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‘And you’re still hoping to convince me to cut a deal and cede my claim.’
‘Yes.’
‘It won’t work.’ There was steel in her voice.
‘That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try. Hell, don’t you want to convince me to do the same?’
‘Well, yes, but...’
‘Then we may as well pitch over a Michelin-starred meal, don’t you think?’
She chewed her bottom lip, blue eyes bright with suspicion, and then her tummy gave a less than discreet growl. She rolled her eyes, but her lips turned up in a sudden smile.
‘See? Your stomach is voting with me.’
‘Guess my brain is outvoted, then,’ she muttered, and she rose from the chair. ‘I’ll be five minutes.’
True to her word she emerged just a few moments later. She’d changed back into the charcoal skirt she’d worn earlier, topped now by a crimson blouse. Her hair was swept up in an artlessly elegant arrangement, with tendrils free to frame her face.
In that moment he wished with a strangely fierce yearn that this was a date—a casual, easy, get-to-know-you-dinner with the possibility of their attraction progressing. But it wasn’t and it couldn’t be. This was a fact-finding mission.
Suddenly his father’s words echoed in his ears with a discordant buzz.
‘Information is power, Stefan. Once you know what makes someone tick you can work out how to turn that tick to a tock.’
That was what he needed to focus on—gaining information. Not to penalise her but so that he could work out a fair deal.
Resolutely turning his gaze away from her, he made for the door. But as they headed down plush carpeted corridors and polished wooden stairs it was difficult to remain resolute. Somehow the glimpse of her hand as it slid down the gleaming oak banister, the elusive drift of her scent, the way she smoothed down her skirt all combined to add to the desire that tugged in his gut.
She paused on the threshold of the buzzing restaurant, a look of slight dismay on her face. ‘I don’t think I’m exactly dressed for this.’
‘You look...’ Beautiful. Gorgeous. Way better than any of the women sitting in white cushioned chairs braided with gold, around circular tables illuminated by candles atop them and chandeliers above. ‘Fine,’ he settled on.
Smooth, Petrelli, very smooth.
But oddly enough it seemed to do the trick. She looked up at him and a small smile tugged her lips upwards. ‘Thank you. I know clothes shouldn’t matter, but I am feeling a little inadequate in the designer department.’
‘I’m hardly up to standard either,’ he pointed out. ‘I’m channelling the lumberjack look—the whole jeans and checked shirt image.’
The maître d’ approached, a slightly pained expression on his face until he realised who Stefan was and his expression morphed to ingratiating. ‘Mr Petrelli. This way, please.’
‘People are wondering why we’ve been allowed in,’ Holly whispered. ‘They’re all looking at us.’
‘Let them look. In a minute George here will have discreetly spread the word as to who I am and that should do it. Royal entrepreneurial millionaire status transcends dress code. Especially when accompanied by a mystery guest.’
‘Dressed from the High Street.’ Her tone sounded panicked. ‘Oh, God. They won’t call the press or anything, will they?’
‘Not if they know what’s good for them.’
&n
bsp; She glanced over the menu at him. ‘You don’t like publicity, do you?’
In fact he loathed it—because no matter what he did, how many millions he’d made, whatever point he tried to get across, the press all wanted to talk about Lycander and he didn’t. Period.
‘Nope. So I think we’re safe. Let’s choose.’
After a moment of careful perusal he leant back.
