The appetizers come, and part of me idly wonders how much we’re paying for what’s essentially crostini with fancy pesto on it. But I don’t have time to ask because as soon as the waiter leaves, Paul gets down to brass tacks.

  “Okay, Daniel,” he says, ignoring his food, “tell me, what’s got you spooked?”

  I’ll hand it to Daniel, he plays it cooler than James Bond as he casually picks up a crostini and takes a small bite, savoring the flavor for a moment before setting it down and wiping his lips. “What makes you think I’m spooked?”

  This is all calculated and designed to put Paul on edge and make Daniel appear calm and collected. I’d been a bit surprised by how sure Daniel was about predicting Paul’s actions and reactions, but so far, he’s right on the money.

  “We have a contract in review, yet you called my office and said dinner tonight was of the utmost urgency,” Paul expands. “Now, you pull out all this fancy stuff to make sure I know exactly who I’m dealing with. So therefore, spooked.”

  Daniel takes a sip of his scotch, unhurried. “Perhaps. Your company is interesting. Strong financials and innovative technologies.” Even I can hear the ‘but’ coming after that compliment. “It was initially brought to me by a team in my acquisitions group. Everything I saw, every bit of data looked good. Yet, there was something in my gut giving me pause. Do you get those gut feelings?”

  “I’m more a man of science,” Paul says. “Science can be wrong, but it doesn’t lie. Your gut can. Me? I started with tech, live by tech, and will die by tech. Hopefully, even live on in perpetuity by technologies created by my company. Gut instincts don’t stand up to science, so I don’t put any stock in them. I’m honestly surprised a man like you would.”

  Ooh, those are fighting words, Paul! I’m about to show you firsthand what you should put some stock in . . . my left fist and my right one. Bam-bam . . . you’ll never see ’em coming if you keep talking about my man like that.

  Despite my inner ‘put ’em up’ thoughts, Daniel takes Paul’s insult in stride. “I respect that. It’s the way I work too, ninety-five percent of the time. And yet, when my gut speaks, I listen. Or well, I should. There’s data on that too. ‘Gut instincts’ are likely holdovers of our more primitive brains cataloguing and patterning things we haven’t consciously noticed yet.”

  “I can respect that too.”

  “This time, though, I had that feeling and didn’t listen. Because the data kept saying something different. Still, that feeling never went away, and I should’ve listened. Maybe if I had, we wouldn’t be where we are.”

  “Which is where, exactly? Quit beating around the bush and tell me. Out with it.”

  Paul, for a tech guy and company president, is clearly not the experienced iceman Daniel is, and Daniel holds up a hand for calm. “The good news is, my reticence had nothing to do with your company, so to speak. The data does seem to be as good as it shows. But unfortunately, we have a staffing issue. It seems we have foxes in our henhouses.”

  “Shit,” Paul says, instantly catching on to Daniel’s meaning. He leans forward, suddenly extremely interested. “I need to know who immediately.”

  Daniel explains about his unease with Mark and Brandon and his investigation, which led him to one of TRE’s employees. “Although Tiffany is the one who put that together.”

  He looks to me, giving me the floor. I didn’t need it. In fact, earlier today, I said I didn’t want it. But now? Seeing the look in Daniel’s eyes has me feeling like a fucking queen boss, and I thank him silently for it.

  “I work in administration at Fox,” I explain. “We noted that Mark and Brandon were receiving calls from the same woman. Initially, we assumed it was personal in nature,” I say delicately, “and while we do believe it is, there’s a definite professional angle too. I witnessed firsthand that Brandon received paperwork on TRE corporate letterhead from Layla Franklin.”

  Paul’s forehead wrinkles, his brows nearly lifting all the way up to his bald spot. “Layla Franklin? She’s one of my head contract lawyers. I don’t believe it.”

  “I understand the sense of betrayal. I’m battling it myself,” Daniel confesses. “Please, don’t take my word for it. Feel free to do your own due diligence, of course.”

