the flap and saw five flawless, unfolded, new hundred dollar bills. Not her twenties and fifties. "What is this?"
"I assure you it is all there, though perhaps you wish to count it."
His casual words stung. But seeing that cash stung more, a thousand wasps attacking her.
"This isn't my money. What happened to my money?"
"I do not understand. This is five hundred dollars, what you paid for me, last night. This was what we agreed."
"No." A dark calm fell on her. "We agreed that you would give me back my money. The money I paid you. This is just some money you pulled out of your wallet to make me shut up. I want my money. Where is it?"
His black eyebrows shot together, so they almost met. "I fail to understand the importa—" He stopped himself mid-word and his brows returned to their usual places. "Please excuse me. I do understand the importance of the money. Due to your issues with control, it was acceptable for you to purchase my services, but it is not for me to do the same to you. For you, the transaction must be the return of your money."
"This is stupid," she told him, while part of her whispered that it wasn't. Oh, so he had her all figured out, did he?
Well, that went both ways. As she pulled on her bridesmaid's gear, she threw words back at him. "You say no one surprises you, huh. Do you know why that is? Maybe it's because you look at them with your imperial scowl and force them to play roles for your benefit. Maybe the high and mighty sheikh doesn't want to see the people around him with their realness and their flaws. Maybe it's not them. Maybe it's you slotting them into safe and convenient categories so you know how to deal with them."
"You," he said, "are neither safe, nor convenient."
"Oh, I'm about to become a lot more convenient," she said, now that the dress was zipped. With that, she dropped the filthy money on the floor and walked out of the room, her dyed-to-match-the-dress heels dangling from her hand.
Chapter nine
In his New York office, the world lay at Zaqwan's feet. Far below, streets criss-crossed in a grid. People as small as dust motes followed orderly paths. Cars proceeded in a regular fashion.
Forty-three stories up, nothing could touch him. It was the way he liked things.
Up until now, he thought, as he stared out the glass.
Now one of those tiny little dots held all the power in his life. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about Stacia Keating. Or, he hated to admit, feeling for her.
Even though she was far away—or perhaps because of it—he had been unable to concentrate on business. She distracted him, presenting a puzzle he wished to solve, and yet, wanted to contemplate all his life. The contradiction of her continued to intrigue him, and it had begun to affect his work.
More than anything, he wished to know where she was and what she was doing. Who was bringing her to completion now.
Surely after what they'd shared, she wouldn't go to another man. He still felt her hot mouth sucking him with unfeigned enthusiasm—no, that was a lie. He didn't feel it, but he remembered. Oh yes, he remembered. And he remembered that wicked little smile on her face when she thought she'd mastered him.
She nearly had.
His mind had wandered off during a conference call on Monday. He had been required to make a potential Japanese distributor for Ittari fragrances repeat herself, to his regret. On Wednesday, he had forgotten a meeting completely. Yesterday, he had actually poured himself his now-standard five o'clock rum and Coke before realizing he had actually already done so.
That had been when he knew he could no longer continue this way, and had called this meeting.
At precisely 3:30, Kayson French, the head of his security team, knocked on his office door.
The outfit French wore now was very different from the bartender's uniform he'd worn in Vegas. With no major assignments today, he'd chosen his preferred style of clothing: low-cut Levis, cowboy boots polished
"I assure you it is all there, though perhaps you wish to count it."
His casual words stung. But seeing that cash stung more, a thousand wasps attacking her.
"This isn't my money. What happened to my money?"
"I do not understand. This is five hundred dollars, what you paid for me, last night. This was what we agreed."
"No." A dark calm fell on her. "We agreed that you would give me back my money. The money I paid you. This is just some money you pulled out of your wallet to make me shut up. I want my money. Where is it?"
His black eyebrows shot together, so they almost met. "I fail to understand the importa—" He stopped himself mid-word and his brows returned to their usual places. "Please excuse me. I do understand the importance of the money. Due to your issues with control, it was acceptable for you to purchase my services, but it is not for me to do the same to you. For you, the transaction must be the return of your money."
"This is stupid," she told him, while part of her whispered that it wasn't. Oh, so he had her all figured out, did he?
Well, that went both ways. As she pulled on her bridesmaid's gear, she threw words back at him. "You say no one surprises you, huh. Do you know why that is? Maybe it's because you look at them with your imperial scowl and force them to play roles for your benefit. Maybe the high and mighty sheikh doesn't want to see the people around him with their realness and their flaws. Maybe it's not them. Maybe it's you slotting them into safe and convenient categories so you know how to deal with them."
"You," he said, "are neither safe, nor convenient."
"Oh, I'm about to become a lot more convenient," she said, now that the dress was zipped. With that, she dropped the filthy money on the floor and walked out of the room, her dyed-to-match-the-dress heels dangling from her hand.
Chapter nine
In his New York office, the world lay at Zaqwan's feet. Far below, streets criss-crossed in a grid. People as small as dust motes followed orderly paths. Cars proceeded in a regular fashion.
Forty-three stories up, nothing could touch him. It was the way he liked things.
Up until now, he thought, as he stared out the glass.
Now one of those tiny little dots held all the power in his life. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about Stacia Keating. Or, he hated to admit, feeling for her.
Even though she was far away—or perhaps because of it—he had been unable to concentrate on business. She distracted him, presenting a puzzle he wished to solve, and yet, wanted to contemplate all his life. The contradiction of her continued to intrigue him, and it had begun to affect his work.
More than anything, he wished to know where she was and what she was doing. Who was bringing her to completion now.
Surely after what they'd shared, she wouldn't go to another man. He still felt her hot mouth sucking him with unfeigned enthusiasm—no, that was a lie. He didn't feel it, but he remembered. Oh yes, he remembered. And he remembered that wicked little smile on her face when she thought she'd mastered him.
She nearly had.
His mind had wandered off during a conference call on Monday. He had been required to make a potential Japanese distributor for Ittari fragrances repeat herself, to his regret. On Wednesday, he had forgotten a meeting completely. Yesterday, he had actually poured himself his now-standard five o'clock rum and Coke before realizing he had actually already done so.
That had been when he knew he could no longer continue this way, and had called this meeting.
At precisely 3:30, Kayson French, the head of his security team, knocked on his office door.
The outfit French wore now was very different from the bartender's uniform he'd worn in Vegas. With no major assignments today, he'd chosen his preferred style of clothing: low-cut Levis, cowboy boots polished
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