“There you are,” he says, standing up to greet me, and as he clasps my hands in a strong, warm grasp and bends to brush a kiss over my cheek, I feel more of my nervousness ebbing away.
“Would you like something to drink, ma’am?” the waiter asks as I sit down in the chair Marcus pulls out for me. “Perhaps some wine? Mr. Carelli has ordered an excellent Cabernet Sauvignon and Pinot Grigio for the table, but we also have a wide selection of—”
“The Pinot Grigio is perfect, thank you.” I normally drink only water, but a little wine might be just the thing today. Now that I’m seated and everyone’s staring at me, my heartbeat is speeding up again.
God, I hope I don’t have a piece of broccoli stuck in my teeth—or some cat hair somewhere.
“Everyone, this is Emma Walsh,” Marcus announces, surveying our dinner companions like a monarch would his subjects, and then he goes around the table introducing each person—or rather, each man, as I’m the only woman present.
To my left is Ashton Vancroft, the fitness empire mogul whom Marcus introduces as “a good friend from business school.” Unlike everyone else at the table, he’s dressed casually, in jeans and a cream-colored cashmere sweater that fits his muscled torso like a glove. His sun-streaked hair is on the longish side, down past his ears, and to my slightly awed eyes, he looks like a cross between Brad Pitt in Troy and Chris Hemsworth in Thor. Shaking my hand, he grins, flashing dazzling white teeth, and says in a smooth, deep voice that makes me think of melted caramel, “Pleasure to meet you, Emma.”
Before I can recover from the potency of that charm attack, the introductions continue. On the other side of Ashton is Robert “Bob” Johnson, a stiff-looking older guy who manages the Teachers’ Union pension fund. To Bob’s left are Jack and James Gyles, two round-faced brothers in their mid-forties whom Marcus introduces as his “long-time investors.” They’re the ones who have no online presence, meaning they’re old money or something even sketchier. Next to them is Grigori Moskov, the tech billionaire, and immediately to Marcus’s right is Weston Long, the real estate tycoon. Both are tall, athletically built men around Marcus’s age, and though they don’t resemble him physically, they project a similar kind of power and self-assurance.
It’s the I-could-buy-a-small-country-with-spare-change look, and they have it in spades.
Smiling as brightly as I can, I nod and repeat all the names as Marcus says them, so I can better remember them. It helps that he told me who these people are ahead of time, and I did a Google search on them. I’m a highly visual learner, which means it’s easier for me to retain information I’ve seen written down—or written out in my phone’s search bar.
Finally, the introductions are made, and as the men resume their conversations from earlier, I gratefully shift my focus to the menu lying in front of me. Unfortunately, it’s all in French, or at least half the words are, because I have no idea what most of the dishes are. Well, I do know what escargot is, and I intend to avoid it.
I’ve never tried snails before, and I’d rather do it when my stomach isn’t so unsettled.
Also, there are no prices next to any of the items on the menu. Is that normal? Does that mean this is something like an all-inclusive buffet, or are the prices so high they left them off so as not to spoil people’s appetites?
A big, warm hand covers my knee under the table, and I look up to find Marcus watching me. Leaning in, he asks softly, “How are you, kitten? Did you have any trouble getting here?”
My cheeks grow warm, though I doubt anyone heard Marcus’s endearment. “No, no trouble,” I murmur, acutely cognizant of all the curious eyes covertly watching us. I half-expected Marcus to ignore me after the introductions—after all, he’s here to schmooze with his investors—but that’s not what seems to be happening.
Though he didn’t introduce me as his girlfriend, the possessive way he’s leaning over me proclaims it as loudly as if he’d pinned a label to my chest.
“So, Emma, you’re visiting us from Boston, right?” a smooth male voice says from my left, and I turn to face Ashton.
“Boston? No, I’m afraid not.” Where did he get that from?
“Oh.” He frowns. “I could’ve sworn—”
“You’re thinking of someone else,” Marcus says, his tone hardening. “Emma is from Brooklyn, born and raised.”
Ashton’s face clears. “Never mind then. I thought for a moment—but yes, the last name is different too. So you’re a native New Yorker, Emma?”
I force myself to smile and nod. “Yes, indeed. How about yourself?” To my relief, my voice comes out normal and steady, unaffected by the sudden tightness in my chest.
There’s only one reason why Marcus’s friend would think I’m someone else.
He’s got me confused with Emmeline—which means Marcus spoke to him about her, but didn’t mention me.
“I actually am from Boston, or at least my family is,” Ashton says, giving me another one of his dazzling smiles. Only this time, I don’t feel even the tiniest bit dazzled, the tightness in my chest transforming into a stabbing ache. I don’t want my mind going down that path, but I can’t help it. It’s impossible to ignore the implications of Ashton’s mistake.
At some point in the not-too-distant past, Marcus had
