“So tell me, Christian, how do I know you?”
We were on a first-name basis now. That wasn’t good. Still, it felt weird to refer to Arya as Ms. Roth.
I flexed my muscles. “You seem like a smart cookie. Figure it out.”
You’re playing with fire, I could hear Arsène warning in my head.
That may be, I answered. How could I not, when the flame is so beautiful?
The next day, I called Claire into my office.
“Miss Lesavoy, please take a seat.”
Claire always looked good, but she seemed to be putting in extra effort in recent days. Perhaps to remind me she had more to offer than her sharp mind.
She sat in front of me, smiling breezily. “Hey, stranger. Tried to call you last night. Your voice mail has been working extra hours.”
I’d been busy jerking off to mental pictures of Arya. But I supposed she could do without this piece of information.
“Sorry.” I smoothed my tie over my dress shirt. “I was busy. Listen, Claire, I’m going to cut straight to the chase. You are gorgeous, intelligent, smart as a whip, and completely out of my league. I’m a washed-out, jaded asshole who cannot say no when a good thing lands in his lap, and in doing so I’m slowing you down. So this is me doing you a favor and calling things off before you begin to resent me and working together becomes tasking.”
I thought it was a nice little speech. Especially considering none of these things were lies. She was too good to me. I was jaded. And things were becoming more complicated, especially now that we were handling the Roth case.
Claire scowled, not bothering to appear unwounded. I knew I should adore that about her, but I couldn’t help but miss Arya’s mind games. Her arrogant pride. Her obstinacy.
“Don’t you think it’s on me to decide whether you’re good enough or not?” Claire asked.
“No,” I said softly. “I fake quality quite well.”
“I think you’re selling yourself short.” Claire leaned across the desk, capturing my hand in hers. “I like you very much, Christian.”
“You have no reason to.”
“Even more so, because you don’t get how amazing you are.”
I gave her an it’s-not-going-to-work look.
“Is it Ms. Roth?” She dropped my hand.
“Don’t, Claire.”
“It is, then.” She stood up but didn’t leave. Waiting for a blanket denial. For me to change my mind.
I masked my annoyance with concern. “You deserve better.”
“I obviously do.” She smiled humorlessly but didn’t make a move toward the door. She was waiting for something else. Something I was incapable of giving her. Humanity. Remorse. Sympathy. I wanted to kill Arya and Conrad just then. For robbing me of all the things I could have given others.
“I trust this matter is settled and behind us,” I said.
And that was when I saw it. The realization sinking in. The way her eyes turned off told me everything I needed to know. She got it.
“Yes. Everything is perfectly clear. Will that be all, Mr. Miller?” Claire stuck her nose up in the air.
“Yes, Miss Lesavoy.”
It was the last time Claire spoke to me that day.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ARYA
Present
“Are you sure you’re going to eat this muffin?” Mother—or just Beatrice, since she wasn’t hot on a woman in her early thirties referring to her as Mom publicly—glanced from behind her menu, twisting her mouth disapprovingly.
My father sat beside her, silently slathering a piece of toast with butter. Maintaining eye contact with Beatrice, I took a large bite of the orange-and-cranberry muffin in my hand, crumbs tumbling down on my mint-green Gucci dress. “Looks that way, Bea.”
We were sitting at the Columbus Circle Inn, a charming restaurant in pastel colors with blown glass flowers, for Sunday brunch. Beatrice Roth didn’t see me very often. She had committees and charities and luncheons to run, but she did once a year, when we went to Aaron’s grave for the anniversary of his death. It was tradition to have brunch afterward. While every year of my twin brother’s loss was punctuated with an exclamation point, I couldn’t remember the last time my mother had treated my birthday as more than just a comma.
“You need to make sure you maintain your figure, Arya. You’re not twenty anymore.” Mom readjusted her new diamond earrings for the sole purpose of drawing attention to them.
I rarely saw my mother, even though I lived right down the block from her. And whenever I did see her, she always had something unkind to say. She was disgusted with my lack of desire to become a kept woman. In her opinion, I worked too hard, exercised too little, and talked politics too often. All in all, I was a dazzling failure as a socialite.
“I’ll keep that in mind when I’m on the lookout for a misogynist husband who requires a no-brain and no-appetite trophy wife.”
“Must you be so crass all the time?” She took a sip of her gin and diet tonic.