“Okay, let’s recap.” Marcus leaned across the limo and straightened my ponytail. I wondered if this “casual touch” thing was as strange for him as it was for me. If he found it at all unusual, he certainly wasn’t letting on. “First thing, we find Mr. Takahari and invite him to a game. Then I’ll—”
“No,” I interrupted, “that’s not what we agreed.”
Marcus rolled his eyes. “All right. First thing, we find you a bathroom, then we find Mr. Takahari.”
“And I will charm him with my stunning wit.”
“Then I’ll spin a casual conversation into an investment pitch somewhere between the eighth and ninth hole…”
“…while I’ll be guzzling cosmos and showing off my new bracelet.”
I grinned happily and jiggled it around my wrist so it could catch the sun. The only diamonds I’d ever worn were a pair of my mother’s earrings that she loaned me for my college graduation. But according to Marcus, “cocktails and gemstones” were the foundations upon which the “sport” of golf was built. On the way to the club, he’d stopped at Tiffany’s and I’d gotten to browse around and select anything I liked. I had gone with a gorgeous laced tennis bracelet—half to show solidarity with my favorite sport (which was actually a sport), half because I literally gasped when I saw it. My only condition was that we return it the next day. Marcus had protested endlessly, but I couldn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, reconcile a diamond bracelet being part of him “covering expenses.” No—the fairy tale ended at noon, and my sparkling new toy turned back into a hospice ID band.
But until then…no reason I couldn’t flaunt it a little…
Marcus’ nervous face actually broke into a smile, as he watched me twisting my arm in the sunbeams, scattering bits of light in a haloed circle around us.
“I really wish you’d let me just get that for you.”
I shook my head and smoothed the skirt of my white, starched cocktail dress. “No, ‘cause then the next day you’ll be like, ‘where are my diamonds, don’t I get diamonds too?’ And then what would I do? It’s an endless cycle. Best to just head it off at the pass.”
When his eye fixed on mine, I couldn’t tell if they were catching the light from my bracelet or if they were really just that sparkling. Either way, they held me momentarily in place.
“I’ve never met a girl who would turn down diamonds.”
I broke our gaze with a shrug. “I’ve never met a guy whose morning ritual was to scream at Geneva, but we all have our quirks, don’t we?” As the driver opened the door, I slid gracefully out of the car, keeping a careful hand on the hem of my skirt as I climbed past him. “And on that note, Marcus, I have to be honest with you.”
He slid out next to me and froze obediently as I straightened his collar.
“If there’s one thing I’ve discovered about you in our short time together, it’s this…”
A dozen flashbulbs went off, and we automatically posed, continuing to talk through perfect, pasted smiles.
“You’re not what the press makes you out to be. You’ve won me over with your kind and loving heart. Meeting you at that little coffee shop was fate.”
He smiled.
He had the most amazing smile I’d ever seen. And he was smiling at me…
Chapter 16
After what seemed like an eternity, we finally made it through the lines of press and strolled, arm in arm, into the country club. It looked exactly how I imagined it from seeing mock representations in a dozen movies and shows. Only this time the stakes were real, the prices were high, and the looks I was getting from the other women were nothing short of scathing.
“The powder room is right over there,” Marcus murmured, gesturing with one hand while keeping the other on the small of my back.
I eyed the murderous faces of the harpies between us with dread. “Just a friendly observation,” I whispered back, “saying words like ‘powder room,’ it’s kind of old-fashioned. And I want to keep you hip, Mr. Billionaire.”
His eyes narrowed, and he leaned down to whisper something equally cutting, but I quickly detached myself and breezed away. When I found him again a few minutes later, he was standing in front of the wall-to-wall windows, holding two drinks. One was something clear and deadly; the other was fruity and shockingly pink.
I opted for the latter, sipped it gratefully as my eyes darted around the room. No, I wasn’t imagining it. These women were hating on me for real. But it wasn’t like they’d been gunning for Marcus—they’d all already come here with someone else. I didn’t understand.
“Do you know how silly I felt ordering that?” Marcus asked, eying the oversized umbrella with disdain. “Men don’t order pink drinks.”
I grinned and held it up. “Try it, you’ll definitely like it.”
“I’m not trying that.”
“Why, ’cause it isn’t single malt?” I lowered my voice theatrically, and his stern demeanor cracked again in a boyish smile.