Page 5 of Think Outside the Boss

“Enlighten me?” I ask. “I’d hate to embarrass myself further.”

He smiles, a slow and wide thing that makes my stomach tighten. The dim lighting casts shadows over his face. “It would be my pleasure,” he says. “You already know the first one, and the most important one.”

“Women initiate conversation?”

“Yes, as well as sex,” he says. “Men can suggest it, if they’ve been spoken to, but it’s considered more proper for the woman to speak the words.”

I swallow against the dryness in my throat. “The Gilded Room is big on consent, then.”

“It is, not to mention security. You won’t see them, but there are guards stationed throughout the party.”

“There are?”

Slowly, giving me time to react, he reaches over and puts his hands on my shoulders. They’re warm and steady as he turns me toward the opposite corner. “The man in the back. Masked, wearing a leather loincloth?”

“That’s security?”

“Yes. See the earpiece?”

I narrow my eyes. His hands are still on me, hot through the thin fabric of my dress. “No. He’s too far away.”

“Well, it’s there. And you should get your eyesight checked.”

“Hey, that’s not nice.”

His chuckle is hoarse as he turns me toward the bar. “One of the men sitting down, nursing a scotch. He’s wearing a suit.”

“They drink on the job?”

His hands slip from my shoulders. “It’s likely apple juice. No one here wants to feel guarded, so they blend in. All part of the illusion.”

“The illusion?”

“That we all just happened to be here tonight, that this is a real party, that we’re not vetted and screened.”

There’s truth to that, I suppose. Security guards in uniform would ruin the mood. “So they step in if anyone gets too rowdy?”

“Yes, but that rarely happens. Few pay to get in here only to tempt a lifetime ban.” He lifts his crystal tumbler and drinks, the long column of his throat moving.

“You’re not wearing a mask. Wasn’t that one of the rules?”

He shoots me a look. “Some rules can be broken.”

“By the right people?”

He lifts a shoulder in an elegant shrug. Not denying it, not confirming it. A suspicion grows in my mind, and I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re not the owner of the Gilded Room, are you? The operator?”

“Christ, no.”

“You know a lot about how it works.”

“It’s not my first party,” he counters. A second later and I feel the warmth of his hand on my arm. “Care to sit down?”

He nods to an empty couch nearby, further concealed in shadow. A pounding of nerves explodes beneath my breastbone. His hand falls away. “Women have all the power,” he reminds me. “You say the word and I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the night.”

“What’s the word?”

“‘Go away’ usually works, but that’s two words.”

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