by Vivian Wood
Uh. Why did my mind go there?
His eyes are palest blue and grimly calculating. I don’t think anyone’s looked at me like Mr. Smith is looking at me now, with such icy displeasure. I knew he could be stiff and formal, but I didn’t anticipate he’d seem quite so unfriendly. I thought he’d be pleased to see me. Doesn’t he like me?
I freeze, unsure how to greet him. Kiss his cheek? Wave? I panic and stick out my hand. “Um, pleased to meet you. I’m Ciara.”
As if it offends him, Mr. Smith gazes at my hand for several seconds. Then he reaches out and gives it one quick, strong clench. I see the sparkle of a diamond on one of his gold cufflinks. Oh, yeah, I’m supposed to be evaluating his wealth. He seems rich, I think?
Mr. Smith takes a cursory look at the table as he sits down, as if to check everything is in order, and then takes out his phone. Frowning at the screen he starts typing.
I sink into the chair opposite him and search for something to say. I feel like I should mention the money he just sent me. “Thank—thank you for money. It was very generous of you.”
“It’s what you’re here for,” he says flatly, not looking up.
Embarrassment burns through me like lava. Maybe mentioning the money makes me seem grasping, but my mind has gone blank and I can’t think of anything else to say. We sit in silence while he types. The waiter enters, notices my date on his phone, and wordlessly places menus before us.
Alone again, I watch Mr. Smith through my lashes, trying to figure out what sort of man he is. Particular, I think, from the way his dark beard is expertly trimmed along his jaw. His profile said he was forty-two and there’s no grey in his hair or beard, but there are deep frown lines on his brow as he glares at his phone. I’d say forty-two is about right. The angle of his cheekbones, thick black hair and olive complexion indicate that he’s Mediterranean or Eastern European.
Is he rich, though? There are fewer clues on a man than a woman that he has money, but between the restaurant choice, the thousand pounds, the gold and diamond cufflinks and the impeccably tailored suit fitting his large frame I feel like Mr. Smith probably is wealthy. Beyond material considerations, he exudes a sense of power and confidence that goes hand in hand with having a great deal of influence or wealth. I remember men like him among my father’s friends, though none of them were as good-looking as Mr. Smith.
Finally he tucks his phone inside his suit and turns his attention to the menu. I feel a pressing urge to get the conversation going.
“Um. How was your day?” Shit. That’s so inane.
“Busy,” he says crisply, perusing the menu.
All the advice I’ve read about first sugar dates is running through my head. Be wide-eyed and innocent. Be impressed by everything, even if you’re not. Be dumb so he feels like he has to take care of you. Be cute and grateful so he wants to spend money on you. Be happy so he’s happy. Happy men spend. Be dumb.
Be dumb, be dumb, be dumb.
“A man like you must be so busy,” I agree breathily.
Mr. Smith’s eyes flick up to mine, pin me with disapproval and then drop back to his menu.
Wow. Ok. I glance at the menu and decide to try the order-for-me-this-is-so-overwhelming trick. “Everything looks so good I can’t choose,” I enthuse. “What do you recommend?”
Mr. Smith reads for a moment longer and then says, “You should have the sea bass with samphire.” He puts his menu aside and reaches for the wine list.
“Oh, that sounds amazing.” It doesn’t. I don’t like samphire and I feel like screaming. I don’t want to pretend that I’m an idiot or that whatever he chooses for me to eat is amazing. I wish I was anywhere but here. Somehow him being attractive makes this so much more depressing. In another life if he’d bought me a drink in a bar and toasted me with that serious expression I might have felt a flutter of excitement. I’ve never gone for older guys but there’s something about the stern angles of his face, the hard line of his jaw that appeals to me. What the hell, I might have thought to myself. Let this man be my daddy for the night. I might even let him kiss me.
But I’m not in another life, I’m in this shitty life, and Mr. Smith would have done none of those things because it’s clear that he doesn’t like me in the slightest. I’ve disappointed him and I don’t even know how.
“Champagne?” he asks, in the least celebratory tone I’ve ever heard.
