More Than A Maybe by Clarissa Monte Page B

intercom, noticing my excitement.
    “Thanks,” I say, smiling at his eyes in the rearview mirror. I grab a Pellegrino from the fridge and hold it to my forehead to try and cool myself down a bit. Then I open the bottle and take a long drink of the cold fizzy water inside. “It was a long trip.”
    “I’m sure it was,” he says amiably.
    Curiosity gets the better of me, and I find myself wondering if I can get a few details about my host out of the driver. “Have you worked for Mr. Black long?” I ask.
    “I’m sorry?” he replies, a note of confusion in his voice.
    “Mr. Black. Xavier Black. This is his car, isn’t it?”
    “No, Miss. This car belongs to the United Limousine Service. That’s who employs me. I was sent to pick you up from the airport and drive you to the club.”
    “Oh,” I say. “Thanks.”
    “Don’t mention it.”
    I’m not sure why, but I somehow expected a billionaire to have his own limousine and driver.
    Or two. Or three.
    * * *
    At last we near our destination, and I manage to stay calm about it. Despite the hectic pace of the trip, I have to say that I look pretty good. The dress I’m wearing seems to have been made for quick travel plans. I’m remarkably unwrinkled, and the touch-up I did on my face during the limousine ride makes me feel ready to once again face Xavier.
    The limo pulls into the long, curved driveway of a gated LA club. There’s no sign to indicate its name — wherever we are, exclusivity and anonymity clearly go hand-in-hand. Out the window, I can see a long row of fountains and immaculately trimmed hedges, all of it signaling a level of dignified opulence far outside my experience. It seems like an elaborate movie set from a bygone era . . . and as we approach the main building, it’s easy to imagine a young Tyrone Power sitting next to me, bow tie undone around his neck, spinning yarns about the off-camera dramas that always seem to swirl around the denizens of Tinseltown.
    The limousine rolls to a gentle stop; the driver gets out and opens the door for me with a flourish. I swing my legs out onto a rich swatch of royal-red carpet snaking its way up an extravagant marble staircase. Somehow, in this dress and secure in the knowledge that I’ve just exited a chauffeured limo, I feel a healthy measure of confidence return to me.
    The entryway of the club is all lofty arches, aesthetically stylish sculpture, and subdued lighting. I’m greeted with a quiet smile by the club’s captain, a dignified-looking silver fox of a gentleman in a crisp uniform. He checks to see that my name is on the guest list (Veronica Kane is — Alice White is not), and then he leads me into an enormous candlelit dining room, indicating the way with a well-practiced sweep of his arm.
    The club interior radiates an expensive maturity. The tables are a rich mahogany; the chairs sturdy examples of fine leather artistry. The captain walks smartly in front of me, the very picture of professionalism, and I follow along, listening to the crisp clack of my new heels against the marble floor.
    Then I see Xavier.
    He doesn’t see me right away — he’s in the middle of an intense discussion with a slightly older man with a big salt-gray cowboy moustache. I can just make out bits and pieces of their conversation:
    “Yes, fine, that’s all well and good,” Xavier’s saying, making some kind of point with short quick motions of his hand. “But do we really want to license the technology? Why don’t we just buy the company, before they get too big?”
    Cowboy Moustache seems about to say something, but we arrive at the side of the table and the captain gives a little interrupting cough. “I’m very sorry to disturb you, gentlemen,” he says. “Miss Veronica Kane has arrived.”
    The two men look up, then smile as they stand to welcome me. “Veronica! So glad you could make it.”
    Xavier looks amazing — he’s more casual tonight, in a light blue cotton shirt and dark jeans. The