Secret Acquisitions Page 7

Mark snorts. “Why? Can’t stand the thought of facing him?”

  She rises, her movements jerky. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

  Sympathy for her pokes at my sternum. Mark seems convinced she’s the bad guy, but her obvious distress convinces me otherwise.

  “Leaving so soon?” Mark asks. “But we haven’t caught up.”

  She doesn’t even look at him as she shoves away her chair. “Tell Logan I’m getting a lawyer. Tell him he needs one too.”

  “Tell him yourself,” Mark says, but she leaves without another word.

  I’m shaking with anxiety and embarrassment, the tension of the scene sinking into me. Now that Callie’s gone and the Bastards aren’t here, there’s no one to stop these two except me. I’m not sure if I have that kind of influence over Mark—probably not—and I definitely don’t have it over Julian.

  There goes my nice, relaxing dinner.

  “She needs to talk to him,” Mark says in a tone that doesn’t carry past the three of us. “She can’t leave him without a word. Even you have to see that.”

  Julian shakes his head. “Just leave her alone. She doesn’t owe you anything.”

  “And Logan?”

  Julian doesn’t bother to answer. He’s looking at me now, and his smile softens but remains mocking. “I see you’ve found a VC backer,” he says. Not mean but more like he’s sad for me. That he can see a bad end here.

  “Yes, she did.” The triumph in Mark’s voice is ugly. “And if I catch you—”

  I pull my hand out of his and take two steps away. “Catch him doing what? And you’ll do what?”

  The money, Grace, Chloe—all those things flash through my mind as I confront him. Are we only things to him and his friends, toys to buy and discard as their whims take them?

  Suddenly I feel nothing but sympathy for Callie.

  “Well, it looks like she won’t knuckle under. Good for her.”

  I hate Julian right now too, so I don’t acknowledge his comment. This is between me and Mark, and Julian can keep his smarmy ass out of it.

  Mark’s expression never softens an inch. I wonder if the entire place is staring at us, but I don’t want to look and confirm it. Better to pretend that they’re not.

  Mark takes my elbow this time, firm enough to let me know that I really should not make a scene.

  Oh, I won’t. I’ll wait until we’re alone for that.

  “Julian, fuck off,” he says.

  Julian’s laughter follows us as we go down a hall. Or rather, as Mark marches me down the hall, my elbow still in his hand. I don’t fight, but I also don’t try to keep up. I’m not afraid, because while he’s angry—potently so—he’s controlling it.

  And I’m angry too, that he could pull that stunt in front of Julian.

  He draws me into a room off the hall and shuts the door behind him.

  Turns out he wasn’t joking about the private rooms—this one is done up like an old-fashioned library with rows and rows of leather-bound books, high-backed chairs, and even a roaring fire. With the nighttime fog pressing against the windows, shielding the bay from view, the fire is luxuriously warm.

  There’s a table with two chairs in the center of the room, set with snow-white linen and china, gleaming silver and crystal. It’s like a dream I never want to wake up from.

  Except, of course, for the very angry male standing across the doorway. I keep my eyes on the fog outside the window. Cold and damp and obscuring as it is, it’s still safer than looking into Mark’s green eyes.

  “I’m not your possession,” I say, quiet but steely. “Taking your funding, sleeping with you… that doesn’t mean you own me.”

  The Mark I used to know would have immediately apologized. This Mark doesn’t.

  “It doesn’t mean I own you. But it does mean something.”

  “Not that you can play some kind of caveman game over me with Julian. Especially not in front of everyone.”

  Twice now, I don’t add. The first time seemed to be mostly about Julian and Logan. This time… this time it feels more about me. My pulse tingles in my veins.

  “I shouldn’t have done that,” he says finally. It’s not quite an apology, but at this point I’m not sure I’m going to get one. And I’m not sure if I’m going to walk out of here if I don’t.

