Page 29 of Sold to the Silver Foxes (Forbidden Hearts #6)

NICO

There are few things as grating as Pietro’s involvement in our affairs, but tonight promises the possibility of more irritations.

Investor meetings are always stressful, particularly the type that involve our long-term investors.

Those bastards think everything is for sale.

Last year, Adolfo Lemini attempted to take liberties with Carla.

It was refreshing to see him kneeling and yelping about his two fingers by the time we caught up to them.

We cut ties with him, and his business hasn’t been the same since his arrest. Hopefully, this year’s slate of investors have already caught wind of Adolfo’s troubles and will keep their hands to themselves.

I run my gaze down the table a final time. Every item is placed just so, whispering orderly elegance. Even the centerpiece gleams—a series of roses and silver, precisely arranged to sparkle brightly beneath the extensive chandelier.

The doors open precisely at seven. Dante drifts in first, tux jacket unbuttoned, already rolling out some anecdote about a helicopter malfunction to a young venture capitalist who loves extreme sports as much as my brother.

Sal follows, a pillar in midnight blue, escorting Sir John Markham—our oldest guest and perpetual skeptic of “modern nonsense marketing.”

Tabitha enters last, on the arm of Yves Laroche—the Paris retail magnate whose wife once described my brand as “more lion than lamb.” She wears purple velvet wrapped around her frame and shot through with silver thread.

Dante’s last-minute choice, but I double-checked the pattern’s distortion tolerance under spotlights.

It sculpts her body without veering into scandal.

More importantly, she looks comfortable, chin lifted, shoulders set.

I breathe. Time to start the fiasco.

Sal sits at the head, anchoring gravitas.

I’m at the center left, a command position for deal talk.

Dante floats mid-right to inject levity.

Tabitha is placed across from Lady Markham and two investor spouses, well clear of the Parisian flirt, Henri Duval, whose Instagram biography lists “Gourmand, philanderer, yachtsman” in that order.

He’s new. The board insisted he get a seat at the table, though I had my reservations. Such is life.

Sal opens with a toast—zero superfluous words, just “To new partnerships and honorable profits.” Sir John grunts approval. Dante segues into describing the estate’s centuries-old wine cellar while waiters pour wine. Laughter bubbles, and soon the conversation flows naturally.

This is my element. The best deals don’t happen in the boardroom. They happen in homes, when people are relaxed and pliant. The better the mood, the more the money flows.

I steer discussion with layered precision.

Answer a Hong Kong fund manager’s question about Italian labor tax rebates while acknowledging a Seoul partner’s interest in capsule drops, while—out of one ear—tracking Tabitha’s conversation with the wives.

She’s explaining how to keep vintage velvet from bruising during long flights.

The wives lean in, enthralled. Excellent.

A lifetime of thrift shopping has left her with an unusual knowledge base, and I love learning more about what’s in her head.

But when Henri asks about the evening’s entertainment, I almost falter.

I’ve heard about the entertainment at his parties, and there aren’t any strippers waiting in the wings to dance for him here.

Hopefully, that won’t be an issue for him.

The second course is seared scallops on parsnip velouté.

Dante distracts our guests during plating by telling his hang gliding story—the one where his foot snagged a pine tree, and he miraculously escaped with nothing but a bruised ego.

The laughter is genuine. Even Sal’s granite facade cracks into a grudging smile.

Conversation hums through the meal, and after dessert—pistachio semifreddo flamed with amaretto and grappa—we adjourn to the south gallery for cordials. A jazz trio plays hushed standards, and deals drift naturally into side clusters.

I’m discussing supply-chain digitization with Roger Markham when I catch it.

Henri Duval angles toward Tabitha like a shark tracking blood in the water.

His wife is absorbed in conversation across the room with Lady Markham.

Henri’s glass is half-empty, eyes half-lidded, but he focuses completely on Tabitha.

She smiles politely as he approaches the group, but excuses herself from the ladies and leaves for the restroom. He follows her out of the south gallery, a gleam in his eyes.

“Roger, if you’ll excuse me?—”

“Of course.” He turns to rejoin the conversation with Sal.

I follow quickly to rescue Tabitha from whatever Henri has in mind. I hear them down the hall and around the corner in an alcove. I can’t see her, but I see his back. He leans far too close.

My first impulse is to intercept. But a cooler voice emerges.

What if she sees an opportunity to pivot from one benefactor to another?

Henri has as much money as we do, and connections all around the world. If we’re just her stepping stone into high society?—

No. That’s not right. I know Tabitha. She’s not that kind of…

I gulp, trying not to hate myself. How many of my friends have been duped by a shrewd woman? Due diligence applies to hearts as well as ledgers.

I hate this. But I have to know. So I hover near a marble plinth of Bernini bronzes, in earshot but out of sightline, ready to spring.

Henri’s voice slurs just enough to smear consonants. “Mademoiselle Calloway, I enjoyed the show at The Armory auction. Lovely performance art…very intimate . ”

“What armory, sir?” Her voice is level.

My heartbeat is not. How does he know about that?

“Oh, you know the one. The one where you wore a slip so sheer I thought I should have paid extra for the footage.”

“I’m afraid you’re confused.” She keeps her tone light. “I have one of those faces. I get mistaken for other people all the time.”

“Non, non. I never forget a silhouette. Or a redhead. I’ve seen…let us say…a teaser of your dressing-room encore . ”

I want to gut him.

