Wall Street Titan (Wall Street Titan #1) - Anna Zaires Page 0,26
these days?
Before I can ask, Marcus transfers his attention to me. “So, Emma,” he says, his deep voice tugging at that something in me again. “Tell me about yourself.”
“What would you like to know?” I ask, hoping I sound like a confident woman instead of the nervous twelve-year-old who seems to have taken up residence in my body. I have the unsettling sensation that I’m at an interview—an impression heightened by the fact that Marcus is wearing a suit and tie under his unbuttoned winter coat. I know he probably just came from work, and his wearing a suit doesn’t mean I’m horribly underdressed, but I feel that way: awkward and uncertain and out of place.
Stop it, Emma. He’s just a guy. A hot and intimidating one, but still just a guy.
“Have you lived in Brooklyn long?” he asks, his pale gaze shadowed in the darkened interior of the car.
“All my life,” I say, striving for a casual tone. “Born and raised. How about you?”
“I was born on Staten Island,” he says. “So I’m a New Yorker like you.”
“Oh. Are you from an Italian family, by any chance?” That could explain the olive tint to his skin.
“On my mother’s side.” His words are curt, as if I’d touched a nerve.
“I’m mostly Irish,” I volunteer, hoping to smooth over whatever error I made.
“I guessed as much.” Marcus’s reply is wry, and as the car stops at a streetlight, I see a hint of a smile on his face.
I instinctively touch my hair. “It’s pretty obvious, huh?”
“It was just a lucky guess,” Marcus says, and I grin at him, some of my nervousness ebbing.
We continue to make small talk for the rest of the fifteen-minute ride, and I learn that Marcus lives in Tribeca while his office is in Midtown. I’m not surprised; if anyone could afford to live and work in Manhattan, it would be a hedge fund manager. My Wall Street salary index is fuzzy, but I’m pretty sure those guys make bank.
“What’s your fund called?” I ask, remembering Kendall’s question as the car comes to a stop in front of a small, cozy-looking restaurant. My friend will undoubtedly drill me on this, so I better gather all the facts.
“Carelli Capital Management,” Marcus replies as he opens the door and climbs out, then holds open the door for me. As I step out, he gently clasps my elbow, making sure I don’t trip, and warmth floods my cheeks again. Even through the thick wool of my winter coat, I feel the restrained strength in his grip, the power that could be devastating if unleashed.
He doesn’t let go of my arm when I’m out of the car, and my heart pounds heavily as I stare up at him. The streetlights illuminate his mouth and the hard cast of his jaw, leaving his eyes in shadow, and for a brief, fanciful moment, I feel like a small animal caught in a hunter’s snare. Something hot and electric arcs between us, the moment fraught with tension—then he releases my arm and turns, offering me his elbow.
“Shall we?” His tone is calm, as if he’s completely unaffected by whatever just passed between us, but I see his jaw flex and know he’d felt it too.
My mouth feels dry as I slip my hand through the crook of his elbow, trying not to think about how thick and solid his arm feels. It’s like holding onto a curved tree trunk—albeit one that’s covered by expensive cashmere-wool.
“Do you come to this restaurant a lot?” I ask, trying not to pant audibly as we walk toward the restaurant. Marcus’s legs are so long I have to take two steps for every one of his, and the exertion, combined with the heat thrumming under my skin, makes me feel like I’ve just run up three flights of stairs.
“I’ve been here a few times,” he says, opening the door for me. I step inside and appreciatively inhale the rich, savory aroma of basil, roasted garlic, and fresh-baked dough. It smells like Papa Mario’s, but the ambiance is infinitely better. The restaurant is small, but clean and cozy, with about a dozen tables covered by white linen tablecloths and topped with vases with real flowers. Even though it’s a Thursday night, each table is occupied except the one in the far corner.
This dinner might be worth the hit to my budget.
Unbuttoning my coat, I smile up at Marcus. “This looks like a very nice place. Thanks for suggesting it.”