  I tell myself I’m unsure because I can’t afford to make him mad, that I need his help with Ultra. But that’s not the whole truth—my uncertainty includes my new feelings for him. Yes, he can be a real asshole… but the glimpses I see of the man beyond that are so enticing. So compelling.

  “Please don’t do it again.” I wrap my arms around myself but don’t turn to face him. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that yet.

  His sigh fills the space between us. “Logan was shattered when Callie left. Still is. When you see your friend hurting like that and can’t understand why, when you can’t see what he did to deserve it, it makes you irrational. And fucking Julian, rubbing all our faces in it…”

  I still don’t turn, even though I do understand. Look at me, here with him, all to save my friend.

  “I’m sorry,” he says finally. “I was a jerk. I shouldn’t have done that to you.”

  He’s apologized. I was so unready for that it hits me right in the middle of my chest. But before I can respond or even figure out what all these emotions are rushing through me, there’s a knock at the door.

  In a few seconds, the room is filled with servers putting together a full meal and even a bar cart in case the champagne on ice isn’t enough for us. It’s amazing and ridiculous all at once. But then the scent of beef hits my nose and I’m mostly hungry. The waiter pulls off the silver domes to reveal steak frites, and I could cry with happiness.

  The other waiter holds out my chair for me. “Anything to drink?” he asks in perfectly polished tones.

  “Um…” I try to think of something sophisticated enough to eat with this as I sit down. My cocktail knowledge is sketchy. “A Manhattan?” I try.

  “Of course.”

  Just as efficiently as they set everything up, they’re gone again, leaving me with some amazing-looking steak and fries, a cocktail… and Mark.

  I can’t help myself anymore—I have to ask. “What is all this?”

  The dinner, the clothes, the car, the lunch: he’s pampering me, but there’s an edge to it. He wants me to be impressed. But also overawed.

  Which I am, but… I want the edge to dull. I want to roll around in this luxury without worrying about slicing my heart open. Which is ridiculous.

  “This?” He raises an eyebrow, looking too damn good as he does. “It’s my club. Maybe a little over the top, belonging to a private club, but it is nice.”

  “No, I mean… The clothes, the car, being at Ultra all day, and then this. What do you mean by it?”

  It can’t be all just for me, and if this is a mind game, it’s a very weird one. Okay, there are plenty of companies that give their workers lunches, laundry service, gyms, everything they could ever need from the outside—but that’s to keep them at their desks longer. This isn’t about squeezing more productivity out of me.

  So what is it?

  He arranges his silverware, looking uncertain for the first time I can remember. At least since he asked me out the first time. “None of your other lovers ever took you out?” He finally raises his eyes, his hard composure back in place. “You must have been with some real assholes.”

  Lover. He’s using that instead of boyfriend to put me in my place, to remind me that it’s all physical. Or…

  I shift as I realize what else it could be. He’s reminding himself.

  “I don’t date tech bros,” I say coolly, “so, no, they haven’t been assholes.”

  I wait for him to say but you’re dating me, except he doesn’t fall for the obvious bait. “Would you rather we grabbed burritos from some hole-in-the-wall in the Mission?”

  “No.” I take a bite of steak and almost moan because it’s beyond perfect
. “But sometimes it’s fun to do that too. Don’t you have fun sometimes in your whole ‘master of the universe’ shtick?”

  “It’s not a shtick,” he says shortly.

  “Okay, fine. But you do have fun?”

  “Sure. Last week one of our start-ups was bought by Google. That was fun.”

  “I mean normal-person fun.” I gesture with my fork. “Something that doesn’t involving making or spending scads of money.”

  As his face twists in confusion, it hits me suddenly. What’s really different about him since college, beyond the money and power and sex-god status.

  He never has fun anymore. Which is just about the saddest thing I can think of.

  Chapter 9

  Do I have fun? Normal-person fun?

  I’m not struggling with January’s question, not at all. It’s only that “normal person” isn’t even part of my vocabulary anymore.

  I have fun, I’m sure I do, but… normal-person fun? Like being part of an online cryptology group?

