It’s a good thing this gorgeous stranger and I aren’t married, because the way the pretty hostess swoons when he approaches her and asks for a table is exasperating.
I mean, it would be. As it is, I’m simply considering this an interesting education in the power of a charming smile.
“R-right this way, Mr. McCord,” she stammers, reddening.
When she turns and starts to walk away, I say drily, “Come here often?”
“Something like that.”
He steers me through the restaurant by my elbow, nodding at people here and there as we pass by. He’s obviously well known around the place, which makes me relax a little.
If he were a murderer, he probably wouldn’t be so popular.
The hostess leads us to a table in the back of the restaurant, next to a window overlooking a tree-lined courtyard with a fountain in the middle. Callum pulls out my chair, makes sure I’m comfortably seated, then takes the chair across from me. He snaps open a white linen napkin and elegantly settles it over his lap.
Without looking at the hostess, he says, “I’ll start with the usual, Sophie. And the lady will have a vodka martini.”
“Yes, sir.” Gaze downcast, Sophie turns to leave, but I stop her.
“Actually, I’d like an iced tea, please.”
Startled, she looks at me with wide eyes. Then she glances at Callum, wanting permission to change my order.
When he inclines his head, I laugh in disbelief.
Sophie scurries away before I can ask her if she’s ever heard of the feminist movement.
I catch Callum looking at me and say, “Don’t mind me. It’s just that I’ve grown so accustomed to making my own decisions that it’s a huge relief to discover I no longer have to.”
He leans back in his chair, rests one hand on the edge of the table, and considers me thoughtfully for a moment.
“You’re being sarcastic.”
I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes. “How gratifying to know that your brains equal your—”
I bite my tongue. Heat rises in my cheeks. Mentally hitting myself over the head with my chair, I remain silent.
Leaning in and clasping his hands together, Callum stares intently at me.
“My what?”
I cast around for something that will sound reasonable. “Your…um…I forgot.”
Congratulations, Em. Your brain has left the building.
“You forgot?”
There’s a trace of humor in his voice, but his expression is serious. The tips of my ears begin to burn.
“Let’s talk about something else.”
“Tell me what you were going to say first.”
“No.”
His stare is unwavering. The heat in my cheeks burns hotter.
“I mean, no, thank you.”
I want to cover my face with my napkin, slide under the table, and hide, but won’t give him the satisfaction. I remain stiff and embarrassed in my chair, staring back at him with what I hope is convincing confidence.
Holding my gaze, he commands softly, “Tell me what you were going to say, Emery.”
Whew. If I’m going to have to beat my vagina into submission every time this man says something sexy and commanding, my arms will fall off.
I blow out a hard breath and decide to go with the truth. What the hell, this whole thing couldn’t get any weirder.
“Beauty. There you have it. I was going to say that your brains equal your beauty. Now let’s talk about how you know my name.”
“I overheard your employees say it at the restaurant. Then I researched your business. Don’t change the subject.”
“You researched my business?” I repeat, surprised.
“I had to find out where it was located so I could come and make my proposition to you. Don’t change the subject.”
His intensity is alarming. It’s also arousing. I don’t believe I’ve ever been looked at with such perfect focus in my life.
My voice faint, I say, “What was the subject again?”
“You said my brains equal my beauty.”
Honestly, at this point he could tell me I said I’d like to throw a saddle on him and go for a ride, and I’d believe it.
“Yes. I suppose I did.”
“So you think I’m beautiful.”
Put off that he’s hunting for more compliments, I scrunch up my nose. “I take it back. Narcissism is never pretty.”
If that insulted him, he doesn’t show it. He simply says, “I’m many things, but a narcissist isn’t one of them.”
“Which is exactly what a narcissist would say.”
That earns me a smile, his first of the day. To say it’s gorgeous would be a massive understatement. It is, in fact, dazzling.
My palms start to sweat.
Sophie returns with our drinks. As soon as she sets the glass of iced tea in front of me, I turn to her and say, “You know, I think I will have that martini after all.”
When she looks at Callum for approval, I sigh in disappointment.
“Give Miss Eastwood whatever she wants, Sophie,” murmurs Callum, dark eyes burning as they consider me.
“Yes, sir,” she whispers before walking away.
Seriously, what is it with that girl? She’s as meek as a mouse!
“You don’t approve.”
Pulled from my thoughts, I glance at Callum. He’s looking at me with an indecipherable expression, his smile gone.
“Of what?”
“Of Sophie.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. You don’t approve of her.”
I think for a moment, not understanding where he’s going with this but wanting to be truthful nonetheless. “I suppose it’s just uncomfortable for me to see a woman be so…”
“Submissive?”
