Page 14 of His Obsession
“Mr.DeLuca is expecting you.”
That probably shouldn’t sound ominous, but it does. Obviously he’s expecting me, since we set up this meeting three days ago. Even so, the idea of seeing Sebastian again, even in a professional capacity, makes my heart pound loudly in my ears.
I follow the woman down a short hallway and into a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows that cut across downtown Los Angeles in hard, bright lines. The whole room reeks of authority. A large desk takes up a good portion of the space, expensive leather chairs sit opposite it, and a leather couch flanks one side. There’s a conference table at the far end and artwork on the walls that probably costs more than my car. Most importantly, there’s zero clutter. Not a single thing out of place.
Sebastian doesn’t like mess. I file that away for later.
The man himself stands by the windows when I walk in with his jacket off, white shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, and one hand in his pocket. He turns at the sound of the door, and I’m immediately off-kilter. As good as he looked at dinner the other night, he is beyond distracting with his sleeves pushed up like that. I hate that I notice.
“Valentina.” He greets me like it’s a formality.
“Sebastian.” I match his tone.
His assistant closes the door behind me, and suddenly the room feels impossibly small. He gestures toward the pristine conference table. “Sit.”
He really doesn’t mince words. His professional tone leaves a lot to be desired. I imagine he’s controlling in bed, too, and flush immediately at the thought. That is absolutely the last thing I should be thinking about before discussing the biggest event of my career.
I set my bag on the table, take the chair opposite his, and pull out my iPad.
“I appreciate that you get right to business,” I say carefully. “That will save us some time.”
He sits across from me, and I look up to find him watching me with open curiosity. I try to ignore the way it makes my heart skip.
He slides a folder my way. “This is what exists so far.”
I flip through the pages, skimming preliminary information that gives me almost nothing to work with. The bones are there, but there’s no real vision.
I look up. “Who put this together?”
“One of the women from development.”
“Ah,” I answer diplomatically.
His mouth shifts slightly. “That bad?”
“It’s not bad, exactly. It’s just thin. Less of a plan, more of a wish list.”
“That’s why you’re here.”
I uncap my pen and start sorting the papers into cleaner stacks.
“All right,” I say. “Let’s start from the top. What’s the actual purpose of the gala?”
He leans back, one arm resting along the chair. “It raises money for one of our foundations.”
“That’s the brochure answer.”
His gaze holds mine. “Children’s health initiatives through the foundation, publicly. Relationship maintenance and donor consolidation, privately.”
I keep my face neutral. Basically, it’s a shell gala. Publicly it looks like they’re raising money for a good cause, but really they’re greasing the wheels so the power players in LA will look the other way when it comes to their shadier operations. I’ve seen this before, but I’m not going to let that get in the way of this opportunity.
“Good,” I say. “How many guests are you expecting?”
“Four hundred seated. More if we do standing cocktails before dinner.”
“We shouldn’t.” I flip to the venue layout. “Not with this footprint. Unless you want arrivals bottlenecked and donors irritated before they even hit registration.”
He’s quiet for a beat.