  Paul mulls that over as Gina looks back and forth between the two men. Where I had felt like the ‘odd man out’ during introductions, obviously being judged as different than the older and wealthier Montgomerys and Daniel, now, Gina is sitting stoically while we discuss business and the potential ramifications of this news.

  It’s pretty clear that whatever she does besides wear nice brooches, it has nothing to do with business.

  “I will.” Paul traces a finger around the rim of his scotch glass thoughtfully as the waitress puts down our entrees. Nobody touches them. “But let’s assume you’re right about Layla and your employees. Where does that leave us? We’re deep in negotiations and contract revisions.”

  Daniel nods and drums his fingers on the table, looking for all intents and purposes like this is his first time thinking on the matter and this isn’t the culmination of a lengthy discussion about whether TRE was worth pursuing at all after this news. “First, I believe in what you’re doing at TRE.” Paul nods in acknowledgement of the assessment, and Daniel continues, “My employment contract with my acquisitions team provides for a bonus from any successful closing they bring to Fox. I find it helps them be invested. Do you have any such thing with your legal team?”

  Paul shakes his head, giving Daniel a curious look. “No. But I do have them on billable hours, with bonuses for certain situations like contract projects, so this deal would ultimately be beneficial for Miss Franklin as well.”

  Daniel hums, not surprised. “I see. With both of us having a vested interest, I move that we dissolve our current contract for acquisition. It will prevent issues within the team working on the front line of the project and save financially for us both. Once we do so, I will be terminating Mark and Brandon with cause and reporting them for insider trading. I suggest you do the same with Layla Franklin. After a reasonable time, you and I will reconvene and renegotiate a new contract directly without the conflict of interested parties. That is, if you’re agreeable.”

  It’s coldhearted on the surface. By firing Brandon and Mark, there’s no bonus to pay out. And given what Daniel told me today, it’d be a hefty bonus to both men. Some would accuse him of doing this just to keep that money for the company, but I know better.

  Good workers are worth their weight in gold. If Mark and Brandon were honorable? Daniel would happily fork over twice as large a bonus to keep them. But they’re not.

  Paul looks grateful that the whole deal hasn’t imploded, and I sit back, watching in awe. It’s amazing to watch Daniel work. He’s graceful with his verbal moves, leading Paul where he wants him to go, offering suggestions but also making ideas seem like Paul’s own. I’m intoxicated by him and the brilliance and strategy of his mind.

  I take his hand beneath the table, running my thumb along the soft skin of the back of his hand, wanting to offer strength and support, though he needs neither. He gives me a subtle squeeze while not missing a beat in his discussion with Paul, who’s looking more and more reassured and acquiescent to Daniel by the minute.

  The waitress comes by with a carafe of wine, but I hardly notice until she comes around to my spot. “Yes, please,” I answer, but something goes wrong. The carafe slips, and before I know it, I’ve been doused in red wine.

  “Oh!” I proclaim, pushing away from the table. “What the—”

  “I’m so sorry!” the waitress says, grabbing my napkin. She tries to blot up the wine, but that’s useless on my white blouse, and she’s pretty much pawing at my breasts. She’s basically rounding second base . . . or is it third? All I know is it’s causing even more of a commotion, and I can see other tables giving us interested looks.

  Fuck . . . I could ruin this for Daniel.

  “Uhm, excuse me for a moment.” I stand to go to the restroom to clean up, hoping there’s a hand dryer but well aware that a swanky place like this probably has real cotton towels to dry your hands after a washing. Still, I have to try.

  “I’ll come with you. Gentlemen,” Gina says, placing her napkin on her chair as she stands with me.

  We get to the bathroom, where I find that I was right. No air dryer, just a bunch of moist soft hand towels. Gina immediately tries to be helpful, taking one of the towels and blotting at my blouse with me, but I think we’re only ruining more things at this point. My shirt, plus two towels and a napkin . . . way to go, Tiffany!

  “If you want any chance of saving this, soak it in cold water as soon as you get home, then make sure you take it to the cleaners first thing tomorrow. They’ll need to spot treat it as soon as possible or it’ll be ruined.”

