He Will be My Ruin

“You said you were considering investing more money with me.”

“No . . . Actually I said I wanted your opinion on what my advisor is recommending I do,” I correct, and quietly scold myself. I can’t be confrontational with him if this is going to work.

A small, cocky smile touches his lips. “Sure.” He hits the space bar and his screen saver clears to show a convoluted graph with a dozen different colored lines. “Let me walk you through what I can do with that money. I’ll be better, I promise.”

“You don’t even know what he’s recommending.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Doug was right. Which means I have Jace exactly where I want him. I clear my voice, trying to shift into stealth mode, afraid I’m going to somehow fuck this all up. “Fine. But we’re going to review the plans from my advisor first.” I can’t give in too easily, after all. That’s just not me.

“Sure. Where are they?” He thinks he’s already won.

“It’s all in an email. I try to go paperless as much as possible. You know, for the environment.” I glare pointedly at the stacks of printouts he obviously prepared for this meeting. Or had Natasha prepare.

He chuckles. “Of course you do.”

I pull out my phone, steady my shaky hand, my heart pounding in my stomach. “Which email address should I send it to?”

He drops into his chair, turning the monitor on. “Just send it here, so we can look at it together. It’s . . .”

I type Jace’s home address into the email that Zac prepared for me. Doug promised that this would slip past firewalls unnoticed. That I wouldn’t be standing face-to-face with Jace, trying to explain why his security system just flagged a virus.

I hit “send,” and I hold my breath.

A few awkward moments pass, and I watch his long fingers tap over the keys, his dazzling blue eyes dance over the screen.

“Yeah, I’m glad you came to me. I would never recommend these investments and here’s why . . .”

I let the sigh of relief ease out of me as quietly as possible. “Time out. Are you pouring the wine?”

Because I’m going to need lots to get through tonight.

————

“So you actually live like the locals do. Sleeping in huts for weeks at a time.”

“Sometimes months.” I devour the last bite of roasted squash. When I sat down to the table, I wasn’t sure how I’d force anything down on account of my nerves. But Carla is a superb cook. I hope he pays her well.

Jace shakes his head and frowns, pushing the remains of his steak around his plate. Our dinner conversation has been far from painful, and it’s because I’ve spent most of it talking about what I do, which helped me forget about that cardboard box in his office, which is too far away from the main powder room for me to use the excuse of a bathroom break to sneak in.

Jace actually seems interested in the business side of my world—understanding how I approve and manage micro loans made by organizations for specific projects. But he clearly still has a hard time understanding why I would ever subject myself to the human side of it. “Couldn’t you at least build something more suitable to live in?”

“I could, but I won’t. What kind of message would that send to these people? They work so hard for so little. Do you know the average villager walks five to ten miles every day to get to work and back home? And if you knew how little they get paid . . .” I shake my head. “Most of them are lucky to make a dollar a day.” I point at his plate. “That hunk of meat you’re going to throw in the trash would feed an entire family. If they ate meat. Most of the villagers I know live off of grains. And they never leave their bowls unfinished.”

His eyes drop to my plate, completely bare. “You seem to have learned a thing or two from them.”

“I have. I’m also probably going to be hospitalized for indigestion after eating this. My body isn’t used to rich meals anymore.”

He chuckles as Carla swoops in to collect the plates. “Dessert, señor?”

“We’ll wait on that.” He dismisses her with a wave. “Thank you, Carla. You can go home.”

“Sí, Mr. Everett.” She disappears into the kitchen with her arms laden.

He settles his gaze on me, and I see amusement forming. “You can’t hide much with your expression, can you? What have I done wrong now?”

I grit my teeth. “She’s old enough to be your mother and yet you make her address you so formally.”

“I’m sure you’ve been around enough servants to know how it works.”

“She’s your employee, not your servant.” I’ve always hated that word.

“She’s a nice lady who cooks and cleans for me three times a week, and I pay her very well to do that,” he corrects. “Reminds me of the nanny I had growing up.”

“And have you not grown up yet? You’re, what, thirty-one?”

He smirks. “And don’t tell me you didn’t have your share of nannies.”

Perfect segue . . . “Only one that I remember. Her name was Rosa. She came to live with me when I was five years old, with her daughter, Celine. The one who died recently?”

I pause for a reaction. I think I catch a glimpse of something, but I could be wrong. I’m on my third glass of wine now. Not the smartest move to get tipsy, but it helped with my nerves.

“Anyway, we grew up together. And never once has Rosa called me by anything other than my first name.”

“To each their own.” If I’ve irritated Jace with my views or concerned him with my reference to Celine, he doesn’t let on. “Excuse me for a minute.” He saunters down the hall, giving me a reason to grab the last two dishes and bring them into the kitchen. I find Carla stooping in front of the dishwasher.

“Hola.”

She peers up and, smiling gently, holds her hands out for the glasses in my hand. “Gracias.”

“La cena fue maravillosa.” I smile, hoping my Spanish isn’t as rusty as I think it is. “The best meal I’ve had in a long time.” I check over my shoulder to make sure Jace isn’t standing behind me. I’m pretty sure he disappeared into the bathroom. “One of my very best friends was Mexican. Her name was Celine. Maybe she was here before?” I watch, hoping to see a glimmer of anything that looks like recognition.