“Yes, please,” I reply, without much enthusiasm.
“How old are you, Ciara?”
The question catches me off guard, and I say defensively, “Twenty-two, like it says on my profile.” Is this part of the attraction to him, to date a woman much younger than he is? Perhaps if I flirt with him a little he’ll thaw out. I reach over and stroke my fingers over his knuckles. “Do you like that? That I’m twenty-two?”
Mr. Smith draws his hand away deliberately and slowly, looking at me like he’s disgusted, and despair crowds in my throat. As I study his cold, glittering gaze I wonder if Mr. Smith has ever warmed up to anyone in his life.
“Tell me what you’re hoping to get out of our arrangement,” he asks.
“I’m looking for a generous man to help support me as I strive toward my goals. I’m studying law and I intend to…” I trail off because Mr. Smith has nodded absently and pulled out his phone again.
It’s hopeless. He’s not the least bit interested in me and he’s made that abundantly clear. I stare at my glass of ice water, longing for the courage to throw it in his face and tell him I don’t like him, either. I don’t even have a tenth of the courage needed to do that, so I just sit there, sunk in my misery.
The waiter comes back and Mr. Smith orders for us. When the champagne arrives it’s poured, but Mr. Smith doesn’t make a toast and nor do I. I’m supposed to make a note of which champagne he’s ordered and look up the price later to see if he’s cheap or not, but I don’t have the energy to care anymore. What a waste of an evening.
As I fidget with the linen napkin in my lap I remember something I read online by an experienced baby: Practice is everything. Find a guy you don’t like? Practice on him. Learn from him.
There’s no way Mr. Smith is going to help me test my flirting techniques, but there are other things I could learn from him, such as what sort of sugar daddy is interested in a girl like me, and who should I pitch myself to in the future.
I blink and clear my eyes, feeling braver now that Mr. Smith is no longer a POT. He’s just someone I don’t like buying me an expensive dinner. I sit up and ask in a stronger voice, “Mr. Smith, I have some questions for you.”
He waits, expectant and sardonic at the same time, his expression saying, Really? Are you doing this? Questions?
“What do you do for a living?”
He regards me in hostile silence. “I’m in property development.”
I feel my heart lift. Something we have in common. Maybe he has a more pleasant friend he could introduce me to. “I’m actually studying property law at university. Which company is it you…” But I trail off, seeing the incredulous expression on his face.
Be dumb, be dumb, be dumb.
I try to ask the same question but in a non-threatening, girly way. “Wow, you must work super hard and on so many cool buildings. Um. Does it keep you busy? I guess so if you haven’t met—if you need to—” I stumble over my words, realizing that pointing out to a man that he needs to pay for female company is not the way to get him talking. Mr. Smith’s gaze grows even chillier and I subside into silence. Why did we have to be in a private room? There’s no one to look at to pass the time. Just Mr. Smith and these dark, enclosing walls.
Our starters arrive and we eat them without speaking. There’s something impossibly small and shell-fishy for me, and something small and red-raw for him.
“Are you looking for a short-term or long-term relationship—arrangement,” I correct quickly. Not relationship. This isn’t about love or companionship. This is a business deal. He’s not going to choose me, obvio
usly but I’m interested to know what a man like him wants.
He picks up his water glass, takes a thoughtful sip, and puts it down again. “I’m not sure yet.”
I know I’m rattling off a long list of questions rather than trying to make conversation but this awkwardness is killing me. “What types of girls do you normally date?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Ciara.”
A glare down at my plate, blood heating my face. Fine. I won’t speak.
Neither of us say a thing for the rest of the short meal. We both refuse dessert and when he gives me an expectant look I stand up, grateful it’s time to leave.
But my gratitude evaporates as we walk out through the restaurant. My problems aren’t going to go away unless I try to make this work. This man has clearly got money, and money is what I need.
One more time. I’ll try one more time to rescue this.
