Ruthless In A Suit: Book Three Part 7

Other than the short time I spent with Emily this morning, every moment has been spent ruminating on the bombsh.e.l.l of a phone call I received just before she arrived.

The call that told me I would no longer simply be inheriting the company that I've been groomed to run since before I can even remember. The call that told me I would once again need to prove myself to dear old Dad, even though he's no longer alive and with us.

No, no, no, Jackson-think again. You must fight, fight, fight. The provision in his will was apparently quite clear on that score.

My brothers and I will compete for the right to lead our company into the future. And the compet.i.tion takes the form of such a ridiculous requirement...just thinking about it makes my blood boil.

That is my cross to bear, but now, for one night only, I will enjoy the company of a gorgeous smart-a.s.s woman who makes me forget, ever so briefly, that everything I've worked for might be falling apart.

Once Emily stormed out of the office (and watching her go...d.a.m.n, what a sight), I had Sandra pull up her information in order to better understand what I was dealing with.

I know that she's a grad student working part-time for the Children's Education Fund. An intelligent do-gooder. Makes me roll my eyes. Just from this one afternoon I can tell she's a woman who goes after what she wants, and she'd no doubt be great in a real business, but she's stuck on some charity bulls.h.i.+t.

Well, real business-it's not for everyone.

Not for the faint of heart, that's for sure.

I drive to Emily's neighborhood, just ten minutes from the office and a little on the outskirts of the city. Lots of Boston College and Boston University students live out here in Allston-we have several interns who ride the T in from this area.

I drive down Greylock Road, stopping in front of a blue house. Before I can get out to go to the front door like a proper gentleman, I see her silhouette walking down the driveway from the back of the house.

I'm at a temporary loss for breath. The tight dress she's wearing skims down her figure like dripping gold-an improvement over the morning's bargain bas.e.m.e.nt suit but honestly, this woman could make sweats look s.e.xy.

I'm out of the car quickly, headed over to her side so I can open the door for her. The closer I get to her, the faster my heart beats.

"Good evening, Emily," I say, using one hand to b.u.t.ton my suit jacket.

"h.e.l.lo," she says, her eyes focused on the car. I lean in to greet her with a kiss on the cheek-a habit-and it seems to startle her. She smiles, though, showing dimples in her cheeks.

"You ready?" I ask.

"This is your car?" she responds, still eyeing it.

"Yes," I say. "I'm driving it, aren't I?"

She shakes her head. "Yeah, it's just...nothing. Let's go."

I have no idea what that's about, but once in the car we head back into the heart of the city. Sandra called ahead to Prime & Tender-Croft International is a silent partner in the Michelin-starred restaurant-and so I know that the restaurant will pull out all the stops for us tonight.

I pull up to the curb on Boylston Street and the valet is there to help Emily out and take my keys. I guide her through the restaurant, lightly touching the small of her back, already wis.h.i.+ng I could feel more of her.

This might be a long, torturous night.

I'm greeted by staff as we're ushered back into the private room. When my hand leaves Emily's back, I instantly feel the void.

We're seated, napkins gently dropped in our laps. Emily is looking around the small s.p.a.ce with a mix of curiosity and confusion, and I know why. She thought she'd agreed to dinner with me in a room full of strangers, but no way did I intend to spend my one evening with her being ogled at by other people. I want to keep this little treasure to myself for the evening.

"They keep this room for me," I tell her. "It's small, but I like it because it's private."

"You don't like people seeing you eat or something?"

"It's not that. I often have dinners or luncheons with high-level international clients, and I don't need those meetings ending up in the business section of the Boston Herald. Keeping some things private is essential to my company."

"So you can do your hostage takeovers?" Emily asks, her eyes steady and slightly hard on me.

"Everyone comes willingly," I reply, enjoying the repartee. She's already made me forget my troubles and we've only just begun.

"I'll bet," she says. She s.h.i.+fts in her seat and looks awkwardly around the room, like she doesn't know what to do with herself.

"Good evening, Mr. Croft," a voice says, and I turn to see Chef Barton walk through the door. "I'm so happy to have you here this evening."

