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"You!" Sloane shouts, pointing a stiff finger in my direction, "You should be ashamed!"
I look back at my secretary and give her a nod. "It's okay, CJ. I'll handle it from here."
"So, what do I owe the honor?" I ask, casually removing my feet from my desk and sitting up straight in my chair.
"Cut the crap," he growls. "Natalie is your daughter."
"Stepdaughter," I correct. "And technically, even that's a stretch after Linda and I divorced."
"I'm asking you to stay away from her."
"Careful, Sloane," I smile. "You're starting to sound like a jealous boyfriend."
"Ha, that's where you're wrong. I'm here on business, Drake. Plain and simple."
"You can't be serious?" I laugh. "Don't think I haven't seen the way you look at Natalie. Now tell me why you're really here."
I can see the pulse in his temple quicken. I don't think I've ever seen him this worked up before. Maybe once … after his mother died, but that was a lifetime ago. There is a strength and power in his anger—the way his nostrils flare and the chords in his neck spasms. The way his chest and biceps quiver.
Why am I noticing these things?
"You're fucking impossible, you know that?" he growls again. "Always have been. Just like a real shark—cold and emotionless. It's fitting, isn't it? Your name?"
"So that's why you're here? To tell me that I look like a living, breathing shark? Bravo. Well executed. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get on with my day."
"See what I fucking mean?" he barks.
There's something in his eyes that tells me this is about more than just Natalie. This is about the past.
"If this is about your mom, I—" I begin to say, but he cuts me off.
"Don't fucking go there," he says, his eyes flashing a mixture of anger and pain.
"I just meant that I—"
"Stop."
He says the word with such finality that I honor his request. For an extended moment, we both hold each other's gaze. I can still see flashes of the impulsive, childish side of Sloane, but with him standing here in front of me, I see that above all, he's a grown, chiseled man with the power of youth.
He blinks and turns his head, walking over to the windows. "I mean it. Just stay away from her. It's not right."
"I'm afraid that's not going to be possible."
I watch as he balls one hand into a fist and shoves it into his pocket. He's pacing my office like a caged tiger, unsure where to channel his frustration.
Would he dare come at me?
That would be a stupid and impulsive decision on his part, but I wonder … and if he did, how would I respond? A scene unfolds in my mind. I fantasize that I counter his rage, and wrestle him to the ground—pinning his wrists to the ground with my bare hands, feeling his muscles flex and strain against mine, his chest heaving in and out, perspiration beading on his upper lip.
"I know what you two have done," he says, bringing me back to the present.
"I never took you for a voyeur," I smile, further pissing him off.
"Is this some kind of game to you?"
I deliberately ignore his question and continue, "Back at the Yale Club, were you watching her deep throat those oysters? Or maybe you saw her shove my hand between her thighs?"
Sloane flares his nostrils and he steps closer to my desk. Go ahead, I think to myself. Come at me. Try it. I dare you. But he doesn't. Instead he says, "You better stay away from her."