  There’s a definite motherly vibe to her advice, and to be honest, it’s a little hurtful. She doesn’t see us as equals in the slightest despite the civilized dinner. I’m just the little girl, the arm candy on Daniel’s arm.

  “Thank you,” I still say politely, not wanting to rock the boat for Daniel’s potential business colleagues. Still, her friendly condescension is just another knock on the night.

  When the stain is as good as it's going to get, which probably means I need to just burn the blouse as soon as I can, we step out together, making our way back to the table. While I feel like a Jackson Pollock painting of a menstrual eruption, Daniel and Paul are more relaxed as we approach, leaning back in their chairs as they talk.

  Daniel smiles at something Paul says, and I see the soft crinkles at the corner of his eye. I smile too until I’m close enough to hear Paul.

  “How many blue pills are you popping at night to keep up with a hot thing like that?” Paul asks, his voice in awe. If he were slurring, I might play it off, but he isn’t. He’s stone sober. “I mean, she’s hot enough to give a dead man a boner, but still, we gotta do what we gotta do at our age. At least when they’re young like that, they can do all the work. Saves your back. Am I right? And the view . . . you’re one lucky sonofabitch.”

  Gina makes a gasping sound so quiet it’s lost in the din.

  I pause, waiting for Daniel to set Paul straight, to eviscerate him verbally or maybe even physically because it’s not like that between us. I’m not some trophy Daniel is flaunting around like a testament to his manliness.

  He likes my brain, my heart.

  He likes me.

  Not just my body or the way I look on his arm.

  But the longer Daniel takes to respond, the less sure I become. The moment stretches as shock and shame turn my face hot and belly sour. And inside, a nasty little voice starts to whisper.

  He hasn’t been exactly eager to be seen with me. I dragged him to the beach. I took him to the diner, which was far away from anyone we might know, and even then, we were asked questions by the waitress there.

  The only people who know about us are Ricky and Billy.

  And Elle, but I don’t even know if Daniel has had a conversation with Elle about me. She didn’t say, and neither did Daniel.

  The doubt monster is loose in my head, climbing like vines from my feet to strangle me, rooting me in place, desperate for Daniel to disagree. I’ve wanted him for so long and thought my dreams were coming true. Especially tonight when he asked me to come to this dinner. It’d felt like such a big step.

  But maybe not. Not like this.

  Not as some dirty secret, not as someone he’s only using to fill a physical need. At first, I could’ve managed that.

  Hell, I flat-out offered it! But not now. Not after hope has made space in my heart.

  In a snap, like a wildfire hit by a strong wind, the vines surrounding me catch flame, burning hot and fast.

  “Are you serious? You’re not going to say anything to that?” I declare loudly, just this short of a yell. “You’re going to sit there and let him reduce me to nothing more than a sex toy? Like I’m nothing more than a pretty fleshlight?”

  “Tiffany.”

  The expression on his face is one I haven’t seen before, and I’ve studied him for years. There’s no guilt, no shame, but also no care or concern. He’s blank, and certainly not reassuring me in any way that he disagrees with Paul’s crude comments, which throws a shot of gasoline on the flames burning through my soul.

  “No, you know what? Don’t even try!” I yell now, anger sweeping me away. “I told you that if you just wanted to fuck on the down low, I was okay with that. But you said no, that it was more than that! And I believed you. But I’ve never felt more like a show pony on parade than you just made me feel.”

  I point at my heart, which ironically is now reddish thanks to the spilled wine. Appropriate.

  A waiter comes up, looking panicked. “Ma’am, please. You can’t use that language . . .”

  Daniel finally speaks again, his voice low and hard-edged, like he’s warning me. “Tiffany—”

  Tears are threatening, but I won’t give Daniel the satisfaction of seeing me fall apart even more, of seeing how deep I let him in, of how much I’d hoped that this was growing into something as meaningful to him as it already is to me.

  I take a deep, choking breath and steel myself.

  “I might be young,” I hiss, grabbing my purse, “but I know enough that I don’t deserve to be treated like this. I expected better from you, of all people.”