That wolflike glimmer has resurfaced in his eyes. Is he laughing at me?
Equal parts annoyed and unsettled, I say, “Yeah. Exactly. It’s like she’s afraid of you.”
“But you’re not.”
I lift my brows and stare at him straight on. “I never said that.”
“You’re not. If you were, you never would have gotten into the car with me.”
“Maybe I’m mentally incompetent.”
Honestly, it would explain a lot.
But he doesn’t think so because he shakes his head. “You sent pictures of my driver’s license, registration, and license plate to your friend. And you made me leave my fingerprints on the water glass.”
“Maybe I’m carefully mentally incompetent.”
“Or maybe you’re intrigued by my offer.” He pauses. “Or by me.”
When I don’t answer, he gifts me with a small, mysterious smile.
It irritates the hell out of me. Smugness is one of my least favorite personality traits in people.
I take a long drink of my martini, set it back onto the table, and gaze into Callum’s gorgeous dark eyes.
“Look. I’m in the middle of one of the worst times of my life. I’m losing my business. I’m disappointing my friends. I’m failing my father’s memory and betraying the legacy he worked his entire life to build. By this time next month, I’ll be crashing on my girlfriend’s sofa because I’ll no longer be able to afford my apartment. I don’t have any interest in indulging some rich stranger’s ego on top of all that. So let’s get to the part where you tell me about this ridiculous offer of yours or reveal the whole thing is being filmed for a reality show, because otherwise, I’m gonna get drunk on your dime, then call myself a cab and go home.”
He stares at me.
I stare back.
It goes on and on until my ears are scalding, and I’m forcing myself to sit still in my seat and not squirm.
But I’ll be damned if I’ll look away first or cower like Sophie, so I maintain eye contact and suffer through it, even though it’s excruciating.
Gradually, a strange expression settles over Callum’s features.
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear it was pride.
He begins without preamble, his voice stroking soft and his dark eyes impossibly bright.
“My family owns McCord Media, the largest private corporation in the world. Our revenue was three hundred billion dollars last year alone. My father built it from the ground up when he took over a small newspaper in New York in the seventies. Then he bought more papers, both domestic and international, then a television station, then a cable network, then a film studio. It grew from there. We’re now considered one of the most successful and influential businesses on the planet. In addition to operating the media empire, we’re heavily invested in real estate. We own this building, in fact. Along with most of Beverly Hills. And Manhattan. Hong Kong is a big part of the portfolio too.”
He pauses to take a drink of whiskey. At least I think it’s whiskey, I have no godly fucking clue because I’m too busy being stunned.
No wonder poor Sophie is so scared of him.
“My father is extremely old-fashioned. He’s been married to my mother for more than forty years, and he believes marriage is the foundation of civilization. Literally. He thinks men would still be hunting with spears in the jungle if it wasn’t for women domesticating us.”
Here he pauses again to look me deeply in the eyes.
“Women are lion tamers, he says. Can you believe that?”
What I can believe is that my underwear is no match for the throaty tone of his voice. What remained from before that didn’t already burn up dissolves in a puff of smoke, leaving me bare and throbbing, clenching my thighs together so I don’t drench the seat of my chair.
I manage to say, “He sounds like quite the character.”
“He is. He’s also stubborn. Once his mind is made up, there’s no changing it. Which is where my proposition to you comes in.”
I almost spit out the sip of martini I just took. “Your father told you to propose to me?”
“No. He told me that he put a condition in his will that if I didn’t marry by December of this year, I’d be disinherited, fired from the company, cut off from all contact with the family, and discredited so badly in the international business community that I’d find it impossible to work again.”
Callum’s smile is grim. “In other words, he’d make it his mission to ruin my life. Which he can do quite easily. One of his rivals in business who crossed him is currently living in a tent on Skid Row.”
Shocked, I gape at him. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Wow. So on top of being a super successful family man, he’s also super vindictive.”
“Yes. When he dies, we’ll need an entire cemetery to bury him along with all his grudges. Which brings us back to you.”
I don’t like being mentioned in the same sentence with his mean, grudge-holding Dad, so I sit back in my chair and drink more of my martini.
Maybe it will kill the rest of my remaining brain cells. They haven’t done much for me lately anyway.
Callum leans over the table and rests his forearms on the edge. His tone grows urgent.
“I need a wife. Not want but need. I’m willing to pay a considerable sum to make that happen, because if I don’t marry, I lose everything. Income, lifestyle, family, property, investments, opportunity…it all vanishes. For good. I’d be left with only the clothes in my closet and what I’ve saved in cash, which isn’t enough to fund a single one of the many vacations I take a year.”
I swallow a sarcastic boo-hoo and simply look at him. And think.