I stand up to shake his hand. "Thank you for having us. I'd like you to meet Emily Brown."

Emily's eyes dart between us, and she finally offers her hand. "You're the chef? Oh, wow, um, nice to meet you."

"You as well," Chef Barton says. "Welcome to Prime & Tender. Mr. Croft has been a supporter of ours from the very beginning. We wouldn't be the success we are without him."

"It's all in the genius of your food, Andrew," I say. I sit back down.

"I have some wonderful options for you," he continues. "Of course, the regular menu is available to you, or anything you desire. But for you both this evening, I recommend either the roasted lamb with fresh mint sauce or my signature five-spice seared yellowfin tuna that pairs perfectly with the Provence rose."

Chef Barton tells us about the other courses and I watch as Emily takes it all in. She looks a little lost at not having a menu to look down at, or maybe it's the abundance of courses that's got her thrown. Either way, it's charming.

"I'll send Rocco in to take care of you for the evening and get you started with some wine and your first course," Chef Barton says. "Please enjoy your evening. I'll check back with you later."

"That won't be necessary," I tell him. Having him come in now is enough show for Emily. For the rest of the evening, I'd like to have her alone as much as possible.

Once Chef Barton has gone back to the kitchen, Rocco comes in with wine and our appetizer, which Rocco tells us is a canape of wild smoked salmon with avocado.

"Did you decide on your entrees?" he asks. "Or would you like to see the menu?" He asks this to Emily-he knows I always order whatever Chef Barton recommends.

"You'll love the roasted lamb," I say to Emily. "It's legendary; people fly in on private planes just to eat it."

Emily is looking at the canape as if she's not quite sure if she should eat it or take a photo. "Oh, um," she begins, looking between Rocco and me. "What were the choices?"

"Whatever you want," I tell her. "The chef recommends the lamb. He also has a yellowfin tuna."

"Or I could bring you our regular menu," Rocco offers. "It's seasonal, so only the freshest, most readily available foods are used."

She looks up at Rocco. "I think I'll have the yellowfin, please."

"Very good," Rocco says before leaving the room.

"Do you always eat like this?" she asks.

"Like what?" But of course I know what she means.

She tosses her hands out to her side. "Like this! In a private room. The chef just came out here. I mean, I don't know anything about the food world but I can take one look at that," she indicates the canape, "and know that this is fan-cy." She says it like two words, clearly on purpose. It's at once adorable and s.e.xy.

"It's very good, yes," I concede. "The best in the city, actually. But you wouldn't believe what I have to pay that guy to keep him from going to New York or Paris. It costs a lot to keep talented people around."

"You're used to getting what you want, aren't you?"

I shrug. Of course I'm used to getting what I want. I work hard to get it, but I always win. "Usually," I say. I hold up my gla.s.s, looking Emily in her eyes. "To the Children's Education Fund." She raises her gla.s.s we touch rims touch.

As we begin the appetizer I realize I need to calm myself-watching Emily take a sip of wine or touch a morsel of food to her lips might make me explode.

"So tell me," Emily says, dusting off her hands-the napkin is right there in her lap. She leans forward on the table just enough to push her b.r.e.a.s.t.s up a little more. "Is it true that you really don't care about charities like you said?"

Averting my eyes, I say, "That may have been a slight exaggeration."

"I knew it," Emily says, victorious. Unfortunately, she sits back in her chair again and I lose that spectacular view. The good news? I can see more of her body-at least from the waist up. I remember the feel of my hand on her back, and realize how much I want to touch her again.

"No one can not care about charities."

I gently wipe my hand on my napkin. "You're right. I care about the tax advantage they give me."

"You're terrible," she says, looking for a moment like she's going to throw her own napkin at me. "Were you raised to only care about money?"

"Yes," I say. "And power."

She smiles, thinking I'm joking.

"I bet you were raised in Beacon Hill and played rugby and had chef-prepared meals every night."

"Pretty close," I say. "I was raised to fight but in a custom-made Italian suit."

"Ha," she says. She reaches across the small table and takes my wrist, tugging it toward her. "And this thing," she says, touching the face of my Rolex. "I bet this matters too."

