Seducing the Ice-Cold CEO

Chapter 6

Leah

I stepped out of the car when Dante did, half expecting him to say something, give me a look, maybe even tell me not to follow. But he just shut his door and started walking, long strides that were indifferent, like he didn’t notice or care whether I was behind him or not.

That wasn’t about to stop me from following him to wherever he was going. The area was unfamiliar, with its wide streets and sparse traffic. There wasn’t a single cab or convenience store in sight. Just clean concrete buildings with discreet signage or none at all, and a breeze that smelled like leather and petrol. Wherever this was, it definitely wasn’t the side of town where girls like me typically found themselves. I took in the building he was heading towards; a flat, one-story structure with dark-tinted windows and an entrance so plain it almost looked abandoned. There were no obvious logos or flashing signs.

But it was what sat out front that made me pause. Motorcycles. Not just any motorcycles but the kind of bikes that looked like they belonged on magazine covers or in billionaire showrooms: polished chrome, sleek matte blacks, some so glossy they mirrored the sky. I didn’t know a damn thing about motorcycles, but even I could tell these cost more than some penthouses.

A low whistle almost escaped me. Was this some kind of underground motorcycle club?

The answer came the second I stepped inside behind Dante. If the outside was understated, the inside was anything but.

The air smelled like leather and aged whiskey, and the lighting was moody. Warm gold light spilled from industrial fixtures that hung low over booths made of black leather. The floor was polished concrete, and along the left wall stood rows of glass cases, each holding what looked like vintage racing helmets, signed photos, or god-knows-what pieces of gear. Everything in here whispered luxury. From the wood grain of the custom bar to the gold-plated ashtrays and soundproofed private corners, it wasn’t just some ordinary club. This was for people who liked their hobbies expensive.

I swallowed hard and glanced at Dante again, walking ahead like he belonged here. He passed by the bar without so much as a nod, heading straight for a corner where a man sat alone at a table, flipping lazily through a magazine.

I slowed a little, half from nerves and half from disbelief. Because when the man lifted his head in response to Dante’s voice, I nearly lost my balance.

“Griffin,” Dante said.

Warm was the only word for his tone. His voice which, so far, had always been clipped and edged with ice, softened. Not by much, but enough to make my breath catch.

This was just any Griffin. This was the Victor Griffin. I stopped walking. I had seen his face on the cover of business magazines when I was barely scraping freelance gigs together years back. The man had been a legend, one of those elusive, untouchable titans who had walked away from the finance world when he was still at the top, as if he was bored with success. Since then, he had all but disappeared.

And here he was, sitting in a private motorcycle club and wearing a well-fitted blazer over a grey T-shirt. He was reading a sports magazine like he wasn’t a living piece of economic history.

“Dante,” he said with a grin, tossing the magazine aside. “Took you long enough. I was about to assume you got lost on your way here.”

“I’d never embarrass myself like that,” Dante replied, deadpan.

They clasped hands with comfortable familiarity.

I watched the whole thing from a few steps away, unsure if I should approach or melt into the shadows. It felt like I had stumbled into a sacred inner circle I had no right to witness. Griffin leaned to the side and finally noticed me standing there, blinking like a deer in designer headlights.

His eyes darted between me and Dante as I approached the table, then settled on Dante with a grin that made me feel like a scandal was about to be suggested.

“Well, well,” he said in a voice that still carried the weight of authority, even wrapped in mischief. “You didn’t say you were bringing company today, much less such a pretty woman.”

Dante’s jaw ticked. “Don’t say a word.”

There was a definite edge of warning there, like this wasn’t the first time the old man had teased him and probably not the last. I smiled inwardly as I extended my hand toward the older gentleman, determined to make a good impression.

“Leah Sparrow,” I said, with a warm smile. “It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you, sir. I’ve admired your work for years. Honestly, this is an honour.”

His handshake was firm. “Victor Griffin,” he said kindly, eyes crinkling as he smiled back. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Sparrow. Dante didn’t mention he’d be bringing a friend.”

“We’re not friends,” Dante and I said at the exact same time.

We glanced at each other. His expression was unreadable, mine hopefully charming. I cleared my throat and added with an apologetic chuckle, “I’m interviewing him.”

“Was,” Dante corrected dryly, slipping into the seat across from Griffin like this was all a mild inconvenience he couldn’t wait to be done with.

“Only an ungentlemanly man would be miffed that a beautiful woman is keeping him company when she has no way of getting home,” I quipped, smiling sweetly as I sat down beside them.

Dante let out a noncommittal grunt, lifting his glass of water like he wished it were something stronger. Griffin, however, burst into laughter, the kind that made his shoulders shake. He signaled a passing server and asked them to bring drinks to the table.

“I like her,” he said, chuckling as he looked at Dante.

I leaned a little forward, still smiling. “Are you a regular here, Mr. Griffin?”

“Victor, please. And yes, from time to time. I’m guessing motorcycles aren’t your thing?”

“Not yet,” I said with a grin. “But I’m always open to learning.”

Victor seemed pleased by that, and when the drinks arrived, something amber and expensive-looking in the tall tumblers, I sipped mine delicately while he turned back to me. “So, Miss Sparrow. Are you a columnist?”

I tilted my head. “Something like that. I write for Turning Point.”

That lit him up like Christmas. “Well, I’ll be damned. I used to know someone at Turning Point,” he said, voice fond. “She wrote a fantastic column, always a bit sharp tongued, but honest. What was her name again... ah, yes—Evelyn Brandt.”

I brightened. “She still works there. Got promoted a few months ago, actually. She runs the Investigations department now.”

Victor looked positively delighted. “Good. She deserved it. Tough woman. I always appreciated how she didn’t let the noise get to her.”

I nodded. “She’s still like that. Intimidates half the floor, but in the best way.”

While we spoke, Dante sat silently, sipping his drink and watching the two of us like he was trying to decode a suspicious chess match. I didn’t need to look directly at him to know his eyes were on me, sharp and searching, probably wondering if I was playing some long game.

I was playing a game, but it wasn’t the one he thought.