Page 4 of Secret Revenge
She looked away. “Oh.” A pause. “You…didn’t actually read that email I sent, did you?”
“My signature was on it.”
“Yes, but so many billionaires have personal assistants or ghostwriters. I thought…”
I could not restrain a delighted smile as I realized she was starting to blush. She must have remembered her choice of language. Vividly.
“I don’t let assistants sign my name.” I tried to sound harsh as I said it, but my silly-little-boy grin at her embarrassment probably spoiled the effect.
“I found your response quite unprofessional,” I said, managing to recover my serious composure.
She bristled. “My work is finding out the truth and condemning injustice. I can’t do that if the person I’m investigating is paying my salary!”
I frowned. “That’s fair. But we only wanted you to come into the company to observe and write an honest report afterward. What did you think I was proposing?”
“Sure. You just wanted an unbiased review. And I’m sure you’d pay me just the same whether I had good things or bad things to say about you.” she said dryly.
“I would!” I insisted. Part of me could see her point, but the rest of me hated it when people assumed the worst about me. “I’m not my father.” I said hotly.
“Sure, you’re not.” The skepticism in her voice killed me.
“Where do I drop you off, Miss Skye?” I asked coldly.
After a beat of silence, she cocked her head to the side and fixed me with those piercing green eyes. “I think we might havegotten off on the wrong foot. The night is still young. You seem quite upset that I rejected your offer. Don’t you want to prove to me that you’re running a clean operation?”
I glanced at her again, taking in her sudden coy smile. Was she flirting with me? Why?
Because you’re a billionaire, Travis,my brain supplied.
That didn’t make her like me before.
But a beautiful and brilliant woman was either flirting with me or making a profitable business proposal. Or, best case scenario,both. I decided to take her up on her offer. “You wouldn’t mind a late dinner, would you?”
“Not at all,” she said.
Fifteen minutes later, we were sitting across from each other on a restaurant balcony, sipping wine and looking at each other. I tried to remember the last time I felt so attracted to anyone. Beautiful women have a tendency to throw themselves at billionaires, and Emily’s scathing rejection of my first approach—even if it was a professional one—made her infinitely more interesting to me. I even felt a tiny glimmer of hope that she might like me forme, not for my money which she appeared to actually view as a negative, not a reason to suck up to me.
I hammered that hope back down to where it came from in the pits of my subconscious. I’d been burned too many times before.
As she sat down across from me at the table, more graceful and regal than she had any right to be in such a tiny dress, I had the absurd thought that this felt like fate. A woman who had so many qualities I admired falling into my lap, not during business hours, but at Calypso of all places. A place she had no reason to go. Theonlyplace I went to unwind since the tabloid journalists couldn’t get in.
Get a hold of yourself, Travis. You’re thinking like a teenage boy.
I had to admit, though, it was nice to feel like a teenager again.
I couldn’t help but watch her as she ordered, even if the haze of her beauty drowned out her actual words in my ears. Her face was bathed in the dim light of the restaurant and the moonlight that spilled in through the window. Both cast a beautiful glow on her that made her look ethereal, like a goddess.
She turned to me and started to speak. To my shock, I couldn’t seem to process her words because I was too preoccupied with the curve of her mouth, with the intense emotions flickering through those green eyes at lightning speed as she spoke to me.
Puzzled, I glanced at my scarcely touched wine glass. No, this intoxication wasn't from the wine. It was something far more potent. Not love. You can’t be in love with someone you’ve just met.
Not even if you’ve spent days poring over her words…
It was at this point that I realized she was staring at me expectantly, exasperation creeping into those green eyes. She was waiting for me to say something. Maybe to answer a question?
“Sorry, could you repeat that?” I asked in my best ‘I-definitely-didn’t-just-space-out-in-the-middle-of-a-business-meeting’ voice.
“Why would you care about the accusations against you if they’re not true?” Emily was demanding hotly. “It’s not like they’re affecting your stock prices. Investors don’t care about that sort of thing.” Was that bitterness in her voice?