I look up when I hear the subtle shift in her tone as she says the last two words. Her face gives nothing away. Her gray eyes lock on my mouth as I study her.
If she’s expecting an explanation or a smile, she’ll be disappointed.
“Good,” I offer.
The corners of her mouth edge up toward a grin.
Have her lips always been that full?
“Mr. Corning would like to see you as soon as you have a free moment.” Her gaze drifts to the window to my right. “I did ask what it pertained to, but he wasn’t forthcoming.”
I’d bet my entire fortune that it’s about a client we’ve been trying to persuade to sign with us. We want to manage her hundreds-of-millions. She wants us to work harder for the privilege.
Going into business with my two closest friends from high school seemed like a good idea at the time. I was eighteen, full of hope, and blinded by lust for a future bank account with a six–figure balance.
Sixteen years later, I’ve leapfrogged that to a comfortable eight-figure investment portfolio, an apartment that overlooks Central Park, and a villa in Italy. Hope fell by the wayside during my freshman year of college when I realized dreams could only take a man so far. Hard work and ruthless determination have been the keys to my success.
Daniel Lawton, a third of our trio, moved to Los Angeles two months ago to handle our growing list of clients on the west coast. Judd Corning, who sits in an office down the hall from mine, brings his unique talents to the business. He balances out Daniel’s and my strengths.
We’ve nurtured relationships, made connections, and proven to our clients that if you want your wealth to grow, we’ll make it happen.
“I’ll see him now.” I glance at Arietta. “Tell him I have fifteen minutes, and that’s all I can give him.”
I can carve out an hour for Judd, but I’ve already read through a string of text messages that he sent me today. His latest effort to convince Clarice Blanchard to agree to a meeting with us to present our investment strategies was met with silence.
It’s a calculated move in the seemingly unending game of cat and mouse that we’ve been playing with her for weeks.
“I’ll do that,” Arietta says. “Is there anything else you need?”
“That’s all. Thank you.”
She tilts her head as if she’s trying to comprehend what I just said.
This may very well be the only time I’ve thanked her for anything. I’d say it slipped out, but good intentions take effort. I’ll never be the gentleman my father is, but an attempt at good manners now and again can’t hurt.
A full smile graces her lips. “You’re welcome.”
“Your call to Mr. Corning, Arietta...”
“Of course.” She takes a step toward me before she backs up several inches. “Since you are leaving an hour early today, I was wondering if I could too?”
“No,” I answer without hesitation.
Again, her expression gives nothing away. If she’s disappointed, she’s hiding it behind a smile.
“That’s all, Miss Voss.”
She places a stack of papers on my desk. “These are your messages, sir. There were others, but I took care of them.”
I read between the lines. Arietta tossed any messages left by women I’ve had encounters with.
“Good.” I don’t need to thank her for that. It’s part of her job. “My coffee, Arietta.”
She nods. “I’ll call Mr. Corning and grab a coffee for both of you. If you need anything else, you know where to find me.”
Indeed I do. She’ll be where I pay her very well to be. That’s behind her desk, keeping my professional life in order.
Chapter 3
Arietta
“I will never understand how Mr. Calvetti grew up with that woman as his grandmother.” I wave a finger in the air toward where Martina Calvetti is standing near the kitchen of the restaurant that bears her surname. “She’s a saint. He’s the devil.”
My roommate, Sinclair Morgan, glances in the direction I’m pointing. “Marti has like a bazillion grandkids. You can’t expect them all to be winners.”
I let out a stuttered laugh. “There are a lot of them, but I think it’s under twenty total.”
Sinclair shrugs her shoulders. “Maybe The Dick didn’t spend enough time with her during his formative years.”
I almost choke on the forkful of ravioli I just shoved into my mouth. I chuckle as I chew. “I haven’t called him that in a long time.”
The Dick is the nickname I gave Mr. Calvetti after I worked with him for a week. Although I appreciate that the man has the weight of the world on his shoulders since he’s managing the financial portfolios of some of the world’s wealthiest people, his one-on-one skills are lacking.
Or at least they are with me.
He pays me enough that I don’t take his rudeness to heart.
Sinclair runs a hand through her long brown hair, pushing it over her left shoulder. “Speaking of dicks, how is online dating going?”