“I’m sure we’ll figure something out.” I fluff off the topic of the venue because I don’t want the man behind me knowing I’m at a disadvantage.
“We’ll find a venue. Don’t worry,” Chelsea blurts out and I’m really hoping it’s the hormones in her body that are making her ignore the fact that I tried to squash this topic. “What kind of a place double books and doesn’t know it until six weeks out?”
I drag my finger across my throat.
“I agree, I felt like cutting their throats when they called. I’m happy you feel the same way because I thought it was my pregnancy hormones kicking in. The other night, I got so mad at Dean because he didn’t wipe off Grover’s paws when he came in from outside,” Chelsea continues rambling.
“Chels.” Victoria widens her eyes and bops her head in the direction behind me.
“Oh,” she mouths and slinks back into her booth. “Sorry,” she mouths again, biting her lip.
My eyes close and the booth behind me shifts.
Please be getting a drink. Lincoln’s swamped and he’s on the opposite side of the room, so it makes total sense if Roarke was headed to the bar.
Chelsea’s gaze follows him and I don’t need a tracker on the man to know where he’s at, watching Chelsea does just fine. Even Victoria’s watching him. I can tell he’s at the bar. Thank God.
A few seconds later their eyes widen and their faces lose color. Their unspoken reaction makes my internal radar blip and bleep, signaling that he’s drawing closer. The scent of his musky cologne wraps around our booth as tightly as the viper he’s proven to be.
Once we’re in his clutches, he eyes the empty spot next to Chelsea.
For reasons unknown to me, she slides over closer to Victoria.
He folds himself into the booth, glass clasped in his hand, his gaze focused solely on me. “Ms. Crowley, I couldn’t help but overhear you’re in need of a venue?” His perfectly styled salt and pepper hair is the first sign that he’s dangerous. It suggests he’s older and more experienced than I am. He’s had years at the practice of fucking with people’s lives—both professionally and personally I’d bet. Lord knows his profession relies on his ability to twist words and plant seeds of doubt.
A solid piece of ice clanks against his glass, splashing the dark amber liquid inside when he sets it down on the table.
“I’m not interested.” I sip my drink, purposely pressing my lips around the edge of the glass hoping to drive him as batshit crazy as he drives me.
“What if I can get you a venue?”
His arrogance never ceases to amaze me. Like I’m some damsel in distress and he’s going to gallop into my town on his white horse to save the day. No thanks.
The girls’ gazes dart over to me like they’re watching the latest drama and someone just announced a surprise pregnancy. Maybe they’d like some popcorn to keep their jaws from hanging.
“I’m sure your price is more than we can afford.” I tamper down my emotional side—the irrational one that demands I reach across the table and wrap my hand around his throat until his face turns red.
“Oh, Ms. Crowley, you have it all wrong. You know as well as I do the art of negotiation is simple. I give you something you want and you give me something I want.”
I twirl my glass on the table, the liquid splashing from side to side.
Don’t ask.
Throw your drink in his face.
Unfortunately, I’ve been trained to not show anyone they’re getting a rise out of me.
‘Calm your temper,’ my dad’s voice rings out in my head. ‘Do not show them what you’re feeling. Under any circumstances.’
I plaster a half-cocked smile on my face. “And what is it you want Mr. Baldwin?”
I lock eyes with him, and maybe my father trained him, too, because there’s not one flicker of doubt to be found.
“You.”
My stomach stirs with a million butterflies. Some die and fall to the pits of my belly while others soar with the thought of him telling me exactly how and where he wants me.
Chapter Two
“Oh, Mr. Baldwin—”
“Call me, Roarke.” His arrogance shines through his eyes over the rim of his glass. His Adam’s apple bobs, prompting sweat to puddle between my breasts.
“I don’t think so.” I sip from my own drink, needing the coolness to chill my skin back to the icy hatred I need to deal with this vulture.
“Why?”
Chelsea makes a squeaking sound and Victoria reaches over and squeezes her knee.
“Why what?” I ask in a voice devoid of emotion.
“Why won’t you call me Roarke?” The ice in his glass clinks again as he sets it down and my eyes clock his expensive watch. His crisp white buttoned shirt sleeves peek out of his dark charcoal suit. He even has a crimson pocket square in his front pocket which separates him from every other suit in here.
Which is fitting since he walks around like he’s the fucking King of England.
“Roarke would make it sound like I liked you. I do not.”
His hand covers his heart and his gaze darts over to my friends. “Is she always this straightforward?”
The girls who I hired for their sharp tongues and intelligence look like a pair of starry-eyed lovesick teenagers right now.
Roarke doesn’t wait for them to answer because like most things with him, I’m certain he doesn’t care what anyone else’s opinion is about anything.
“Your words, Ms. Crowley, they hurt. I’ve done nothing to warrant your hatred.”
I tilt my head and draw in a slow, deep breath trying my best to rein my temper in.
One….two…three.
Yeah, that didn’t work.
“You took from me. You stole a lot from me. Things he didn’t deserve.” I school my face to hide how angry I am.
“Now, now. My client paid me to do a service for him. I did that service.”
I huff but quickly quiet myself and straighten my back. “Your client didn’t work for that money. He didn’t work for that vacation home. He didn’t sweat for anything. His surgeon salary was untouched for most of our marriage.”
Why am I rehashing my divorce like we’re in mediation again?
I put my hand up in the air before he can deliver his rebuttal. “You know what? Never mind. The divorce is over and I’m rid of that name now. It is what it is, but I will assure you, Mr. Baldwin, I do not need your help now, nor do I need your assistance in the future. Thank you for your kind offer, but we’re fine.”
The fucking bastard smiles like I just jerked him off until his cum dripped down my fingers like a melted ice cream cone.
“All right then. I’ll leave you ladies to figure out a solution yourselves.” He slides out of the booth with the finesse of a man who’s never suffered from clumsiness.
“Goodnight, Mr. Baldwin.”
“Han… Ms. Crowley.” His knuckles rap on the wood of the tabletop, his eyes still taking me in.
Saliva puddles in my mouth but I refuse to swallow. I’ll never let him witness my physical attraction to him.
“Is there something else, Mr. Baldwin?” My eyes train on his, the ache between my thighs growing.