"I think I know what I need to know."
"No, you don't," I insist. "I'm not a real escort. I'm a reporter, just like I told you. I'm only doing this for a story. This is research."
The momentary dark flame in his eyes tells me that he doesn't like that piece of information. I remember witnessing a similar reaction when I first told him this at the agency. Something about it really seems to make him uncomfortable, whether it's my job itself or my insistence that I’m not an escort.
"If you're only here because you think I would help you with your story, you should leave right now and not waste any more of my time," he says coldly, fixating on me with his sinister stare. "I was told your file is legit, as meager as it may be, and that you may actually be interested in the deal I have to offer. If that's true, we may have something of mutual interest to discuss and you should stay."
He reaches for the flute in front of him, but doesn't drink from it. Instead, he swirls the liquid ever so slightly, watching as the golden pearls dance in the warm glow cast by the flickering candle in the center of our table.
"So, what will it be?" he challenges, without looking at me. "Leaving or staying?"
I straighten up in my chair and grab hold of the other flute with a little too much fervor, causing me to almost spill champagne on the linen tablecloth. I raise the glass to my lips and meet his testing gaze with heated determination.
"I'm staying."