Tabitha sets her champagne on a side table deliberately, steady hand, no flinch. I catch just the edge of the movement. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Henri slides a sleek black credit card from his inside pocket. “Ten thousand euros for an exclusive encore, one night only. After you finish servicing the Morettis. And I pay for premium upgrades.”

My fist curls at my side. Pulse thunders. The urge to snap his neck is visceral.

Tabitha’s voice perks up. “ Ten thousand?”

“I am generous. Perhaps twenty? It depends on the services on offer. Do you only do girlfriend experiences? Dominatrix work?”

Tabitha’s sigh is audible. “Tell me, does Mrs. Duval share your philanthropic flair, or does she prefer retail therapy?”

Henri falters, gaze flicking to his wife down the hall. He shrugs. “She lives her life. I live mine.”

Tabitha presses. “I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to hear you investing household funds in… What would you call paying women for sex? Being a patron of the arts?”

He leans even closer to her, his hand on her arm like she belongs to him. “You’ll find I am more generous than your current johns?—”

That’s it. I come out of hiding, ready to stomp his ass into the ground.

Tabitha’s laugh echoes down the hall, and I freeze. It’s a mocking, feminine laugh. If it were aimed at me, I’d feel twelve inches all. “Henri, surely you jest. Talking to me like I’m a sex worker?—”

“You’re a whore. The Moretti brothers paid to fuck you. We all know it.”

She stands up—I hear the creaking of the bench beneath her and see the edge of her form from here. She gracefully removes his hand from her arm, then kisses his knuckles. “Oh, you poor dear man. Henri, for the record, I’m not a sex worker, and even if I were, you couldn’t afford me.”

“You don’t know what I can afford?—”

“And it seems to me that you’re a bit confused, and while I know that’s normal for someone of your very advanced age, I think you should get checked out by a doctor.”

“I beg your pardon!” he snaps.

“Well, you run a decent-sized clothing company—nothing compared to the Morettis, of course, but still, you seem proud of it—and I’d hate for investors to lose faith in you, if it were to get out that you’re starting to slip, but I’d love to be the one to tell them.”

He goes pale and silent.

“Moreover, I’m sure your wife would want you to take care of your health.

That is, until she learns you’re propositioning other women.

Of course, she doesn’t have to learn that at all, nor do your investors need to learn about your slipping mental state, provided you keep your hands to yourself and you stop harassing women. ”

He clears his throat. “Must have been mistaken—pardon.” He almost bows and scuttles away, nearly colliding with a waiter.

Tabitha exhales, lifts her champagne, takes a measured sip as if nothing rippled the evening. She straightens her posture and rejoins Lady Markham’s group, seamlessly re-immersed in talk of London Ballet refurbishments.

Only then do I release my breath. I have never been so aroused in my life.

I wait for a break in her conversation, then approach Tabitha discreetly. The way her pretty face lights up when we make eye contact is enough to set me on fire. But that will have to wait.

For now, I merely want to check in. “Everything all right?”

“Spilled champagne on my heel.” She smiles, carefree as ever. “Nothing a little water won’t wash out.”

I offer a subtle nod. It’s impossible to know what’s going on in her mind until I catch the minuscule glance over my shoulder at Henri. She’s keeping an eye on him. I’ll keep doing the same.

Dinner ends with handshake signatures on two preliminary term sheets. Sir John invites Sal to go fly-fishing in Scotland. Laroche promises front-page placement in Lafayette’s spring windows. Everyone else appears to have had a good time.

When guests depart beneath a colonnade of lanterns, Sal whispers to me, “That went shockingly smooth.”

“Almost,” I reply. He raises an eyebrow. I shake my head—later.

Half an hour later, I find Tabitha in the conservatory, extinguishing votive candles. Her back is to me, but she says, “I hope Henri sends his wife flowers tomorrow. He looked guilty enough to buy a florist.”

I close the door behind me and lock it. “Thank you.”

She blows out a candle, leaving the scent of beeswax and peonies. “For what?”

“For proving I worried over nothing. And for defending yourself with such ruthless grace.” I step closer. “I almost intervened?—”

“I know.” She turns, flame reflections dancing in her eyes. “But you held back.”

“I needed to know—” The words snag on guilt, but I push them out. “Know if your feelings for us are real. If money could still sway you.”

Her jaw firms. “You run risk assessments on everything. Including me.”

“I’m not proud of it?—”

She sets the snuffer down, approaches, and cups my face, thumbs brushing the hinge of my jaw. “Nico, people’s hearts aren’t auditable. They’re living ledgers—values that appreciate when invested in, depreciate when neglected.” She huffs a laugh. “Listen to me sounding like you.”

Warmth skyrockets in my chest. “You sound brilliant.”

She arches a brow. “Brilliant enough to become movement director full-time?”

I smile. “Offer letter drafts tomorrow.”

Her grin flips shy. Then she sobers. “For the record, no price could make me change my mind about you or your brothers.” She leans in until her lips graze my ear. “I’m not for sale anymore.”

An earthquake of relief and desire rumbles through me. I capture her mouth, savoring the sweet taste of her lips, her tongue.

She withdraws slightly. “Your family takes things very seriously. Maybe too seriously.”

“I can work on that.” My voice is weak and soaked in affection.

She laughs, head tipping back, throat pale in candle glow. I kiss that pulse point, feeling it spring beneath my lips. “I’d be happy to help you with that project too.”

“I’ll take you up on that.”