Page 33 of Heart of Stone

She couldn’t have been more conspicuous.

In the past, I’ve always brushed off her flirtations. She went against my rules. I never take on the unknown, or I’d risk jeopardizing too much. It was much safer to stick to women that I knew had interests that reflected my own, as they understood the value of discretion. Privacy was hard to maintain for someone of my stature. Gretchen worked in my building and people talk. People talk a lot.

Fuck the rules for one day. I should just go for this one.

But as soon as I thought it, I dismissed the notion and resigned myself to the inevitable.

Rules or no rules. It isn’t going to work.

“I only need to make a couple of calls. Joe’s office will be fine,” I stated indifferently. My tone was clipped rather than polite, as I was irritated with myself for giving her even a moment of consideration.

“Whatever is easier for you, sir,” she accommodated with a slight nod. The light in her eyes extinguished, her poise returning to all business. “I’ll just phone ahead and make sure that Joe clears the space for you.”

“Thank you, Gretchen.”

Any decent man would have felt a small twinge of guilt about leading her on, only to shut her down seconds later. But I wasn’t one of those men. For me, the rationale was simple. Gretchen wasn’t what I wanted. She was easy. Simple. Lacking any sort of challenge. A one-time roll in the hay with her would never dispel the restless energy that I had been dealing with for days. There was only one woman that held that power.

Krystina.

I walked away from the obviously disappointed Gretchen and headed down the corridor that would take me to Joe’s office. When I came around the corner, I spotted the gym manager closing his office door behind him.

“Mr. Stone,” Joe greeted when he saw me coming towards him. When I reached him, he extended his hand to me.

“Joe,” I returned, accepting his handshake. It was loose, like a limp noodle, and cold and clammy against my palm. It was not the sort of handshake one would expect from someone with shoulders like a linebacker. “Thank you for the space. You saved me a trip back upstairs to my office. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“Take all the time you need, sir. If you need the computer, I left the guest login password on the desk for you. I’ll just be in the training room reviewing schedules. Please don’t hesitate to call me there if you need anything else.”

“Will do.”

Once he walked away, I wiped my hand on the leg of my jeans, attempting to dry the dampness that had been left there by the handshake. Joe was always nervous around me, although I could never understand why. In fact, everyone seemed to be nervous in my presence lately.

Has it always been like that? Or is it that I’m just noticing it for the first time?

Even Krystina was tense around me. The way she twisted her hands together, or fiddled with the hem of her shirt – I intimidated her. She practically told me as much in her interview.

I’m not that much of an asshole, am I?

I stepped into the small office and closed the door behind me, my thoughts once again returning to Krystina. Phase one in my plan had already been set in motion. It was time to forge ahead with the next step.

I knew that she would not be showing up for her “rescheduled” interview. I never had the notion that she actually would. But that was okay, as long as everything else fell into place.

I took a seat behind Joe’s gray metal-framed desk, and dialed Matteo Donati’s cell number. Matteo and I had been friends since high school, and I knew I could count on him to be discreet.

“Matt, I need a favor,” I said when he picked up.

“Whatever you need,” he obliged, his Italian accent still prevalent even after the twenty years he had spent in the States. “What’s up?”

“I need to arrange a private meeting with someone. It’s got to be tonight. Is the restaurant ready to entertain me and a guest?”

“If you don’t mind a nameless place with limited selections,” he joked, despite that fact that I knew he was frustrated. Matteo had mapped out every tiny detail for the restaurant, from the font printed on the menus to the wattage of the light bulbs. He had a true vision, but he was stumped when it came down to naming his lifelong dream.

“You’re over thinking it. I’ll help you figure out a name, don’t worry,” I assured him. “I know that the place isn’t finished, but I’m really just looking for somewhere that’s free of outside influences and interruptions. Can you make it work?”

“Enough is done that I could pull it off. Who’s the guest?”

“She’s a prospect for Turning Stone Advertising.”

“She?”

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