?”

“Only if you’re interested in the most prestigious PE firm in the city. Or their hot-as-fuck principals.”

I make a face. Private equity? Not my specialty.

PE are longtime investment specialists, whereas hedge funds are all about making those quick bucks.

Also, men? Not necessary, because I’m still living on the fantasies of October’s Mr. Killer Jawline.

Mr. Talented Tongue. Mr. Cost-me-two-grand-for-the-night. He was worth every penny.

“You okay?”

“Hmm?” I realize I’ve zoned out, daydreaming about my audacity and his great big—

“Maven has three primary partners. Each one of them is as rich as Croesus and as hot as fuck ,” she says, enunciating the latter heavily.

“Thanks for the heads-up.” Martine is a little older, twice divorced, and her cynicism matches my own.

Also, we seem to have scarily similar taste in men, at least, according to our occasional lunch dates.

She likes them younger, and I do not. Which is where we meet in the middle.

Though it’s an academic kind of appreciation, as neither of us has time in our lives for men.

And I have no interest, especially after . ..

“ Tell me something. ”

I stifle a sigh at the echo of his voice in my ear. It’s not that my libido is still on the fritz, because Matt certainly reignited that flame. But I have a sneaking suspicion that he might’ve ruined me for other men. It’s such a cliché, but clichés are a thing for a reason.

I take a sip of my coffee and try not to grimace as I burn my tongue. One way to make sure I don’t recoil at the taste is to burn off my taste buds, I guess.

“Of course they’re all married.” Martine glances my way. “The good ones always are.”

“Or payable by the hour.”

“What?” The word bounds from her mouth, full of mirth.

“It’s just a thing,” I say evasively, hopefully, as I set my cup on the sill. Maybe I’ll water the ficus with it when it’s cool.

“A good thing, I hope. Though it would have to be a really good thing to pay for it.”

“I’ve never ...” Only, that’s not strictly true. Not after that one time when I forced myself to visit the two ATMs nearest to a certain Manhattan hotel, the morning after what I have come to remember as the Night of My Life. Capitalization required.

As I stuffed what I was able to withdraw from my account into a mooched hotel-branded envelope, I told myself it didn’t matter what the desk clerk thought.

It needed to be this way. No matter how special my night with Matt had been, I had to draw a line under it.

And I told myself that it was just a momentary madness that’d made me consider checking his wallet while he slept to see if he carried a business card.

Nate from Nine Inch Males. I stifle a soft sigh at the memory.

I briefly considered including a note, but what would I have said?

Thanks for the night of my life.

Kudos, sir. You railed me good.

You should be paid by the inch and the minute.

Or maybe it should’ve just said ... thank you. Just ... thank you.

I still don’t have the words to adequately express what that night was, what it meant to me. So instead, I scrawled his name on the envelope, then handed it over to the desk clerk before I could change my mind. And deliver it myself.

The money made me just another satisfied client and not someone who’d pine or lust after him. But the night, the experience, was truly something special. Revisiting it could only end in obsession. And eventual bankruptcy.

“I don’t judge,” Martine says loftily. “I mean, I’ll listen. If there’s a tale to tell. But no judgment here, my friend.”

“There’s no tale,” I insist.

“Pity. I don’t know why we women don’t avail ourselves of the services of a professional more often. I mean, I hire a personal trainer to keep my ass in trim, and a dermatologist for my face. Why not a specialist for my vagina?”

“I think that would be a gynecologist.”

“I’ve got one of those too. But there’s more than one way it should be taken care of, right?”

I chuckle.

“Makes me think, though,” she says, turning to the window and the gray-blue view over the city. Winter daylight hours are short. “Another couple of years in this place, and I’ll be able to get me one of those on retainer.”

“One of what?” My question stutters out in another chuckle.

“A professional.” She gives a wiggle of her brows. Her aesthetician must be great. “Sounds pretty perfect to me. None of the complications and all of the orgasms.”