Her fingers so close to my skin make me burn. "It matters as a symbol," I say. "A symbol of what I've achieved."

"Let me see this thing," Emily says. She's not exactly gentle as she tugs my arm closer to her for a better look. She leans on the table, that spectacular view back, and inspects the watch. "Was this a gift or did you buy it for yourself?"

"Bought it myself."

She traces the face, looking at it so closely it's as if she's never seen a watch before. "Some lady didn't buy this for you?"

"My relations.h.i.+ps don't exactly go like that."

Emily looks up at me, her fingers lingering on my wrist. "What do you mean? You don't like women buying you gifts?"

I try to concentrate on her question, and not the softness of her fingers on my skin. "It's not that," I say. "Although I do prefer to do the buying. But honestly, I don't stay in relations.h.i.+ps long enough for this kind of gift." Or much of anything else, I almost add.

"Come on. I bet you have women lined up around the block for you."

"Emily, I said relations.h.i.+ps. Not women."

"Oh," she says, blus.h.i.+ng slightly. "Does that mean that work is the true love of your life?"

Keeping my eyes on her, I say, "Maybe."

She holds my gaze, unwilling to back down-that is, until she does. I would never break first. Her fingers slide away from me, and she crosses her hands under her arms-elbows on the table and all-giving me the view that is going to drive me insane.

"Well," she says looking back at the Rolex, "it looks ridiculous."

I laugh out loud. I can't help it. What is it about her that makes me delighted and furious, that makes me want to run to her as quickly as I want to run away?

"Let's see yours," I say. "You probably have something practical with a thin leather strap."

She immediately moves her arms down into her lap.

"I knew it," I laugh. "Let me see. I won't tease you."

"You won't?" she asks, looking at me carefully.

"Promise," I say. She slowly moves her hands back onto the tops of the starched tablecloth. Her fingers and wrists are bare of any jewelry. "A minimalist?" I ask. I take her hands in mine as if I'm inspecting them for hidden jewels. I run my thumb over her palm.

"I don't like anything fussy," she says.

"You certainly don't need anything extra to make you s.h.i.+ne," I say. "How about a delicate diamond bracelet?" I wrap my fingers around her tiny wrist. "You'd wear it well."

"Do you plan on buying me something?" she asks. "I thought you didn't stick around for things like that."

"I don't," I say delicately.

"So don't tease me," she says. "You said you wouldn't."

I realize this is getting a little heavy for me. I release her wrist and sit back in my seat, putting distance between us. I'm tempted to throw the table aside and wrap her up in my arms. The small touch of her skin may have only made things worse. But if one thing is a real b.o.n.e.r crusher, it's relations.h.i.+p talk.

"I won't tease you," I say. Unless you want me to, I want to add but don't. The main course isn't even here yet, and I'm starting to wonder how much more I can take. I have a sip of the wine, then chase it with the sparkling water to help keep my wits about me. With each moment that pa.s.ses-each look, each touch, each word out of Emily's perfect lips-I wonder how I'll ever survive being tempted by her.

Our eyes locked on one another again, neither of us speaking-at least not with words-when Rocco comes through the door.

As we go through the courses-an arugula salad with pear, a roasted corn soup, and a champagne sorbet-I find that as pa.s.sionate as Emily is about helping others, she's done little to help herself in terms of a social life.

"That's one thing we have in common," I tell her. "Work always comes first."

"I spend so much time studying, not to mention working part-time at CEF, that I hardly have time for anything else aside from the occasional happy hour and grub at Mickey's Tavern," she says.

It's ridiculous, but I'm glad she doesn't mention a guy-aside from her brother and father.

"This is the most out I've been in, G.o.d," she says, thinking. "I don't even want to say. I had to really dig in the back of my closet to find this thing."

She gestures down at the gold dress, which fits her so perfectly despite the fact that I find myself wanting to rip it off her body.

When the entrees arrive, I'm happy for the distraction.

Rocco sets our dinner plates in front us, pieces of art, really. The rich aroma of the lamb warms me, and Emily's five-spice seared yellowfin tuna is a plate of vibrant colors and beauty.