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That awful clock ticks between us as he stares at me, his stern eyes hiding everything but his flaming irritation at being in this room with me.
Then he gives a small cynical smile.
“We work withHomes for Seattle,” he says, naming one of the biggest charities in the city. “WithDoctors without Borders,CARE, the International Rescue Committee, Direct Relief.”
Some of the biggest global charities.
Of course, he knows about those, though. They’re famous and worldwide.
“You’ve heard ofNew Leaves Tree Recoveryas well, I imagine,” he continues. “Every year we donate a substantial sum toFriends of Arctic,the only conservation group to ever increase polar bear numbers near Hudson Bay. Last year, we partnered with Winthrope International to host a global conference for Hawaiian bird conservation. I gave a presentation on efforts I funded with a local, Dr. Cash—at my personal expense—to find a living Kaua?i ?o?o. The bird is probably extinct, but I’ll agree with that call only after we’ve scoured every rock on Kauai.” He raises a challenging eyebrow. “Are those too famous for you? Too personal?”
I think my jaw is hanging open.
I can’t even argue.
“Additionally, we work withNairobi Watersand a new earthquake and disaster recovery charity set up in Turkey and Iran, a banana soil rehabilitation group in Brazil, andTrue Blue Bloodedto stop the over-farming of horseshoe crabs by big pharma.” He keeps going, rattling off charities ranging from international rock stars to the local and obscure.
And... and he knows the details.
About every single one.
Holy hell.
This man isn’t bluffing.
He’s not pretending just because he thinks it’ll impress me. And he doesn’t even glance at his computer screen to cheat and read off information.
The man knows his shit.
When he’s done, he folds his arms over his broad chest, reminding me again of those shiny gold cuff links and his sheer size.
“I could bore you with more details, Miss Lancaster, but that’s not why we’re here.” He watches me swallow too loudly. “Tell me, though, who exactly did you think you were dealing with?”
I bite my tongue.
Not because I think he’s right or he deserves my consideration.
He might know what he’s talking about, but he’s behaving like an asshole. The arrogant, entitled superprick I met the second he stormed away with his kayak, thinking he could wrestle nature and win.
I’m still a little sad that he did.
But hewantsme to rise to the challenge.
That’s what this whole thing is—a test.
No way am I going to let this manbaitme. I’m not intimidated by his big showy knowledge—and just because he knows the names and a few of the whys doesn’t mean he cares.
He’s probably one of those freaks with a photographic memory or something.
“Very impressive, sir.” I give him an artificially sweet smile.
That gets through if nothing else does.
His biceps bunch, and he looks like he’s gritting his teeth. A muscle pops in that impossibly sharp jaw.
Honestly, I would have preferred it if the exterior matched the interior. It would be easier to hate him if he looked more like his gnarled gargoyle of a personality.
But Foster turns away from me abruptly, shaking his mouse to wake his screen.
