“Noelle.”
His voice was low and level and entirely without interest, which was a kind of interest all its own.
“Elias.” She stopped just inside his reach. "Your guests seem satisfied."
"They usually are."
"Then the evening's a success."
"For them."
Two words. The faintest shift in the corner of his mouth, just the muscular acknowledgment that he'd made a joke at her expense and knew she'd caught it.
Noelle held his gaze.
"You don't have to do that with me," she said.
"Do what?”
"Pretend. We both understand what this is."
Something moved in his face. It wasn't warmth.
"Do we?”
"A mutually beneficial arrangement." She was aware of how small her voice had become, and she hated the smallness of it. "One that neither of us would have chosen under different circumstances."
"That's a generous interpretation."
"It's a realistic one."
He took a breath. She saw him take it. His chest rose once under the fine dark suit, and for a single ridiculous second she thought he was going to say something honest.
"And you're comfortable with that?"
"Comfortable isn't the word I'd use."
"Then why agree to it?"
The question wasn't a question. It was a drawer being pulled open to see what was inside.
Noelle felt the heat begin at the base of her throat and climb. The pearls at her collar pressed against it. She kept her eyes on his. She'd spent too many dinners at her father's table being watched for a flinch to flinch now.
"Because sometimes the right decision isn't the easy one," she said.
He didn't answer immediately. He looked at her. It was a long look, and she couldn't read it, and that was the first thing about Elias Strathmore that unsettled her in a way the rumors hadn't prepared her for. A man who was merely cold could be read. A man who was watching and deciding something he didn't intend to share … that was a different animal.
"I'm told you're careful," he said.
"I'm told you're not easily surprised."
"We'll find out."
The silence that followed wasn't long. It wasn't awkward. It was the silence of two people who'd just measured each other and filed the results away for later use.
And then, over his shoulder, Gordon.
Gordon Vanders, stepping out of the private elevator as though he belonged in it. His navy jacket, his smile, the easy nod he gave the first two people to greet him. Gordon, who'd sat across from her six months ago in the lobby of the Drake with a briefcase between them and told her what her father had already agreed to, and what the price of refusal would be. Gordon, who'd driven her home afterward because she hadn't trusted her hands on the wheel. Gordon, who was her father's lawyer, her father's friend and who’d become like a father to her. He had, that afternoon in the car, reached across the console, put his hand briefly over hers and said,I'm sorry. For what it's worth, I'm sorry.
