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Andrew tossed back the last of his drink and stood from the table. “I’m sorry, Barrett,” he muttered before he left me alone with Flynn.
“What’s going on?” I repeated.
Flynn’s face was hard, unyielding. “We’re getting out of here.” Standing up, he reached into his trouser pocket for his wallet. He threw down some bills, more than enough to cover the drinks, grabbed my hand, and tugged me out of my seat. He barreled through the restaurant, servers jumping out of his way since it didn’t appear as if he was going to stop. I could barely keep up with his long strides, but something told me not to ask him to slow down.
When we got out of the restaurant, Flynn ushered me toward an idling black Rolls-Royce. I swallowed nervously, suddenly aware that Flynn possessed an obscene amount of wealth.
“Get in,” he commanded, opening the passenger door for me.
Despite our palpable chemistry, Flynn was a stranger. And I hesitated.
“Barrett,” he rumbled.
“I don’t even know you,” I hissed, mindful of the many pedestrians on the sidewalk. But this was New York, and even if I screamed, I doubted anyone would come to my aid.
Flynn reached up to cup the back of my neck, getting low and close to my face. “Get in,” he said again. It was still a command, but his voice had softened, and it made me shiver despite the warmth of the summer night.
I climbed inside the luxurious car and Flynn followed, scooting close, so his trouser-clad leg brushed my black dress. He shut the door and said to the driver, “To The Rex.”
“The hotel?” I asked.
Flynn nodded.
“Is that where you’re staying while you’re in town?”
A glimmer of amusement flashed in his eyes. “I own The Rex.”
My head spun with the knowledge that Flynn Campbell owned one of the most elite and expensive hotels in the city.
“You’re not a businessman in from Scotland?” I asked with a frown.
“Is that what your brother told you?”
“Well, no. But he let me think you were a potential new client. He asked me to come along because—”
“You’re beautiful and you know your Scottish history. He thought that would mean something to me.”
I nodded and Flynn barked out a laugh. “Ah, hen, your brother is a manipulative bastard.”
Ignoring his statement, I turned my head to look out the window. Manhattan sped by, but I saw none of the glittering excitement that belonged to the city.
“You don’t get along with your brother, do you?” he asked.
I shook my head but still refused to look at him.
“Then why did you come to dinner tonight? Why do him such a favor?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I do.”
I didn’t want to tell Flynn I’d fallen for my brother’s calculating tricks. “It’s none of your business,” I bristled.
Another crack of laughter, but he said nothing, and we fell into silence.
The Rex Hotel was on 79th and 5th across from Central Park. Because we were already on the Upper East Side and traffic was surprisingly minimal, it took almost no time to get there.
The car pulled up to the curb and Flynn got out first, offering me a hand. I hesitated only a moment, knowing there was no way out of whatever I had landed in.
