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The security buzzer jingles, and I figure the car is here. With another quick glance in the mirror, I get my newly motivated butt through the front hallway and out onto the concrete stoop in record time. Hobbling down the steps, I pick carefully along the flagstone path to the security gate.
The driver looks me over from bottom to top as I approach, and I plaster a confident smile on my face, just trying it out. He smiles back, even looks a little surprised like I caught him off guard.
That's good. That's what I need: a little reassurance that my act is working on someone. This sort of eyes-forward confidence is very appealing to wealthy men, I imagine. Certainly I can fake anything for one night. Or, for three weeks, I suppose. Confident, secure, and in control. That's me! Bella Cage, superwoman.
“Ms. Cage?” he asks me, smiling shyly. I take a moment to look him over, appreciating his light green eyes and the manly stubble growth along his jawline. His thick neck. His broad shoulders.
See? They’re beautiful in their way. They're not all cheaters and liars and child molesters and grifters and…
But, wait. I digress.
“That's me,” I purr, trying out the voice I intend to use for the evening. It works. Nice purr, I congratulate myself.
“Right this way.”
He leads me through the front gate to the waiting car. I don't know what it is. Some incredibly expensive vehicle, I imagine, and it actually seems to be sort of purple in the light. In any case, he opens the door and I slide into the back seat, pulling my cell phone from my bag as I do so.
I only notice his eyes flicker up into the rearview mirror a few times as we drive. I murmur into my recorder, trying to remember everything about how I got ready. The worry, the procrastination, the shower. How I picked my hairdo. How I picked my makeup. Every brand of every cream and color I applied… I’ll need those for advertising tie-ins, I'm sure.
I’ll be happy to leave all that behind, after this final push toward legitimacy.
It actually takes us twenty minutes to get there, and I realize I managed to get twenty minutes of notes into my phone. I haven't even met the guy for a drink yet, and I've already written probably three thousand words about getting my panties on. At this rate, I'll have a novel by the end of next week.
Wait a second… a novel? Hm. Maybe I should…
No, I have my orders. It’s just an article. Hannah would throw a fit if I tried to change that up.
The car door swings open, letting in a blast of summer sunlight. It's golden and rich, filtered through the gilded leaves of Streeterville, only Chicago's most expensive neighborhood for the last hundred fifty years in a row.
“Thank you,” I mumble as I take his hand and rise to the sidewalk. I notice that people are looking at me as I walk into The Copper. It's a very exclusive location. They're probably wondering who I'm there to service.
I see him immediately. He is actually impossible to miss. Handsome and confident, he sits with his elbow on the table, staring into the face of his phone. A half-handful of dark, shiny hair dangles across his unlined brow. His cheekbones are so sharp they cast a shadow. Every few seconds, his broad chest inflates, expanding the width of the opening of his linen shirt. His skin is a tawny glow.
Jesus. He’s gorgeous.
There are a half dozen people around him, swooping back and forth like satellites caught in his gravity. Yes, Mr. Riordan. Certainly, Mr. Riordan, they mewl obsequiously. Everybody is at his beck and call. Just look at him. It kind of turns my stomach to see.
But he looks up like he knows I’m there, grinning broadly when he sees me. Am I late? Or was he early? That seems like a strangely polite thing for billionaire to do, doesn't it?
He rises as I walk forward, holding his hands out as though he is a spokesmodel, and I am the prize he's been hired to described.
“You look beautiful,” he says, his voice completely sincere. “I like you in blue.”
“Will your companion be having the Japanese whisky?” the waiter asks him (not me), swooping back and forth and staring as he leads me to the chair at the back of the table. I slide into it as he holds it out for me.
I'm totally disarmed. Everything I planned on saying sort of crumbles away like a sand castle under a rising tide.
“Thank you,” I force myself to mutter. My voice sounds dry. Little bits of it break off in the air and float away like sand in the water.
“Is that your favorite color?”
I take a deep breath. So, this is happening. We’re doing the first date questionnaire.
“No,” I admit. “It’s pink.”
His eyebrows go up as a small smirk puckers the corner of his mouth. His lips are full and velvety-looking. I can see why so many women have wanted to get on them.
“That’s a very feminine choice,” he remarks.
