Liars Like Us

9

“I won’t let that face derail me, but nice try. Observation three: December is only a few months away. Assuming you’ve known about this plan of your father’s to cut you off if you don’t marry, you’ve procrastinated an awful lot for a guy with everything to lose. Which suggests that in addition to being bad with money, your self-motivational skills leave a lot to be desired. Observation four: maybe that’s because being stinking rich isn’t good for building character.”

I can tell he wants to say something, but he keeps his jaw clamped shut and merely gazes at me in silence. Blistering hot, unblinking silence.

I think I might be starting to have fun.

After another sip of my martini, I continue. “You admitted you don’t want to get married, which means that you’d probably make a terrible husband.”

He folds his arms over his chest and exhales a hard, aggravated breath.

“Sigh all you want, it’s true. Which brings us to observation number…” Thinking, I wrinkle my forehead. “What number was I on?”

“It feels like a thousand.”

Ignoring his deadly tone, I say, “Five, I think. Or six. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. But you mentioned the amount of ten million dollars back at the shop. If you have that much cash to throw at a total stranger, you don’t have to listen to your father. You could live comfortably the rest of your life on that.”

He slow blinks, as if incredulous. I understand that he thinks I’ve said something stupid.

“You’re telling me you couldn’t live comfortably on ten million dollars?”

“Of course I could. For a month.”

I mutter, “I knew you were bad with money.”

“For the record, I’m an excellent money manager.”

“Sure. You just don’t have any of your own. And I didn’t tell you it was time for you to talk yet.”

Staring at me, he moistens his lips.

That simple gesture is so sexy, I lose the rest of what little composure I had to begin with and blurt, “The final observation is that this is all too convenient.”

“What is?”

“This. You. Your ridiculous offer of marriage and a pile of money to save me right when I need it most.”

He shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. “Maybe you’re lucky.”

“Ha! No, I’m not, I promise you. There has to be something else going on here.” I look suspiciously around the restaurant, trying to spot the hidden cameras.

“All right, Emery. You caught me. I’ll tell you the truth.”

I glance back at Callum to find him gazing at me with that same cool nonchalance, a small, mysterious smile playing around his sculpted lips.

His tone gently mocking, he says, “I’ve been obsessed with you for years. I’ve watched you from afar, planning, scheming, waiting for exactly the right moment to make you mine. Now all my planning has paid off, and the moment is here.”

His mysterious smile grows wider. “Hello, little lamb. Welcome to the lion’s den.”

I roll my eyes. “Your sense of humor is as bad as your money management skills.”

I spot Sophie staring at us from the hostess stand across the restaurant. She’s wringing her hands, looking on the verge of a panic attack. I gesture for her to come over, because I need another drink.

When I look back at Callum, he’s holding his whiskey, swirling it slowly around in the glass as he gazes at me with half-lidded eyes.

He’s still smiling.

When Sophie arrives, I order another martini and a chicken salad. Callum orders a dozen raw oysters, a terrine of foie gras, a ten-ounce wagyu steak with black truffle sauce, lobster mashed potatoes, and a side of steamed asparagus wrapped in bacon.

Without batting an eyelash at the size of his order, Sophie says, “Should I bring a bottle of Peter Michael as well, sir?”

“Yes. The 2012. Along with a glass of Sancerre with the oysters and Sauterne with the foie gras. And a large Pellegrino.”

“Very good, sir. Thank you.”

Perplexed, I watch her leave, wondering how many other people will be joining us for lunch. From the sound of it, a crew of construction workers will arrive any minute.

“Do you always eat like it’s your last meal?”

He replies in a husky voice, “I have a big appetite,” then takes a swig of his whiskey. His burning dark eyes meet mine over the crystal rim of the glass.

My smile is small and nervous. I’d better get him talking about something else other than his appetite or my v****a will seize control of the rest of my body and stage a coup. I’m liable to jump onto the table, grab his head, and grind my crotch into the poor man’s face.

“You look flustered,” he observes, eyeing me. “Everything all right?”

“Absolutely!” I thunder. Then I cough in embarrassment and lower my volume. “It’s just not every day that a billionaire with an eating disorder proposes marriage to me. I mean, it’s happened before, obviously”—my laugh sounds crazed, like someone’s holding a g*n to my head—“just not this week. Oh, that reminds me.”

“Of?”

“You don’t know if I’m already married or in a relationship.”

“Don’t I?” He chuckles and takes another sip of whiskey.

“Blech. There you go being smug again. How annoying.”

When he raises his brows and stares at me, I blush. “I have a tendency to say inside thoughts out loud. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s refreshing.”

I examine his expression for a moment. “Having people kiss your bossy billionaire a*s all the livelong day gets boring, hmm?”

He laughs.

It seems to surprise him in an unpleasant way, because he stops abruptly and sets his whiskey on the table with a jarring thud, then looks around, as if to make sure nobody heard him.

His reaction makes me smile. At least I’m not the only uncomfortable one.

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you let that slip. It’ll be our little secret.”

He meets my eyes again. His gaze grows assessing. “Are you good at keeping secrets?”

“No. That was just a figure of speech. All my friends know not to tell me anything they don’t want repeated because everyone else I know will hear about it within twenty-four hours. Are you?”

“Yes. Very.”