Page 95 of Handsome Devil
“As far as I know…” she said carefully.
“Inside.” I reached past her to push the door open.
She rolled her eyes a little but strolled into the washroom. “You realize there’s a lady on the door for a reason.”
“So? It’s private.” There was a lock, so I engaged it. “And there’s slightly less chance of you slapping me if I pull you in here, than if I pull you into a men’s room.”
“Yes,” she said. “Slightly.”
“Consider it. Dinner hasn’t even been served yet. You can join our table. And tell my mother and my grandmother how much you enjoy working with me over a free, delicious four-course meal.”
“I was lying.”
“Well, you tell a convincing lie.”
“Why?” she pressed. “Why are you asking me to do this?”
Fuck.Did I really need to spell this out for her?
Yes. Because it was that important. More important than any hormone-fueled feud with her.
“So they can be proud of me for five minutes,” I forced out, “and maybe remember what that feels like.”
Devi eyed me skeptically. “Your family isn’t proud of you?”
“I’m not what they are,” I said, forcing each word out. “I don’t build empires. I optimize them. It’s not sexy.
She looked me over, head to toe, and I knew how I looked. How I’d always looked. Like the poster boy for spoiled trust fund kids.
I wondered if there was any possibility I could get her opinion of me to shift, even for a couple of hours.
“You know, you’re a real dick, Dane Davenport.”
Guess not.
“Is everything about you?” she said.
“Frankly, yes.”
She looked unimpressed.
“I’m their heir,” I said. “They need to be proud of me right now. That’s all that matters to me.”
“I highly doubt they’re not proud of you,” she said grudgingly.
I searched for a way to explain this to her, to convince her, while still retaining my dignity. “I’m almost thirty,” I told her. “They expected me to make something of myself by thirty. And the only thing I’ve ever done that the world really cares about is hang out with heiresses on yachts.”
She frowned, obviously remembering that first conversation we’d had in the agency office, when she dropped that yacht comment in my face herself. “But you make them a lot of money with what you do, right?”
“I do. But it isn’t all about money. It’s about power.”
“And what does that have to do with me?”
Shit. I was struggling, really struggling to find a way to sell this to her without painting myself as a loser and lavishing her with praise. Was there a way?
“In my family,” I explained, avoiding her question, “my grandmother and my mother have all the power. They’re watching me. I need to prove myself to them, for reasons that I won’t get into right now, because I wouldn’t dream that you’d be interested—”
“Let me guess,” she interrupted. “Sex tape.”
