Page 23 of Her Wolf

What's a Bitcoin?

The lawyer introduced himself to Cora as Nick Devonshire. They sat by the library’s research table—mahogany polished until it gleamed—with Cora trying her hardest to get rid of the blush that kept creeping onto her cheeks whenever she looked in Finn or Bailey’s direction.

She’d tried to get her underwear back from Finn, but then Lars had walked into the library and Finn had given her a questioning look, as if asking if she really wanted to be fighting with him in front of Lars.

For the sake of retaining at least some shred of dignity, she’d decided he could keep the damn underwear. She had more, anyway.

But it felt weirdly intimate to meet with a complete stranger while cool air moved around her nether regions every time she took a step or crossed her legs. And it was as if Finn knew it; he watched her like a curious tiger wondering if the hare it was stalking would ever grow tired of their game.

As soon as they sat, one of the villa’s servants came inside the library with a wheeled serving tray. The smell of coffee hit Cora’s nose before she saw the spread of cakes and finger foods stacked alongside the espresso decanters.

She caught Lars’s eye.

He shrugged. “What? It’s just good manners to feed your guests.” Then he added, in a voice meant only for her ears, “and your men.”

She wasn’t complaining; her stomach growled at the sight of the food. She wasn’t the only one to grab something to eat, but their guest, Nick, just sat back politely and watched them stuffing their faces as if he had all the time in the world.

With her mouth full, she couldn’t exactly ask him what he wanted. But he seemed happy to scan everyone while wearing the most neutral smile she’d ever seen.

Judging from his salt-and-pepper hair, and the gray dusting his sideburns, he might have been close to her father’s age, if not a little older.

She swallowed down the last of a croissant, wiped her fingers on a napkin, and slugged down some warm coffee before speaking.

“So…you wanted to see me?” she asked.

Nick had been watching Lars eat. She wasn’t surprised; Lars ate as passionately as he made love.

The lawyer turned to her at the question, and gave her a small nod. He lifted his briefcase onto the table and took out a file, making each move with utter precision.

“Do you remember me at all, Ms Rivera?” he asked, flipping open the file before taking a spectacle case from inside the briefcase.

She took another sip of coffee, shaking her head. “Should I?”

“You were very young. Five, I think.” For the first time, his smile brightened a bit. “You’ve grown since then.”

What the hell was she supposed to say to that? So she gave him a tight smile, threw Finn a frown, and sipped at her coffee.

Nick took out a sheet of paper and slid it over the table to her. He was sitting next to Lars, who sat to her right. Finn sat to her left, and Bailey beside him.

Strange, she hadn’t even considered taking any seat but the head of the table. The thought perked up her lips as she grabbed the corner of the sheet and glanced at it.

“That’s a lot of numbers,” she said. She waved the paper. “Is it supposed to mean something to me?”

Nick politely cleared his throat. “That’s a statement for the trust your father set up in your name.”

“Oh.” Cora looked back at the paper. And then back at the lawyer. “All of it?” her voice was a bit too high, so she hurriedly put the paper down so she could take another sip of coffee.

“Uh…yes,” Nick said. He slid his spectacles on his nose and gave her a dreary smile. “With the economic conditions we had last year, we’re lucky to have seen any returns on your investments, but I was able to scrape through a paltry eight-point-seven percent.”

Lars looked up at this, and then across at Cora. He hurriedly wiped his hands on a napkin and gestured at the piece of paper.

“Mother, may I?”

She rolled her eyes at him, but handed over the paper. “So what are you saying, Nick?”

“Not my finest year, I’ll be the first to admit—”

“I’m sorry,” Lars cut in, lifting a hand in Nick’s direction. Then he stabbed at the paper. “Am I counting right? Are those nine digits?”

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