his face as inscrutable as ever. “Welcome home, Mr. Stone. Would you and your guest like anything?”
I shake my head. “No, thanks. We’ll be fine.”
“Very well,” he says, but I can tell he’s evaluating Emma as he walks away.
He’s protective, precise, but also eminently professional. He won’t say anything unless he’s certain he should.
In this case, I almost wish he’d give me advice.
Sometimes, he sees something others don’t because he’s so unobtrusive, people forget he’s there.
It’s quite a skill, quite an asset, and though they taught us something similar in the military for recon, Grant is on a whole different level.
I walk upstairs to my office, testing my theory that Emma will simply follow along behind me wherever I go. Nikolai’s laughing comment comes back to me . . . woof, woof.
It should disgust me still, but mostly, it just makes me sad as she does indeed trail along behind me.
When I close the door, she startles but steadies herself. “Okay, so you’ve got me here. Now what? More yelling, more cold shoulder, more anger? Whatcha got?”
It’s the first bit of spunk she’s shown since revealing her whole deal . . . and to be honest, I like it. It feels more real, more like her.
But I wonder if it’s simply the character skin she’s slipped into. Inside, I’m desperate to know the truth, but she’s not the only one who can hide their real face behind a professional mask. And I know how to be the commanding asshole without even thinking about it.
“Sit,” I command, the dog joke only in my head as I gesture to the chair in front of my desk. I intentionally go around to the other side, taking my place in this little scene.
The power is decidedly with me, as it always is in this room, until she took it away last time with her bomb drop. But I’m taking it back, and if she’s slipping into character, then so am I.
And I’m a mean fucker in a slick suit, accustomed to giving orders, to playing smart, to spit-shining a piece of shit into something people will desire and sell their souls to own. Even if I’m in a T-shirt and jeans.
And she’s . . . her.
There’s no way she’s getting one over on me. Not today, not ever. I let the mantle of control fall back onto my shoulders, the weight comfortable and familiar.
“You were excellent today,” I begin, sitting down. “Your talents are magnificent.”
A soft lob served up on a silver platter.
“Thank you. It’s a great play, one of my favorites. Well, that’s probably because it’s my first big break. But I’m guessing that’s not what this is about? We need to talk.”
Understatement of the century, and a reminder that Emma isn’t a dumbass. I appreciate that.
“We do.” I wait, using the time-tested method of a pregnant pause to see if she’ll jump in to fill the silence.
I hold back the victorious smirk when she does, and she looks down, her face falling as well.
“I’m so sorry, Nathan. I really am,” she says, rubbing her arms. “But I agreed to do what I did for my sister thinking it wasn’t going to be this.”
She swings a finger from her chest to me, then huffs humorlessly. “I thought I was just going to come to the party, report back on what I saw, and that would be that. I doubted I was going to hear shit. I mean, it was a party. I was certain I’d never see you again. Then it all got crazy with Nikolai.”
“That’s what you were doing when you fell behind the tree,” I add, nodding slowly. “Listening.”
She nods. “I had to take the chance and figured I could play it off. Most men see a woman in a dress like I had on and lose about a dozen points off their IQ.”
She’s right. Most men do. Hell, I did, I think self-deprecatingly. “And did you report back to your sister, Claire?”
I throw her name in on purpose, but she misses the significance.
She nods again. “I did. I told her about the party, about you and Nikolai. She told me I couldn’t go to the dinner, but I said I was going.”
“Why?” I ask, needing to hear her justifications and excuses. For what reason, I’m not able to say clearly.
“I said it was because of Anna, to do what was right because whoever hurt her needs to pay. But the truth is—”