Page 8 of Sinful Beauty

“Yes.” I spent my primary school years on the outskirts of London. Geraldo’s job relocated him when I was twelve.

“And do you love London as much as you seem to love that glass of wine?”

I can only smile at him, as I’m not quite certain what he’s going on about.

“The look on your face, it was…” His voice drifts and I resist the urge to touch my cheeks to see if they are hot to the touch.

“My thoughts weren’t on the wine.”

“Please. Do share.”

There’s so much innuendo in his words that I have to look away once again and pull myself together. He’s too handsome. And he’s prowling. He’s a sophisticated man looking to play, and I don’t hold that against him. Quite the opposite, in fact, but I must keep my head on.

I sip my wine and place my card on the counter, so William knows I’m ready to pay.

The handsome stranger places his fingers over the card and pushes it towards me. “I’ve got it. All I want in exchange is to know what you were thinking of that set you off.”

I empty the glass, knocking back the liquid courage, and lean forward. “If you must know, when I closed my eyes, I was thinking about the last time I…”

I let my voice catch, aiming for breathless. I suck on my lower lip and drag my front teeth across it. His pupils expand and his chest rises.

And then I can’t hold it back. Laughter erupts.Men.

With tears in my eyes from laughing too hard, I thank him for the drink, and head back to my flat.

Chapter3

Tristan

“Are you ready?”

Mom’s gaze is reminiscent of any day in primary school, lips puckered, pointedly judgmental. As a boy, my tie had never been straight enough or my shirt tucked in quite right. Boarding school had been a reprieve from reproach, and certainly a relief for my parents.

As her heels click out a steady drumbeat with her approach, I can’t help but wonder what she’s going to correct. I’m not wearing a tie. I’m fully capable of tucking my shirt in and my cufflinks shine. Her perfectly polished ballet pink nails smooth my lapels and the diamonds on her fingers and wrists twinkle with the movement.

She gazes up at me beneath long lashes that perfectly frame her brilliant blue eyes and winks. “I believe you are.”

The unanticipated maternal pride has me second guessing playing this role. Perhaps I should read Mum in. Explain to her what’s going on and why I’m pretending to be interested in our family business. But then I’d be letting her know what I really do with my days and she’s better off not knowing. Her competitive nature wouldn’t be able to withhold the information from her close friends or acquaintances. I love my mother, but any lapse in judgement poses a risk to her. My life’s work involves putting away some of the world’s most connected and powerful criminals. It’s not a stretch to say her life could be in danger if someone I put away connected me to her. She’s far better off not knowing anything at all.

“Now,” she says, picking up a leather bound Louis Vuitton black embossed notepad she carries with her everywhere. “Remember, Nelson is ambitious. I raised him and he’ll do what I say, but if he sees you as a threat, he’ll make your life hell.”

“What do you mean, you raised him?” Technically speaking, she didn’t raise me.

“You look like you’re here to play. Wipe that smirk off your face.” Her heels click against the marble hallway as she leads the charge.

Mum’s office building isn’t in the same building as Lumina. After the sale of The Wagner Group to Lumina, she gave retirement all of two weeks and launched a make-up line. Dad said that it’s possible she’ll sell it to Lumina as the conglomerate includes a burgeoning cosmetics entity. She and Dad remain on Lumina’s board, but Dad is truly retired. According to Dad, Mom works longer hours than ever before.

We wait in front of a brass elevator with an aged patina. Mom wipes below her eyes with an index finger, touching up her makeup in the reflection, while I lean forward to press the down button like the dutiful son.

“Do I have siblings I have yet to meet?” Yes, I’m being a prick. It comes naturally.

She rolls her eyes, and a trace of a smile appears. “You know what I mean. I taught him everything he knows. Worked his way up from an intern. He’ll treat you fairly. He won’t want to face my wrath. But you’re going to need to work. You’re late to the game to be entering the company. Most of your colleagues have been here since university. You know that about us? Right? People come here and spend their careers here.”

The elevator dings, the doors open, and she steps in. A man pushing a mail cart exits and I join her in the elevator.

My grandfather had been proud that the Wagner Group rated as one of the best places to work in Europe. He followed a policy of paying everyone fairly and refused to take a salary more than one hundred times what the lowest paid employee earned. Back then, the lowest level had been the mailroom, a place he entreated me to work on breaks.

“You still have a mail department?” I ask after the doors close, sealing us in. I suppose they would, although the only thing I get in the mail is junk.

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