She stiffened at the too-familiar voice behind her. Goddamn it.
She counted to three, with Mississippis in between. He deserved to wait for her time and attention. If there was no one in the room, she’d make him wait longer.
She’d make him wait forever.
She turned, her movements slower than usual, aware that he’d hate having to conform to her time table. The man behind her was tall and lanky. He’d been a swimmer in college, and he’d maintained both his physique and his boyish good looks well into his thirties. His brown hair was sun-kissed, his normally pale skin tanned, which meant he’d probably been on his yacht lately.
She’d been there when Peter had bought his yacht. She’d been so excited for him. They’d had sex on that stupid boat.
This was happening. She’d known it was coming. She was prepared.
She was Charlie fucking Bucket, and she’d kill this.
He didn’t look at all surprised to see her, and she immediately did her best to match his expression. Blasé. Uncaring.
Like this man hadn’t slowly isolated her until she feared she had nothing but him. Like he hadn’t harassed her and made her professional life miserable when she finally managed to break things off. Like he hadn’t started a whisper campaign to smear her name to make sure no one would believe her if she did come forward.
Like he hadn’t forced her out of a company she’d loved, one she’d helped build from the ground up without so much as an iota of credit for her contributions.
A snarl started deep in her throat, but she reined it in. She arched her eyebrow at Peter, and inclined her head slightly. “Peter. Good to see you again.”
“You as well.” He clapped her on the shoulder and she barely refrained from flinching. Especially when he kept his hand there for a moment too long before he turned to Martin and Chris. “Gentlemen, it’s a pleasure.”
She sidled away, her gaze drawn to the large shadow in the doorway.
Samson.
Her relief at seeing him would have worried her, if Peter didn’t worry her more. She smiled as he walked toward them.
It took her a second to realize his return grin was missing. Actually, everything was missing. The light in his face, the eagerness in his step, the little lines crinkling around his eyes.
Her smile faltered. What was wrong?
“Who’s this?” Peter’s booming voice dragged her attention back to him. Which was what he’d meant to do, she realized, when she beheld his frown as he looked back and forth between the two of them.
He didn’t like that she’d smiled at Samson. She didn’t give a fuck what Peter liked, but there were other ways to establish her dominance that didn’t involve Samson.
Before Tina could introduce Samson, Rhiannon took up the cause. “This is Samson Lima,” she said smoothly, speaking to the other men. “He’s the new face of Matchmaker. He and I have been working on a little project together.”
Samson shook hands with everyone. “Hello.”
“I’ve seen the campaign,” Chris enthused. He winked at Rhiannon. “Wholesome. Very much what the internet needs right now. It’s that kind of thinking that would have made you a great CMO for my company, Rhiannon.”
“It was Samson’s idea, and I personally think I make a better CEO of my own company.” Her words were firm, but kind. Chief marketing officer at Chris’s megaconglomerate would have been a big step up from Swype, but her step was bigger.
Chris laughed, not taking offense, and her liking for him grew. “Absolutely right.”
Martin eyed Samson with the kind of hero worship children usually reserved for their sports heroes. “I’m sorry to hear about your uncle,” Martin said. “I’m a big fan of your family.”
Samson’s lips curled up at the corners, but his eyes remained dull and blank. “Thank you. Everyone’s here, right, Tina? I think we can go in to dinner.”
“Yes, everyone’s here.”
Samson placed his hand on Rhiannon’s elbow. It was a light, platonic touch, but a frizzle of excitement went through her when she thought of the photograph he’d sent her a few hours ago, of that very hand.
The photograph he’d sent her yesterday, of the same hand holding something else.
“You okay?” she murmured, when everyone else went ahead of them.
“Sure. How are you?”
“Fine,” she responded automatically, though that wasn’t true. A formal response to a formal inquiry. Rhiannon studied him, worried about his uncharacteristically subdued greeting and affect. It was like someone had sucked every ounce of charm out of Samson, leaving only an automaton. She’d never seen him look so expressionless, especially when greeting new people. Had he gotten some bad news or—
She glanced away, her stomach tightening when she met Peter’s gaze. He swiveled his head around, but she inched away from Samson.
What was wrong with her? She didn’t have time to dwell on why Samson’s smile was missing, or analyze his mood. She was here to work, damn it.
Eye on the prize, and that prize included no man.
Chapter Twenty-One
FROM THE time Samson was ten until Aleki had started to decline, Samson had gone on barefoot runs with his father and uncle on the beach. At first he’d lagged far behind his elders, but as he’d grown, he’d easily caught up with the two star athletes. They’d jogged for miles, until sand covered their bodies, until they could taste it in their mouths. In the colder months, the three of them would return home with their faces tight and immovable.
He hadn’t run far enough when Tina had texted him Chris had arrived, but his face was still frozen. Which was a little worrisome, because he had to be on, but it was also a blessing, because his stew of feelings were ice-cold too.
Samson glanced across the dining table. Rhi didn’t know it, but that numbness was a blessing for her too. Had he been in his right mind it would have been difficult not to grab her up in a hug when he’d spotted her, especially when she looked so tidy and businesslike.
She would have murdered him. She was here to work, after all, and he intuitively knew she’d carve him up with a rusty spoon if he let on that they knew each other intimately in front of her competitors.
The French doors to the dining room opened, and Annabelle appeared. She’d elaborately curled her red hair and giant black glasses perched on her nose. She changed caftans from when he’d seen her last, opting for a flowing red one, and matched it to the red paint on her lips. His aunt posed in the doorway, one hand on her hip. “Hello, everyone! Welcome to my home. I am Annabelle Kostas.”
Samson had seen this entrance many times. He dutifully rose to his feet and the others followed.
Annabelle swept into the room and grinned at all of them, clearly delighted with herself. She may not enjoy being the focus of large crowds, but Annabelle did like attention when it came in the form of small gatherings like this. Once upon a time, she and Joe had often hosted weekend soirees for their closest friends. “Please, everyone! Have a seat, have a seat. No need to make such a fuss over me. Rhiannon, Martin, Chris, Peter. Lovely to meet all of you.”
The ice on his soul melted, at least in one corner. He’d considered ignoring Tina’s text earlier and running forever, but that would have been an impossible option. Today wasn’t about him. He was here for Aunt Belle. He had a job to do too.