I turn to Mr. Smith when we’re out on the street. Standing this close to him I feel again how big he is; how his presence and status radiates around him like an aura. I can smell the cool, expensive scent of his cologne. His hand when it grasped mine earlier was very warm and strong. It wouldn’t be so bad if he wanted to touch me. I wonder what the muscles of his chest feels like under that crisp white shirt.
“I had such a good time, daddy.” I smile up at him, reaching for one of the lapels on his suit jacket. “Did you have a good time, too?”
He seizes my wrist in a hard grip and in a low, seething voice says, “Drop the baby act, Ciara. I don’t want it.”
I let go of him and step back, yanking myself free of his grasp. I drop everything. I drop the baby act, I drop my social graces and I drop the last shreds of my pretense that I enjoyed spending even one second in his revolting company.
“I need a cab,” I flatly. He can pay for that, too.
Mr. Smith take out his phone and presses some buttons. A few minutes later a black Mercedes with tinted windows pulls up, and he opens the back door for me. I get in without looking at him and the car slides away from the curb.
“Is my address confidential?” I ask the driver. “I don’t want that man knowing where I live.”
The driver assures me that it is, and I tell him where to take me. A moment later my phone buzzes.
I would like to have dinner with you again in three days’ time. John.
I gape at the message. He wants to go through that again? He can’t possibly have enjoyed himself.
My thumbs fly over the digital keyboard as I type. Listen here, “John”, I don’t want to sit in some weird dark room with you while you look at me like I ran over your dog. You clearly don’t like me and this isn’t going to work out between us. Have a nice life.
The message sent, I sit back on the leather seat and breathe a sigh of relief. Holy hell, that felt good.
Two minutes later I get a notification from my cash app.
Oh, no.
I check my email and see that he’s sent me five thousand pounds, and then I get another message from Mr. Smith.
I asked you to have dinner with me.
I scream in frustration. What the hell is his deal? If he’d tried to feel me up or asked to smell my knickers or done anything sleazy at least I would know where I stand with him. Mr. Smith doesn’t seem to be remotely attracted to me, so if he doesn’t like me and doesn’t want to touch me, what does he want?
Leave me alone, I text back furiously. You’re a psycho. You’re not normal. I’m not going to have dinner with you and I don’t want your money. How do I send it back?
Twenty minutes later he hasn’t replied and there’s still six thousand pounds sitting in my bank account.
Fine. I’ll keep it. Goodbye forever.
When I get home I sign up for Netflix and order a pizza with double cheese. That dinner was the least satisfying thing I’ve ever eaten. Thirty minutes later I’m sprawled on my bed in PJs with the open pizza box and my laptop. I toast the empty room with a glass of cola as I watch the intro to the first episode of Friends.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Smith.”
Chapter Eight
Misha
When she arrives at the office of a morning, Bethany usually sits at her desk for forty-five minutes reading fashion blogs, sipping her coffee and ignoring me. This morning, however, she’s into my office like a shot.
“How was the date?” she asks with a grin.
I frown at my monitor and scroll through unread emails. The development in Croatia is seventy-five percent complete. Good. That means we’re slightly ahead of schedule.
Bethany comes closer and plants her hands on my desk. “Come on, spill. Don’t get all coy on me now, daddy.”
The memory of Miss Alders outside the restaurant last night blooms in my mind. How she smiled up at me, her blonde curls laying heavily over one shoulder. I had such a good time, daddy.
Liar. Miss Alders hated every second she spent with me. I don’t like that word, either. Daddy. I’m not spoiling or taking care of Miss Alders, I’m only giving her money. Trying to give her money.
“I wish you were this eager to talk to me every morning,” I say, without looking at Bethany.
She waves away my comment and perches on the edge of my desk. “Yes, yes, I’m a terrible PA. How was Ciara?”
“Surly, ungrateful, nosy and rude.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see Bethany’s face fall. “Uh, excuse me, sir, but that’s not the attitude we’re going for.”
“Quite. She behaved disgracefully.”
Bethany reaches out and yanks my keyboard away so I have to look at her. “No, I mean your attitude. If she was surly and ungrateful then it’s because you were unfriendly and miserly.”
