Ruthless Rival (Cruel Castaways 1)

“And I’m here because of the food,” he deadpanned.

“It’s good food,” I pointed out, pretending to flip through the menu. I felt his gaze on me. I shut the menu, putting it down and shaking my head. “Why did you become a lawyer?” I demanded.

“Excuse me?” He raised his eyebrows.

“Out of all the professions in the world, why did you choose this one? You’re bright. You’re sharp. You could have done anything.”

I was waiting for a joke, a change of subject, or maybe a generic response. But instead, Christian gave it some serious thought before answering. “Growing up, I’ve been the victim of unfair treatment. I guess a part of me always wanted to make sure it’d never happen again. If you know your rights, you know how to protect yourself. I didn’t always know my rights.”

I swallowed. “That’s fair.”

“And you?” he asked, before I could dig into what it was that had happened to him. “Why PR?”

“I like helping people, and blood makes me queasy. It was either PR or medicine.”

Christian laughed. “Great choice. I can already imagine you yelling at your patients that they were being drama queens.”

I laughed too. He sounded like he understood me. But . . . how could he?

The rest of the conversation flowed nicely. Even though there was a lot both of us wanted to know about one another, we stuck to a subject that couldn’t garner arguments or debate—food.

He began explaining to me about each dish he’d ordered. When he was done, I pursed my lips, studying him. I’d met this man before, I decided. Maybe briefly, at a bar, one of the parties I’d gone to in college, or a charity event, but I was certain we knew each other.

“Mesmerized?” Christian’s cocky grin was back on full display.

I shrugged, taking a sip of my wine. “I just think it’s cute.”

“What’s cute?”

“How badly you want to win our bet.”

Christian clinked his wineglass against mine. “One thing you should know about me, Arya—I never lose a bet.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHRISTIAN

Present

She was here.

In my domain, in my territory, in my claws.

Whether it was her father who’d pushed her into my arms or the mystery surrounding me, Arya had finally taken the bait. She looked exhausted. The outline of her ribs poked through her blouse. There was something haunting about her face. But I’d take her any way I could have her. That, at least, hadn’t changed.

We had a pleasant meal, although I could tell her mind was elsewhere. My bet was that Daddy dearest had finally owned up to his wrong deeds and she’d had to not only face the truth but swallow it whole. After I paid (I wondered if watching her write a check for all the meals I’d paid for was going to be as sweet as drowning myself inside her), I suggested we take a walk.

“I could use a walk.” Arya surprised me by not being her usual defiant self. We strolled along Greenwich Avenue. The street was bustling with people, dogs, and life. As surreal as being with her again in New York was, I couldn’t stop myself from enjoying it. Countless times I’d imagined myself as a teenager taking her places. I’d fantasized about being someone else. The son of a surgeon and a child psychologist, maybe. Taking Conrad Roth’s precious daughter for ice cream. He’d have let me too.

“My father wondered if your clients would be open to a settlement.” Arya wrapped her arms around herself, her cheeks flushed with the wine and the meal.

Ah. So this was what this dinner was about. A grim smile found my lips. “We weren’t open to settlement pretrial, so that’s a goddamn stretch if I ever saw one. Also, I’d appreciate if next time he uses his attorneys as a channel of communication.”

She pursed her lips.

I nudged her shoulder with mine as we walked. “Hey. Let’s not talk about that.”

There was a lull, but then Arya forced herself to smile. “So tell me about your childhood. I’m still trying to figure out where I’ve seen you before.”

This was my chance to come clean, if I’d ever had one. Since I wasn’t a complete moron, I passed on the opportunity. But it was a reminder I couldn’t romance this woman. I was deceiving her to the highest degree by not revealing my true identity.

“I grew up here in New York. Went to a private school when I was fourteen. My parents and I didn’t really get along.”

“What do your parents do?”

“My father owns a deli, and my mother managed an estate.”

So far, not one lie. Although my sperm donor’s shop was a continent away, and my mother had managed the Roths’ estate by sweeping the floors.

“Do I know this private school?”

“You do.”

“Does it have a name?”

“It does,” I confirmed.

“Wow, you’re really not going to tell me.” But her eyes clung to my face, the distant sparkle of hope willing me to contradict her. “You’re impossible.”