“Congratulating you.”
“I didn’t win my match.” Why am I standing here arguing with Daniel about whether I won or not, when there’s the two kisses to think of?
“You won a game, didn’t you?” His gaze never leaves my face. “Do you want to take this further?”
“With you?”
“With Sebastian and me.”
I swallow nervously. There’s no dancing around the topic now, no way to pretend that I’m not interested in both of them. There’s no hiding from my desire and my forbidden longings.
“Both of you?”
He just nods.
Shit. I just ended a relationship. What am I doing, playing with fire the way I am? I shake my head back and forth, frantically. These guys have crawled in and staked claim over my libido. I need to dislodge them. A threesome is a ridiculous idea.
“When?”
This time, he smiles, a surprisingly sweet smile that softens his face. “Friday night, my place?” he asks. “Sebastian is usually done working at ten.”
Ten at night. There’s no way to pretend that this isn’t a booty call. Every sensible voice in my head is screaming at me to turn him down.
“Ten,” I whisper, quieting those thoughts with ruthless efficiency. “Okay. I’ll see you there.”
13
If your opponent is temperamental, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Daniel:
I wake up Friday morning with a smile on my face. I can’t wait for tonight.
Bailey had been so beautiful on Wednesday. Her face had been flushed with triumph, her smile victorious as she watched the eight ball roll into the pocket. My dick had hardened when I saw Sebastian kissing her, and I had to kiss her myself and taste her sweetness. And just as I’d anticipated, it had taken real effort to pull away from her after that kiss. I had to struggle to keep from sweeping her out of the club, into a cab, and to my house.
My smile fades as I scroll through my email. One from my Uncle Cyrus jumps out at me. ‘Call me ASAP’ is the ominous subject line, and the body of the message is empty. Damn it.
Wandering into the kitchen, I pour myself a cup of coffee before I dial his number. When he answers, he sounds apoplectic with rage. “I thought I told you to stay out of the news,” he snaps.
“Hello to you too, Cyrus,” I say coolly. “I have no idea what you are talking about, so perhaps you can fill me in.”
“I told you to keep a low profile,” he rants. “I warned you that we are at a crucial state in the negotiations.” I can feel his glare sear at me through the phone. “Your photo is in the New York Times.”
“Hang on.” My laptop is in my bedroom, so I head back there and turn it on. We don’t talk as I navigate to Google and search for ‘Daniel Hartman New York Times.’ Before I manage to find it, a beep in my inbox announces an email from Sally in Corporate Affairs, who manages my public presence. She has a link to the article in her message, but there’s nothing in her email that expresses concern.
Okay. If Sally’s not worried, Cyrus is overreacting. I sip at my coffee and scan the article. Sure enough, it’s a completely harmless piece on the history of the Maxwell Club, and I’m only mentioned in passing. I remember the journalist who has written it, a young guy called Oliver. Marty, the club president had introduced him around about a month ago, and Oliver had several fascinating things to say about the club history that I didn’t know about.
“Cyrus,” I sigh into the phone. “This article isn’t even about me.” I glance at the alarm clock. Ten after six. “Did you wake up at the crack of dawn to yell at me about this?”
“Your photo is in the paper,” he repeats. “I thought I told you to stay out of the tabloids.”
I lose my patience. “The New York Times is not a tabloid. All I’m doing in the photo is playing pool with a group of people. Even in Kansas, I’m sure that’s an approved activity.” I need to calm down. In my head, I count to ten before continuing. “I told you I won’t do anything scandalous. I never promised to quarantine myself until Ryan Communications’ board made up their mind about our offer.”