All I can do is grin.
It feels remarkably good to have someone understand me so well. Emotion swells in my chest, raises my temperature, makes my pulse quicken, a high of accomplishment spreading throughout my body.
It's unfamiliar.
It's unbounded.
And it's Ian McCrory who is eliciting it from me.
“Good work. That’s taken you…” his voice fades out as he thinks, “...six years.”
“Yes. Yes, it has. And now it’s done.”
“Nice little deal you've made.”
“Don't do that.”
“Do what?”
“Little. This is anything but little, Ian. Don't act like this deal is some sort of a consolation prize for me because you decided you didn't want it enough.”
“Don't tell me what I want, Hastings.”
Suddenly, it's clear we're not talking about business.
The sound of a man clearing his throat makes us both turn to look at José, who cocks one eyebrow, gives Ian a glance, and then looks at me pointedly.
Ian’s not stupid. “Is something wrong?” he asks José, instantly protective. The tone change is one that I would normally admire, but right now, panic is scrambling all of my sensors.
“Ms. Monahan and I were dealing with a business matter, Mr. McCrory. Your room is reserved in the back. Most of your party is there already.” José's smile is ingratiating. I can feel the shift in how he treats me versus how he treats Ian in my salivary glands. A bitter taste fills my mouth as I realize I’ve been instantly relegated to some social trash heap as a result of a computer glitch.
Their glitch.
Ian bends down to kiss my cheek, startling me, his clean-shaven face so smooth, hot, and dry, making my pulse skip.
“Congratulations, Hastings. A job well done. Give my best to Burke when you see him next.” He opens his mouth slightly, as if to say something more, and then shuts it quickly. I want to ask him what he started to say, but I know that no matter what, he’s sealed up tight, like a drum.
Men like Ian McCrory don’t equivocate. If he changed his mind, his mind is changed.
I can’t help myself as he leaves, my eyes taking in the back of his body, that bespoke suit jacket perfectly molded along the lines of his tight, wide shoulders. His legs are long, shoes shined, a deep Italian richness that you can’t buy with just money.
You need taste, too.
Real taste.
José’s eyes jump from Ian, to me, back to Ian. The man is clearly making decisions based on social importance. If I am important to Ian McCrory, then upsetting me could upset the alpha.
Social calculations take microseconds for people like me, Ian, and even José. You can’t be the maître d’ at one of the hottest restaurants in one of the hottest cities in the world and not be people smart. Emotional intelligence isn’t just for softhearted church ladies, preschool teachers, and therapists.
We need every advantage we can get in this world.
“Isn’t Ian wonderful?” I murmur as I bring José into my space with a confidante’s wink. “We go back ages.”
José’s eyes narrow. He’s trying to figure out if by ages, I mean we’ve slept together. It can’t hurt to pretend that’s the case, so I lean in and lower my voice. “He’s a good friend to have. Comes through when you need him. I’ll bet he’s a great tipper, too.”
That elicits a chuckle, something in my gut unclenching at the sound.
“Will you excuse me?” I say to him, my hand on his. “While you figure out the computer glitch, I need to get back to my guests.”
As if I weren’t deflecting, I give him a flirty smile and move away quickly… but not too quickly. I can’t be...
Hasty.
“Is there a problem?” Ms. Bannerton asks, batting dark eyes at me that make it clear she knows damn well there’s a problem and wants to watch me squirm.
“No problem. Just dealing with—” I hold up my phone and jiggle it. “You know. The husband.”
“Everything’s okay with Burke, I hope?” Mr. Wang Min asks. He's the senior person from Zhangwa and his silence thus far has been a great contrast to Mr. Zhao.
That same strange look passes between him and Mr. Zhao, though.
“Oh, he’s fine. Just had a personal-life question. You know. Marriage.”
“My wife texts me twenty times a day when I’m on trips,” Mr. Zhao says, lips pressed in a tight smile. “And she doesn’t care about time zones, so I get the texts at two in the morning.”
“Mine pretends I’m dead when I’m gone,” says Mr. Wang. Everyone halts. He laughs. “Not literally. She decided that it’s easier to have no contact when I’m away than to have only a little. As long as I bring her back real maple syrup from Vermont, she’s fine with all the travel I do.”
“It’s not as if she has a choice,” says Mr. Zhao. That comment elicits the heartiest laugh from the men at the table.
Ms. Bannerton and I give each other sympathetic looks, but not too sympathetic, because we can’t telegraph weakness in a crowd like this.
Suddenly, the men all stand in unison, Ms. Bannerton struggling to join them in her high heels. My skin breaks out in gooseflesh as I realize something has changed.
Pressing my palms into the arms of my chair, I rise to my feet and turn.
Even before I see him, I know exactly who is drawing this reaction from them.
“Ian!” Ms. Bannerton says, her lips spreading in a grin of joy, eyes devouring him. She bypasses all of the men to launch herself into the arms of the ninth richest man in the world. Mr. Zhao and Mr. Wang are only ranking in the high ’teens these days.
Ian accepts her hug with the gracious formality of a man who knows exactly what to do, then works the table, shaking hands. When he’s done, he turns to me, arms stretched out in a gesture of gentlemanly acknowledgment, and says, “I don’t need to hug you.”
Ms. Bannerton’s eyebrows shoot up.
“We already took care of the intimacies earlier,” he adds.
Normally, that sort of comment would get him a high-heeled spike through that beautiful Italian leather on his size fourteen (I'm guessing) feet, but I’m grateful tonight. It cuts through the tension of my declined credit cards and gives everyone at the table something to whisper about later, long after this dinner is over.
On the other side of the group, José appears, making eyes at me. My heart jumps up into my throat, clawing its way into my sinus cavity, beating like it’s in the Tour de France and about to wipe out at the bottom of a steep hill.
I reach for my purse, the universal gesture of going to the ladies’ room, and I step away, grateful for Ian’s presence. He’ll keep them all busy as I go and untangle this very private mess.
My phone buzzes. I look at the text, hopeful.
It’s a reminder from my carrier to pay my cellphone bill.
Dammit, Burke. Where are you?
Those words have rushed through my brain hundreds of times in the last three days. He’s never gone this long without answering, even if it’s just a single letter, “K,” when I ask him if he’s alive.
I find my way back to the concierge desk, where José is now standing with even less warmth than he had before Ian appeared.