Roman's phone rang at eight on Thursday night and twenty minutes later he was in the doorway of my room in a suit jacket he hadn't been wearing an hour ago.
"Get dressed," he said.
I looked up from my laptop. "It's eight o'clock."
"Marcus is at Vero with two potential co-investors from Singapore. He's been drinking for three hours and he wants us there." He checked his watch. "I need you in fifteen minutes."
"You need me."
"Claire."
I closed the laptop.
Vero was the kind of club that didn't have a sign and didn't need one. The car stopped outside a black door on a narrow street in Tribeca and a man in a dark suit opened it before Roman had finished stepping out. He took my hand on the pavement without discussion and didn't let go walking in.
His thumb moved once across my knuckles.
