Page 8 of The Wrong Brother

I’ve asked for limited staff tonight. Partly to be a good employer; let them have time with their families. And partly because I know what I’m about to unleash later tonight.

The server disappears silently after pouring wine, leaving the two of us alone. Emma keeps one hand wrapped around the stem of her glass like she needs something to anchor herself.

I watch every movement carefully. The last thing I want is for this woman to feel like shehasto participate tonight. I want her willing.

“So,” I say smoothly, leaning back. “Where are you from, Emma?”

She glances up from the dish of roasted grape crostini and goat cheese. “New Jersey.”

“That explains the attitude.”

“Oh my God.” She laughs despite herself. “You’ve known me for, like, an hour total.”

“True. But I have a way of reading people.”

Her eyes dart up, a sudden darkness in them. Interesting. There’s something here she wants to avoid.

My eyes drag over her slowly. “You are not nearly intimidated enough by me.”

Emma takes a sip of wine to hide the tiny smile threatening her mouth. “Maybe I have poor judgment.”

“That,” I murmur, “seems increasingly likely, considering that you’re sitting across from me.”

A quiet settles between us, but it’s not awkward, exactly. The breeze drifting through the open terrace doors carries the scent of salt and citrus. “I googled you,” she blurts suddenly, wiping a smear of goat cheese off her bottom lip. My mouth waters.

“Did you?” The words come out distracted.

But she nods, continues: “Russel Smith, fashion mogul and owner of Lord&Lion. But you’re in hospitality, too, mostly as an investor or silent partner. You have a good reputation, in general. A half-dozen donations a year, quite substantial, to important causes.”

All of that gives me pause. For a girl who looks barely old enough to be out of college, she’s found out an impressive amount about me in just a few hours.

“What are you doing in California?”

Something shifts in her expression. Maybe because of the abruptness of the question. But that tiger is waking now, perking up at the possibility that the prey might actually be another predator.

Emma looks down at the wine in her hand before answering. “Vacationing.”

A pause before the word. Not a lie exactly, but not the truth either.

I recognize evasion intimately; I built an empire on half-truths and strategic omissions.

Who are you?

The thought comes hard and immediate.

Because there’s something beneath the soft curls and defensive humor. Something tightly leashed.

Emma looks back up; her features set into a half-smile. “So mysterious,” she says lightly, trying to redirect. “Your turn. What does a fashion mogul do besides emotionally terrorize women in fitting rooms?”

My mouth twitches.

“A great many things.”

“That sounds vaguely threatening.”

“It should.”

Instead of shrinking from that answer, she huffs out another laugh and reaches for her wine again. I watch the elegant line of her throat as she swallows.