Page 48 of Cruel Lies

"Does everyone in this man's life just know my name?"

He smiles and doesn't answer, which I'm starting to understand is a family trait among Akov associates.

The restaurant is basically incognito. It's tucked off a side street in the West Village with no sign to announce its presence. Nothing but a heavy door and a host who looks at me, smiles, and bows.

Ronan is already there.

He stands when he sees me, and when that sends a surprise thrill racing over my skin, I remind myself to simply note it and move on.Stood up when I entered. One data point. Inconclusive.

He's in dark gray, no tie, the top button open, and he looks at me crossing the room without ever once blinking or moving an inch.

"Ms. Meadows," he says when I'm close enough.

"Mr. Akov."

"You look—" He pauses, and I brace forincredibleorstunningor some other word charming men like to throw around like confetti. "—dangerous," he finishes.

I sit before I can react to that.

The table is small. Intimate, even, though the burned woman in me sees it and thinks,Nothing like forcing proximity to engender good feelings. Classic manipulator's move.A candle between us throws Ronan's face into uneven gold, and his eyeschurn, the gray and the blue not quite agreeing on what color they are.

"I should tell you," I say, unfolding my napkin and draping it over my lap, "that I'm here under protest."

"Are you now?"

"I am. This is a hostile experiment."

"All the best ones are. The Stanford Prison Experiment was inhumane and unethical. But it's also the only psychological experiment anyone has ever heard of."

I roll my eyes. "Of course you'd be a fan of mind games and the manipulation of power."

"I'm not afan," he says, mild and unoffended. "I'm a student."

"Potato, potato."

"Those who don't study history are doomed to repeat it, Ms. Meadows," he says sagely. He hands me a menu. "And those who don't order their own wine are doomed to drink the house red."

I laugh, then cover my mouth with my hand. "That's very generous of you, to let me make decisions in my own life."

"I find," he says, "that I prefer it when you do."

A server in a pressed suit comes over. Ronan speaks to him in Italian, which makes my eyes bulge out of their sockets. It's fast and smooth and I have no idea what he's saying, but it sounds good, the real deal. I have to work hard to keep my face flat.

"What did you order?" I ask when he's done.

"One of everything."

I gawk at him. "We don't need all that food!"

He shrugs. "Then we won't eat it. But I'm not a man who limits himself, and I don't think doing so is some noble self-sacrifice. Life is meant to be lived. It's also meant to be shared. I invited you here tonight because I'd like to do both."

That shuts me up even more. With no better options, I decide to allow it.

"So." I fold my hands in front of him and fix him with my serious business glare. "Date one. Let's get on with it. What's the format here? Do you interview me? Do I interview you?"

"You tell me," Ronan says. He leans back, one arm draped over the chair, completely at ease in a way that I find faintly infuriating. "Ask me something."

I weigh my options. There are the obvious questions—What's your relationship history? How much money do you actually have? Are you on good terms with your mother?—but I figure I'll save the heavy artillery for date three. Assuming we make it that far.