To avoid getting caught staring again, she filed her wonderings away for later.
“Can I offer you a drink?” she asked. Her casual tone was meant to be relaxing. Compelling. She might have overdone it a little, coming off a smidge calculating.
Alex cocked his head, mulling over her simple question much longer than he should have. “I need to drive, but don’t stop on my account.”
The ice-cold vodka from the freezer was in her hand a second later. As much as Charity would love to shove a jumbo straw into the bottle and have a go at it, pouring two fingers into a lowball seemed classier. Out of politeness, or just to avoid drinking alone, she filled a similar glass with ice and water, handing it to him and offering him a seat.
With a sip and a patient smile, he kept himself several feet away from her, using the space of the sectional to maintain a professional distance.
Charity decided with a man used to navigating the grabby waters of Manhattan socialites, the direct approach might work best. “Can I be offensively blunt?” The mouthful of vodka she swallowed warmed her chest, soothing the niggle of apprehension.
“Please. The more offensive, the better.” His smile charmed the words right out of her.
“You look exhausted. I’m guessing you haven’t slept in days. Maybe weeks.” When his long blink conceded her point, she leaned in. “And I think I know exactly what you need.”
“I think I know where you’re going with this.” He pushed aside her unspoken suggestion with a polite shake of his head. “I rarely even take aspirin. Drugs aren’t my thing, but thanks.”
She scooted closer, cautious in taking his hand. The strength of his hand melted her. It had to show in her eyes. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”
With a huff, he asked, “Charity, please tell me you didn’t get me up here to psychoanalyze me.
“God, no. Freud was a freak.”
“Palm reading?”
“No.”
“Acupressure?”
Sighing at his adorable stalling tactics, she said firmly, “No.”
“Because by the way you’re holding my hand, I couldn’t possibly understand what you want. Especially since I think I made myself clear a long time ago.”
Gently squeezing his hand, she gave him the best puppy-dog eyes of her life. “Please. Hear me out.”
Calmly, he sat back, generously leaving his hand in hers. The beast might be at bay, but he was likely biding his time to tear something apart. Would it be her idea?
Or me?
Centering her thoughts, she carefully chose her words to come off as objective as possible. Imagining herself in a lab coat and thick-rimmed glasses, she tried to keep the discussion clinical. “I think you’re overworked and under . . . stimulated. What you really need is a no-holds-barred release.”
Patting her hand with a sweetness that came off paternal and patronizing, he said, “Thanks for the offer, Dr. Charity. In case you somehow missed the memo, I get plenty.”
“No, you pound plenty. Minimal stimulation, minimal spew.” Wincing, she realized that might have pushed her analysis past medical and straight to vulgar. “Or how about minimal investment.”
He leaned in to mock her. “Is that your professional assessment? Are we back to our old game? I can already hear it coming. I only get out of it what I put into it.”
“Look at yourself. Your eyes are carrying more bags than a baggage handler at La Guardia. So, why not let me do what I do best?”
“Spread crazy-ass rumors and be my mole? I’m for it one hundred percent. Have sex with you? Absolutely not.”
“Why not me?”
“Why not you?” The rhetorical question was delivered with a laugh. “Paco wasn’t bullshitting. I don’t mind a trip to pound town, but I’m not about to get close. It’s hardly a secret. I barely know their names, but your name, I know. Consider yourself disqualified, and my fruit absolutely forbidden.” He stood, dropping the pouch to the sofa.
All Alex’s overwhelming protectiveness did was reinforce her defiance.
“You can’t keep paying me for not having sex with you. This place and your personal tuition assistance program are more than enough.” Pointing at the pouch with a clear disinterest in touching it, Charity continued. “I don’t even know what outrageous amount is in there, but I know it’s crazy. And for what? Pulling a gag on some rich bitch? Seriously, call it my gift to society.”
For whatever reason, he listened, and her lofty look at the bag in question gave her the courage to ask, “How much is in there?”
Easing himself back to the sofa, he drew a breath that finally led to an answer. With a coy shrug, he said, “A hundred thousand dollars.”
Shocked, she felt her jaw drop open. Any notion of a response other than stunned silence was long gone.
Alex explained. “Look, all I want to do with my money is make sure the underdog gets a good, sporting shot at a win every once in a while. Believe it or not, I can account for every cent I’ve given you. And by the way you live, so can you.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, genuinely wondering if there were cameras planted throughout her place.
No biggie, if so. I just want to know.
Alex slid the pouch closer to her. “You’ve had the resources to do a lot of things. Extravagant shopping. Lavish trips. But you haven’t used any of the money to spoil yourself.”
“Why would I? You and Paco spoil me enough.”
“Charity, you haven’t even bought a car. And unless we need you for a meeting, you never use the DGI drivers that you’re more than welcome to. Whenever you go to class, you walk or take the bus.” His clear distaste for public transportation came out in his tone. Taking a moment, he sucked in a breath, cooling his jets. “The last big check I handed you was signed right over to a women and children’s shelter.”
Lifting a brow, she bypassed his last comment, cutting right to the question echoing in her head. “How do you know I walk and take the bus?”
Charity’s pointed question caused him to clasp his hands, explaining away his insights with an executive demeanor. His answer was matter-of-fact, clarifying the reality of the world she’d been kept in.
“Because you work for me, and on some of my most discreet jobs. It makes you vulnerable. You’ve met one Monty, but I’ve met thousands. I know what’s going on with you because it’s my business to know, especially when you’re taking twice the course load and coming home exhausted through the dark streets of New York City at night. Do I have to remind you what can happen?”
His fingers steepled, pointing to her hand. Forgetting who she was with, Charity covered it. A year and a half later, and the side effect of shame still lingered.
Stern, his eyes met hers. “That shit’s not happening on my watch. Look, let me set your mind at ease. I don’t know exactly what you’re going to do with this cash, and I don’t care. But I know what you’ve been doing is important, to you and to others. Without a doubt, you won’t snort it up your nose or shoot it up your veins. And buying a Birkin or Louboutins seems to be the last thing on your mind. You’re at the beginning of really doing something, changing lives for the better. I’m not interested in managing you or checking how you spend it. This is your money . . . to do with as you please. No strings attached. Okay?”