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“That’s severe. It’s like telling someone they don’t have the right to leave their room at night.”
“If I’m paying the right price, they should be happy to oblige.”
“That’s what you believe, isn’t it? That everyone has a price.”
“Don’t you?”
Her jaw hardens. Yes, even she has a price. In her case, it’s her family.
“Don’t make such a big deal out of this.” I twirl the wine in my glass before downing what’s left. “Staff don’t have a reason for hanging around the living areas after hours.”
A bit of the old spite creeps back into her voice. “Does that mean you’re only gracing me with your presence at night?”
“I work during the day.”
She takes a sip of wine and looks away. “Of course you do.”
“Sabella.”
At the command in my voice, she turns her face back to me.
“It’s your choice,” I say. “Let me know when you want help, and I’ll arrange it.”
A beat passes while she watches me with hesitance in her eyes. “Do you mean that?”
“Yes.”
“Fine,” she says, her effort at sounding assertive not masking her relief.
“Eat,” I order, because she needs her strength. “Your food is getting cold.”
She cuts the chicken into small pieces before taking a bite. I let her eat in peace for a while, making sure she finished at least half of the food on her plate before I speak again lest I spoil her appetite.
“We’re attending a formal dinner party next weekend.” I refill my glass. Hers is still full. “I’ll have a dress delivered.”
Her hands still for a second before she continues to halve a slice of aubergine. “What’s the occasion?”
“Fundraiser.” I leave my knife and fork diagonally on my empty plate and lean back in my chair. “A potential client will be present. Thomas Powell. He’s the owner of one of the biggest British shipping companies.”
“So, you’re going for networking and not to support whatever the fundraiser is for.”
“The event is raising funds for saving dolphins. I thought it would interest you.”
She sits up straighter.
“Powell’s company is putting measures in place to prevent them from getting tangled in fishing nets.” Smiling, I bring my glass to my lips. “The two of you may have lots to talk about.”
For the first time since I dragged her from her home country, excitement sparks in her eyes. “I’d like that.”
“Good. When you meet him, you can give me your opinion of Mr. Powell.”
“My opinion?”
“Yes,” I drawl. “I’ll appreciate your input.”
She sips her wine. “Why?”
“He’s a hard nut to crack. He’s more like the people who move in your circles—well educated, cultured, and politically correct. Comes from old money. He looks down on self-made men like me.”