  My glare flicks to Paul, whose eyes are wide in shock, but I can see the gleam in their depths. The asshole is enjoying the dramatic firework show he set off. I point a finger accusingly at him, spewing anger at what he not only said but thought. “And I have a feeling that regardless of age, your wife has always had to do the work with a limp-dicked husband like you. Congrats on telling everyone here that you’ve never made a woman come because you’re a selfish prick only out for your own jollies.”

  I take a breath, ready to unleash another verbal torrent of pettiness and pain, but I realize that I’m yelling and have garnered the attention of the entire restaurant. This is not what I wanted, not what tonight was supposed to be about. I’m horrified, angry, and hurt.

  I whirl on one foot, nearly running for the front door of the restaurant. I bump into a table as I go, ping-ponging and causing people’s fancy crystal glasses to clink together, but I really don’t think I could make things worse right now. I feel their eyes on me every step of the way, and mine burn with unshed tears.

  Out front, the valet recoils when he sees me, but like a pro, he hops into action. “Taxi, ma’am?”

  I nod, climbing in the back, and tell the driver, “Go.”

  The driver looks into the rearview mirror. “Address?”

  I shake my head, emotions slamming through me, putting me on edge and hammering my defenses. “Just go.”

  At the corner, as the restaurant disappears, I give myself permission to fall apart, and the first tears start.

  Chapter 21

  Daniel

  “I’ve dealt with a lot of different types in my career,” I tell Paul, my eyes burning a hole in the man, “but you’re a fucking Neanderthal.”

  “Daniel, I—”

  I stand, throwing my napkin to the table. “Consider TRE blackballed from any venture capital. I’ll put the word out that you’re a well-earned lawsuit away from insolvency. Nobody will touch you. And when you crash and burn, I’ll hire your employees and take the tech anyway.” It might not seem like the fire and brimstone Tiffany unleashed on the man, but I’m hitting him where it’ll hurt him the most—his business, his work, his legacy. I’m precision sharp in cutting deep and letting him know that I’ll enjoy every second of his downfall, eating popcorn while he bleeds out. In fact, it’s already started because people all over the restaurant are looking up TRE on their phones and whispering. I hear someone say ‘that’s Daniel Stryker’ and know the first step of my work is done as far as Paul is concerned.

  To Gina, I say, “Good luck. You deserve better than what I’ve seen tonight.”

  But none of that is my highest priority. No, that’s Tiffany.

  Without waiting for a response, I turn and hurry out of the restaurant, going after her. I’m no more than a minute or two behind, but when I slam my way through the front door, I can immediately tell that she’s gone.

  Turning to the valet, I grab him by the lapels, lifting him up onto his tiptoes even though he’s bigger and younger than me. “Where’d she go?”

  Luckily, the valet keeps his brains about him and points toward the taxi stand that’s at the curb. “I put her in a taxi. I didn’t hear the address.”

  “Fuck!” I shout, dropping the man back to his feet in favor of pulling at my hair. I’m tempted to try and quiz the driver that’s there, figure out who took her. But I seriously doubt he’d tell me, anyway.

  Adding salt to the wound, the valet offers, “She was crying pretty hard. I don’t know if that might help you figure out where she’d go.”

  Focus, Stryker. Calm the fuck down and focus.

  The order does help clear my head, a plan—or at least the first step of one—becoming obvious. “Thanks. I need my car. Now.”

  I give the guy my ticket, and when he pulls up with my car, I throw a fifty his way as an apology and basically yank him out of the driver seat so I can climb in. Closing the door, I pull away, driving faster than I ever have before.

  Along the way, I flagellate myself for causing this. I knew the age difference between Tiffany and me would cause gossip and judgment, but I was shocked by Paul’s words. I reverted to one of the first lessons I learned in business—be active, not reactive. When something throws you, take a moment to pause, consider, and then act decisively with the goal in mind. That split second of thought has saved me many times—in boardrooms, in negotiations, and in life in general.

  This time, though, it blew up in my face. Paul started on sure ground, complimenting Fox and me. And he was equally flattering about Tiffany before his chatter turned ugly.