The Evolution of Man

2. Deep Pockets

There are very few things in my control right now. I make only a single demand in the purchase of the library—that Christopher Bardot meet with me personally. I want him to look me in the eye when he signs these documents. Part of me is afraid of what I’ll find, but I need to know. Did he ever care about me? He manipulated me to save the library, only to hold it hostage for a hefty chunk of my trust fund. The same trust fund he fought so hard to protect. He’s an enigma wrapped in a mystery, and I’m determined to peel away at least a few layers at our meeting.

His acceptance comes back in the form of a hand-couriered, notarized letter. He agrees to the meeting, it says, as long as it happens at a restaurant of his choosing.

It raises the stakes, taking a business meeting and making it happen like a date.

I should be immune to that kind of manipulation, but there’s still hope inside me, buried deep with barely any sunlight. He might hold my hand across the table and tell me that he loves me. That he wants to develop the library together. Those kinds of fantasies are ridiculous. If that’s what he wanted he would have said so from the start instead of making me pay so much.

A limo arrives at seven pm on the dot, its back seat empty. I hide my disappointment from the driver as I step inside. Streetlights flash over my face as we cross Tanglewood.

Koi is the hottest restaurant in Tanglewood with a waiting list six months long for a reservation. Naturally that is where we end up. Is this some kind of power play? I’m not sure why he would need more power in a negotiation where he already set the terms.

He’s taking you here because he secretly loves you, my heart helpfully supplies.

If he loves you why hasn’t he said so? my brain fires back.

Every muscle in my body is strung tight like strings in a violin, being strummed with every step I take. A crowd gathers outside the restaurant, all of them trying to fit into the small bar area that doesn’t require reservations. The air smells like wine and cheese and s*x, a decadent combination.

A slender blond hostess gives me a rather harsh once over. Maybe my black suit isn’t what women usually wear here, but this is a business dinner. If the setting is a power move by Christopher, then the suit is my response. And on the one percent chance he’s here to declare his love for me?

Don’t sell yourself short, he wrote in that letter.

If that’s what happens at least my legs looks pretty hot in this pencil skirt, if I do say so myself.

The hostess leads me deep into the restaurant, closer and closer to the kitchen, until I’m wondering if she’s going to push me out the back door. She pushes through the sleek swinging doors that reveal bustling men and women wearing white, steam rising from cast iron pots, delicious scents swirling through the air. A small table is set up only a few feet away from the bustle, a pristine white tablecloth on it, a bottle of Dom chilling in an ice bucket.

Christopher stands, impeccable in a black suit that neatly mirrors mine.

Without the cleavage, of course.

“Good evening,” he says, as casually as if he saw me last week instead of six months ago.

“Christopher,” I say, in case he hasn’t noticed. A table like this is reserved for VIPs or very special guests. Or ones with deep pockets. “This is the chef’s table. We’re sitting at the chef’s table in Koi.”

“Is that good? I thought they just ran out of regular tables.”

“Did you just make a joke. Oh my God. You did.”

The chef chooses that moment to introduce himself, a rather effusive man with a comforting smile and a thick Japanese accent. He says he’ll forgive that we drink champagne as long as we try the sake pairing he sends with every course. And he personally serves the amuse bouche, a tuna sashimi lollie on a fennel cilantro salad with ponzu dressing that makes me moan despite myself.

“Dear God,” I say when we’re alone again, my eyes still closed with the wonder of that single bite. There’s salt and citrus, and basically this is what heaven tastes like. “Did you spend all two billion dollars to get this table? Because it’s worth it.”

When I open my eyes Christopher is watching me, a strange expression on his face. He hasn’t touched the plate in front of him. He seems more interested in the way that I dip my finger in the ponzu dressing and lime foam to savor the last drops. I’m not sure that love is on the table, but if the glitter in his eyes is anything to go by, s*x is definitely an option.

“One billion,” he says, almost absently.

I blink. “What?”

“Only one billion is mine. The other half belongs to Sutton.”

It’s like a bucket of cold water dumped over my head. “Why did you bring me here?”

One dark eyebrow rises. “You’re the one who insisted we meet in person.”

“And you’re the one who brought me here.”

The long pause that follows isn’t filled with hearts and roses. He does not secretly love me, and I feel like a fool for even considering the possibility. Because he took me out to dinner? It’s really a good thing I don’t date much, because I’m terrible at it.

“I invested in the restaurant,” he says finally. “It helps to have your take.”

“Because I have such a refined palate?”

“Because you were born rich,” he says, his voice flat. “You know what rich people like.”

It takes my breath away, and I’m left staring at him with the most incredible taste on my tongue. That’s all I am to him? A rich girl with nothing better to do with my time than give him advice on his new restaurant? Meanwhile I was gullible enough to think he actually wanted to spend time with me. It isn’t right. It isn’t fair, but then Christopher Bardot has never played fair.

The chef returns with an oyster for each of us, with a strawberry fish sauce, compressed strawberries, and coriander blossoms. It’s definitely the most beautiful oyster I’ve ever seen. Christopher is the one who takes a bite first, letting it slide into his mouth in a graceful movement. He closes his eyes, clearly enjoying the taste, and my cheeks turn warm as I realize I must have looked like this when I ate the amuse bouche—like someone having an orgasm.

I have actually had s*x with Christopher Bardot but sitting to the side in the busy kitchen of a hip restaurant, watching him make that face feels like watching something private.

And regardless of whether he wants my rich-person opinion of the restaurant, I have no desire to sit here and be turned on by a man who doesn’t even like me.

“The papers,” I manage to say, my voice a little hoarse. I have to clear my throat and try it again, before they come out clear enough to understand. “Where are the papers?”

“Try the oyster,” he says, and because I’m weak, I’m so weak, I actually do.

I have a feeling this evening is going to crash and burn and I really want to taste the oyster. It slides onto my tongue with a burst of flavor, the strawberries almost unrecognizable this way, tart and lush and cold. It’s like a crisp bite of the ocean. Oh God. My eyes close. I’m making the face. I know I’m making the face, but I can’t stop. It’s so good.

When I actually open my eyes again, my muscles are lax. My defenses are down. It’s like I really did have an orgasm right here in this black wooden chair with mother-of-pearl inlays along the sides. Pleasure still lingers in my body, like warm honey on the inside.

“I didn’t bring them,” Christopher says, and it’s like another ice-water bucket.

“Are you serious? Why not?”

“I forgot.”

“I don’t think you’ve forgotten anything the entire time I’ve known you. You probably have a photographic memory, don’t you? There’s no way you forgot.”

A shrug. “Maybe.”

“Is this a game to you?” I left my mother in the Gone with the Wind house by herself, and I know she’ll be fine without me for a few hours. But something could happen. Inevitably something will happen, and this man is playing around with my time like it’s nothing.

“A game.” He seems to consider it seriously. “No. It’s not fun enough for a game.”

I stand up, throwing my napkin down on the empty oyster shell. “You know what? Go ahead and mail me the papers. I don’t know why I asked to meet with you. You are worse than self-centered, Christopher. Worse than arrogant. Now you’re just downright mean.”