  I don’t have anything like that in my life. I left mundane life a long time ago. I try to think of something that isn’t work or hanging out with the Bastards that I’ve done recently. Something I’ve actually enjoyed too, which narrows things down considerably.

  Licking your pussy as you sprawled on my desk and screamed with pleasure.

  Okay, that’s not what she means either, but it was fun.

  “I can’t give you a good example at the moment,” I say.

  She waggles a smug eyebrow. Knew it, that expression says.

  “There’s a thing about money,” I say. “Something that’s hard to explain.”

  She makes a mock sympathetic face, and I’m tempted to spank her for it. Maybe I’ll spank her tonight. Make her ass nice and pink as she gasps with every stroke of my hand. No pain—I’m not into that—but enough to get a nice tingle going.

  “Don’t get too sassy,” I warn her. I take a deep breath, wrestling with how much of myself to expose to her. How much of myself I can entrust to her.

  That’s the other thing that’s hard to explain about money—once you have a massive amount, it’s hard to tell if someone’s with you for yourself… or your bank account.

  I’ve seen Logan get burned bad with Callie. And I don’t want January and I to end up in that kind of agony.

  “Once we—the Bastards—got to where we are, we didn’t know who we could trust. Everyone wants a piece of us: to make a pitch, find out our secrets, or plain old ask for money. Or screw us any way they can.”

  My jaw tightens. Like Julian. Competition is one thing, stealing Logan’s wife is another.

  January’s gaze turns wary. Shit, I’ve got to stop with the Julian stuff around her.

  I clear my throat. “It just got easier to stick together since we know we’ve got each other’s backs. And when one of us stepped out and trusted another person… Well, she betrayed him with Julian.”

  Okay, that slipped out before I could stop it. But it’s the perfect example of what I mean.

  She’s got her chin in her hand, watching me. I can’t tell if she’s feeling sympathy… or if she’s only tired.

  I’d rather she was tired. Honestly.

  “It doesn’t have to be you against the world.”

  So she’s going with sympathy. I don’t need it.

  “Really? And what brought you to my door? Just your inescapable attraction to me?”

  She flinches as my words land. Shit. I’m an asshole.

  She’s asked what all this is about, and the sad truth is I want to impress her. I want to show her how far I’ve come from that kid who stuttered through asking her out in college. I want her to be so deeply ensnared by me she won’t even dream of saying no to me this time. And if I have to use my wealth to do it, I will.

  There’s no way in hell I’m letting her within a mile of that truth though.

  “I guess you’re right,” she says with tight misery. “I’m here for the same mercenary reasons as all the rest.”

  Only, she isn’t. There’s something deeper than a founder’s optimism in their start-up. Something that terrifies her, something that chases through her eyes when she thinks I’m not looking.

  January sets her fork down with agonizing precision, her mouth a curve of sorrow. “I suppose I should go. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow, but you don’t have to—”

  “I’m sorry.” I reach across the table and take her hand, which is cold. “Again. I’m supposed to be the personable one, but clearly I’m fucking up tonight.”

  Mark Taylor, master negotiator. At least that’s who I’m supposed to be. For all my big talk about not letting her under my skin, she’s already in deep. Deep enough to throw me off my game.

  Who’s playing who now here?

  She gives me a brave smile, but the edges of it hurt. “It’s been a long day.”

  “Longer than usual?”

  She shakes her head. “No, not really. You know how it is. Anything under eighty hours a week is part-time.”

  “Yeah. When we were first starting out, we had rented this ancient place in East Palo Alto. Our workstations were all in the living room, and when things got crazy—and they were always crazy—we’d sleep under the table. We had sleeping bags under there and everything.”

  She stares at me for a long moment, so long I actually feel self-conscious. Which I haven’t felt in damn near forever. I forgot how miserable that sensation felt.

  Almost as miserable as when she first turned me down.

  “You miss those times,” she said. “Right now the way you’re smiling… You used to smile like that.”

  It sounds like she misses that smile. And what the hell does she know about how I smile now?

