Page 14 of Van Cort
He nods to the maître d’ who walks three steps in front of us to our table. We’re seated at the side of the venue with a good view. The lighting is soft, with a speakeasy feel, and the music provides a relaxed atmosphere. Much more relaxed than the last restaurant. Although Everett’s attire looks straight out of the boardroom, complete with the top button perilously close to his Adam’s apple.
“This looks nice,” I break the silence as we take our seats.
“I hope so.” He takes the menus offered by the waitress and hands one to me. “The piano needs tuning, so let’s just go with it for a while.” It does?
I wonder if he’ll choose for me like last time, but as I run my eyes down the choices, I know I’ll want to order. It feels less like I’m at a business meeting here.
“The salmon sounds good. And the beef.”
“And to drink? Wine again, but not a chardonnay.”
I look up, smiling. “You remembered.”
“It was only the evening before last. So yes, I remembered.”
He lessens the disappointment of the first part of his sentence. Has he thought about me like I have him?
He signals for the waitress and orders, opting for the scallops but also choosing the beef. A club soda again for him.
“So, I have to ask, what’s with Andre?”
“What do you mean?”
“You gave me his number, not yours? Is he your secretary as well as your driver?”
“No, I have a personal assistant, though.”
“So, why not her number? And why can’t I have yours?”
“My assistant is for my business dealings. This is strictly personal.” He dips his eyes to my chest as he says the word, andit’s like he’s brushing my skin with his gaze, even while being buttoned up. “And Andre is both.”
“Okay, but can I have your number? It might be nice to message.” Or to have you invite me on a date rather than relay a message from your driver. That makes me sound like a bitch, so I keep that thought in my head.
“I don’t give my number out,” he states.
“Ever?”
“I’m rich. Giving my number out has caused issues in the past.” It seems a logical response. Maybe.
Our drinks arrive, and we chink glasses, but I’m still running over his response.
His eyes narrow at me. “You’re sceptical?”
“Maybe a little. I’ve never come across someone as guarded as you.”
“You’ve dated wealthy men before?”
“Maybe one or two.” It’s my turn not to elaborate. At university, it felt like everyone was wealthy, but there’s a whole other world of wealth from them, and I don’t want to guess at Everett’s.
“Interesting. And you’re betting we’re all the same.”
“I don’t tend to bet. I arrive at an answer after considering the evidence that I have.” I take a gulp of my wine.
“You’re analysing me. That’s an interesting date technique.” His eyes narrow again. I wish he wouldn’t do that, because he looks too stern. Intimidating even. “Conclusions?”
“I don’t have a huge amount of data to go on just yet. Other than you’re far more wealthy than I’d have initially guessed, you like to get your own way and like to be in ultimate control.” All quite obvious facts. But I’m not giving away everything.
“And is all of that acceptable for you?”