Sophie returns to ask if we’d like to place an order for food. Callum dismisses her with a royal flick of his wrist.
When she’s gone and I’ve collected my thoughts, I say, “Okay. I have some observations to share. Don’t interrupt, please. I have the attention span of a puppy, and I’ll forget what I was saying.”
I wait for a sign from him that he’s agreeing, which arrives in the form of a curt nod. Then I say, “Assuming this information about your family’s business is true—”
“It’s true,” he says forcefully. “Look it up right now on your phone.”
When I stare at him in disapproval, he settles back into his chair, crosses one leg over the other, and folds his hands in his lap. “My apologies,” he says, his expression impassive. “Please proceed.”
“Thank you. As I was saying, a few observations. Here’s the first: it’s odd that you would ask a complete stranger to help you out with this problem of yours. If I were in your shoes, I’d ask a friend. Some other rich person in your social circle. Not some random girl you eavesdropped on at a restaurant. For all you know, I could be a serial killer.”
After a moment of silence, he says, “Is that pause an invitation for me to speak, or should I wait until the end of these interesting little observations of yours?”
“You should wait till the end. And don’t be sarcastic. There’s only room for one smartass at this table, and it’s me.”
This time, his smile is amused. He inclines his head in that kingly way of his, granting me permission to continue.
It’s amazing how someone I find so attractive can also make me want to bash him over the head with my shoe.
“Observation number two: you’re not good with money.”
His brows shoot up.
I’ve insulted him. Good. He could use getting taken down a notch or two. But I give him a smile to take some of the sting out of my words.
“If your father can literally boot you out onto the street and leave you with nothing, you’ve done a terrible job adulting. If I were a rich playboy with access to billions and such a shaky grip on my own fate, you can bet I’d have plans A through Z set up in case I needed a parachute. But you’ve been riding Daddy’s coattails instead. Shame on you.”
Callum lowers his brows and proceeds to glower at me.
“I won’t let that face derail me, but nice try. Observation three: December is only a few months away. Assuming you’ve known about this plan of your father’s to cut you off if you don’t marry, you’ve procrastinated an awful lot for a guy with everything to lose. Which suggests that in addition to being bad with money, your self-motivational skills leave a lot to be desired. Observation four: maybe that’s because being stinking rich isn’t good for building character.”
I can tell he wants to say something, but he keeps his jaw clamped shut and merely gazes at me in silence. Blistering hot, unblinking silence.
I think I might be starting to have fun.
After another sip of my martini, I continue. “You admitted you don’t want to get married, which means that you’d probably make a terrible husband.”
He folds his arms over his chest and exhales a hard, aggravated breath.
“Sigh all you want, it’s true. Which brings us to observation number…” Thinking, I wrinkle my forehead. “What number was I on?”
“It feels like a thousand.”
Ignoring his deadly tone, I say, “Five, I think. Or six. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. But you mentioned the amount of ten million dollars back at the shop. If you have that much cash to throw at a total stranger, you don’t have to listen to your father. You could live comfortably the rest of your life on that.”
He slow blinks, as if incredulous. I understand that he thinks I’ve said something stupid.
“You’re telling me you couldn’t live comfortably on ten million dollars?”
“Of course I could. For a month.”
I mutter, “I knew you were bad with money.”
“For the record, I’m an excellent money manager.”
“Sure. You just don’t have any of your own. And I didn’t tell you it was time for you to talk yet.”
Staring at me, he moistens his lips.
That simple gesture is so sexy, I lose the rest of what little composure I had to begin with and blurt, “The final observation is that this is all too convenient.”
“What is?”
“This. You. Your ridiculous offer of marriage and a pile of money to save me right when I need it most.”
He shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. “Maybe you’re lucky.”
“Ha! No, I’m not, I promise you. There has to be something else going on here.” I look suspiciously around the restaurant, trying to spot the hidden cameras.
“All right, Emery. You caught me. I’ll tell you the truth.”
I glance back at Callum to find him gazing at me with that same cool nonchalance, a small, mysterious smile playing around his sculpted lips.
His tone gently mocking, he says, “I’ve been obsessed with you for years. I’ve watched you from afar, planning, scheming, waiting for exactly the right moment to make you mine. Now all my planning has paid off, and the moment is here.”
His mysterious smile grows wider. “Hello, little lamb. Welcome to the lion’s den.”
I roll my eyes. “Your sense of humor is as bad as your money management skills.”
I spot Sophie staring at us from the hostess stand across the restaurant. She’s wringing her hands, looking on the verge of a panic attack. I gesture for her to come over, because I need another drink.
When I look back at Callum, he’s holding his whiskey, swirling it slowly around in the glass as he gazes at me with half-lidded eyes.
He’s still smiling.