  “Really?”

  She draws back, hides behind her glass. “Yes. We were friends back then. I remember.”

  No, she’d thought we were friends. I was infatuated with her. God, but it hurt to face her rejection, to know that she never felt anything more for me. At least it did back then.

  I thought I was over it, but the way she’s reeling me in makes me doubt myself. But I keep all that in. Being ruthless here is fine. Being petulant is not. It gives too much of my true feelings away.

  I shrug. “College was a long time ago. Being a partner in a VC firm is pretty different from trying to pass CS115.”

  “Right.” She sets her glass down with a sharp clink. “It was. So we’re in business together and we’re sleeping together. But we’re not friends.”

  I’ve never wanted to be just a friend, especially not now that we’ve fucked. “What we have here is more complicated, don’t you think?”

  I keep my voice cool, the better to bring the tone of this down. I don’t want to hurt her, and I don’t want to lash out with my own stupid wounds. All right, so maybe I’m hiding some deeper feelings from her. But she’s hiding some shit from me too.

  Her own voice drops several degrees. “You’re right. Speaking of that, when do I sign the paperwork? It’s not that I don’t trust you”—her smile is sharp—“but I’d like to make it all legal.”

  “Tomorrow.” I take a sip of my tequila, the better to clear the dryness from my throat. “Anjie and Elliot are drawing up the paperwork.”

  “Anjie?” There’s the faintest pulse of jealousy there. I have to look down to hold back my surge of triumph.

  “Anjelica Caprice. Our office manager. She’ll be there for the signing.”

  “Oh.” January takes a long pull on her cocktail, one that has her visibly reacting. I get the impression she doesn’t deal with hard liquor often. But it’s put a lovely glow in her cheeks, given the faintest hint of unfocusedness to her expression.

  “Did you like it?” I gesture to her nearly empty tumbler.

  “Yes.” She runs a finger around the rim. “It was all so, so lovely.”

  And there it is, my reward for the evening. The expression from her I’ve been hungering for since she stepped into my firm—wistful
, grateful, and oh so soft.

  Pliable. That’s the word to put to her. I want to wrap her around me, so tight she’ll never let go.

  I shove my own empty tumbler away from me. “Do you want to get out of here?”

  Chapter 10

  Mark’s house remains just as jaw-dropping on a second visit.

  We’re in his living room, sipping port from the most delicate glasses, the glitter of the bay spread outside the massive picture window. Light is amplified and twisted by the water, almost as if the bay is painting with the light the city is tossing at it.

  I’d suspect him of bringing me here specifically at night to be awed by this view, but having seen it in the daylight, I know it’s equally impressive then.

  And it looks like I’ll be seeing it again come morning. What clothes will he choose for me this time? Or will I just get a voucher for one of the upscale boutiques lining Lombard Street?

  The thought excites me rather than repels me. I’m not exactly selling myself here, but the money issue between us is prickly and large.

  But not as all-encompassing as our attraction.

  “January.” Mark comes up behind me and runs a hand down my bare arm. He’s taken my cardigan and my shoes. I’m all too aware of my skirt, shirt, and underwear, the only things between my bare skin and him.

  After our long day, I should be exhausted. Instead, I’m almost jittery with anticipation. Having Mark this close to me, with all the erotic electricity crackling between us, is better than a shot of adrenaline.

  “It’s so beautiful,” I say. He knows that, but the scene before us is the kind of beauty that has to be remarked on.

  “I know.” He lowers his head to the crook of my neck and inhales deeply. The appreciative noise he makes has my knees going weak. “So beautiful.” He hooks a finger into the strap of my shirt. “Let’s make it even more so.”

  He takes my glass, then pulls my shirt off with agonizing slowness, and if it weren’t for the occasional tremble I feel in his fingers as they make contact with my skin, I’d think he was doing this just to torment me. But he’s tormenting himself too, which is so, so hot. A powerful man holding back—painfully so—is my weakness, it seems.