I glare at my PA. “Miserly? I have spent six thousand pounds on Miss Alders, I arranged a lovely meal, I saw her into her car that I paid for and you conclude that her poor behavior is my fault?”
Bethany flicks her eyes pointedly up and down my person. “Yes.”
“Typical,” I seethe. I awoke this morning feeling a smolder of regret over how last night unfolded, but when I revisit the events of the date I can’t see that I did anything wrong. We had dinner and I gave her more money. What else could she want from me? I didn’t stare at her breasts. I didn’t say inappropriate things. I was the perfect gentleman and yet her behavior toward me was deplorable.
“What was the last thing she said to you?”
“None of your business.” When Bethany doesn’t reply, the smolder of guilt becomes a burn. “In text or in person?”
“Both.”
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to get Bethany’s opinion on a few things that happened, though I firmly believe that, on balance, I’m in the right and Miss Alders is in the wrong. “When we left the restaurant she demanded I get her a car without saying please. Extremely poor manners.” I pause, inviting Bethany to agree with me but she’s indifferent to this.
“And by text?”
My eyes drop guiltily away from her. “She, ah, sent me well wishes.”
Bethany holds her hand out for my phone. “Show me.”
I put a protective hand over it. “This overfamiliarity with your employer—”
Bethany jumps to her feet, her cheeks turning pink in anger. “Oh, get over yourself, would you? This isn’t about you. I’m doing this for Ciara, so your deranged brother doesn’t get his hands on her. I know her, remember? I don’t want to see her get hurt, and if you don’t sort your shit out then she’s going to get hurt!”
I look up at her in surprise and see real worry etched in her face. She’s genuinely concerned for Miss Alders, and I’m suddenly ashamed that her rejection has made me forget that I should be, too. This isn’t about my pride. It’s life and death for Miss Alders. Wordlessly, I unlock my phone and hand it over.
Bethany reads through the messages, her lips compressed into a rueful line. “It’s not good, sir.”
I sigh heavily. “No, it’s not.”
She puts the phone bac
k into my hand. “You obviously did something to upset her. What was it?”
I think for a moment. “I didn’t touch her or ask to touch her if that’s what you’re thinking,” I reply defensively. “I barely even looked at her.”
I did look at her a little, though. I can clearly recall Miss Alders’ petite body in tight red lace. The cascade of her curls. The plunging neckline and hint of her breasts. Not large breasts, but a good handful. Or mouthful.
Bethany groans and covers her face. “I told you to act normal. You didn’t need to get your hand under her dress but you should have kissed her cheek. Touched her waist. Told her she was beautiful. That’s what she was expecting.”
Was she? I remember the way she jumped to her feet the moment I entered the room. Her slim, bare legs and the red stilettos she wore. I thought it was odd at the time but maybe she was…showing herself to me? I walked behind her out of the restaurant and my eyes strayed to the firm muscles of her calves. In a distant part of my mind I briefly imagined sinking my teeth into them, then licking across the backs of her knees on my way up to her sex.
With effort, I shove the image away. Sex with Miss Alders would complicate an already impossible situation, but if I need to do one or two small things to show that I’m attracted to her then it wouldn’t be much of a stretch.
“Fine. I’ll tell her she’s beautiful next time and kiss her cheek, if I can get her to talk to me again.”
A male voice asks from the doorway, “Who’s not talking to you?”
Fuck.
The panic that flares in Bethany’s eye is mirrored in my stomach, but I keep my face straight as I turn to look at my brother.
Damir’s wintry eyes examine first me, and then Bethany. She walks quickly around to my side of the desk and starts straightening some files. I have the distinct impression that she wants the solid mahogany between her and my brother.
He strides slowly into the room, a neutral expression on his face but curiosity lighting his eyes. “Who’s the lucky girl, Mikhail?”
Did we refer to Miss Alders by name just now? I don’t think so. Christ, I hope not. “What do you want?” I counter. My brother isn’t the type to make small-talk or drop in just for a chat.