The Takeover (The Miles High Club 2)
Page 99
“I need to talk to you, Claire.”
“About?”
He sips his drink, clearly amused at his bastardly arrogance. “Fletcher.”
“What the fuck do you want to talk about Fletcher for?” Gabriel snaps.
Tristan turns his attention back to Gabriel. “Do you mind with the coarse language? Fletcher is my intern, and I need to speak to his mother. So if you don’t mind . . .”
“Fletcher is . . . ?” Gabriel’s face falls. “Fletcher is working for Miles? Why, Claire?” he gasps.
“He wanted to work for the best.” Tristan smiles sweetly. His eyes hold Gabriel’s in a silent dare.
I haven’t seen Tristan Miles in full swing yet. He’s so arrogant that it’s a joke, and I hate to admit it.
It’s fucking hot.
“You want to talk to me now?” I ask.
“Yes. Now.” He looks over at Gabriel. “Goodbye. This particular meeting is of a private nature.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Gabriel snaps.
Tristan’s eyes come back to mine. “I could always come to see you in your office tomorrow, Claire . . . on your desk.”
“You mean at her desk,” Gabriel replies.
Tristan gives me a slow, sexy smile. “I know what I meant.”
Oh . . . fuck a duck.
I feel the blood drain from my face. He’s going to let Gabriel know that we’ve been together. Shit. I need to diffuse this situation right now before there’s an all-out fight. “Gabriel, just give me ten minutes to speak to Tristan about Fletcher. Why don’t you go and order us some more drinks?”
They glare at each other for what feels like forever, and finally Gabriel stands. “You have five minutes,” he warns him.
Tristan smiles, unfazed by the threat, and then he turns his attention to me. His face drops, and he stares at me flatly.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He sits forward, unable to hide his anger. “What are you doing?”
“I’m having a drink with a friend.”
“You’re friends with Gabriel Ferrara?” he scoffs.
“Yes, I am, actually,” I fire back.
He sips his drink as he glares at me. “What kind of friend, Claire?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“So let me get this straight: you don’t want to see me because of what I do for a living . . . but you are—”
I cut him off. “I don’t want to see you because you’re a coward.”
“How the fuck am I coward?”
“One meeting with my children, and you run for the hills,” I blurt out before I put my brain-to-mouth filter on.