The image is bitter as hell, and yet I can’t get it out of my head. Because not only is Lanham richer than hell, he’s also . . . decent.
And decent-looking. I’ve never really given two shits about whether women consider another man attractive. Sure, I’m vaguely aware that Ian and Kennedy are good-looking guys. And that Wolfe’s chief technology officer, Dan, looks like a mushroom. But generally speaking, I’m secure enough in my own appeal to the opposite sex not to worry about the competition.
And yet, as I sit here, waiting for Lanham to finish being schmoozed by some corporate goon who ambled over to interrupt our lunch, a guy whose name I’ve already forgotten, I find my attention’s not on my sell. It’s not on the overpriced Kobe burger I’ve barely touched. Instead, I’m looking at Lanham, trying to figure out if he’s Sabrina’s type.
Which is bullshit. Sabrina doesn’t have a type. Does she?
It bothers me that I don’t know.
What I do know is the way Lanham was looking at Sabrina last week at lunch, and later at the bar. He’d been a man who saw something he wanted—her.
And for her part, Sabrina had seemed . . . intrigued.
I take a sip of my drink, studying him from a woman’s point of view. From Sabrina’s.
Damn it. No way around it, the man’s tall, dark, handsome, and absurdly rich.
No, not rich. I’m rich. Jarod Lanham is overwhelmingly, couldn’t-spend-all-his-money-if-he-wanted-to wealthy.
Not that Sabrina cares about that. I don’t know the details of her financial situation, but from what I can tell, she’s plenty comfortable. Her apartment, while small, is in a luxury building, and I’ve never seen her hesitate buying anything she wants, whether it be a new handbag or an expensive glass of wine.
Or high-end clothes. But those, of course, she simply put on my bill. I didn’t mind. But Lanham really wouldn’t mind. Hell, he could have bought her the entire store if he felt like it.
The man who’s been talking Lanham’s ear off apparently realizes he’s overstayed his welcome and shakes both our hands in farewell before returning to his table.
Lanham smiles in apology. “Sorry about that. I barely know the guy, but he seems to think we go way back.”
“No problem.” I take a half-hearted bite of my burger; he takes a more enthusiastic forkful of his salad.
I’m about to dive into my assessment of his current portfolio, which I spent half the night reviewing, when he speaks first.
“You from here, Cannon?”
“Sort of. I grew up in Connecticut, but my dad worked here in the city. We’d come into Manhattan for the usual things—Broadway shows, the tree at Rockefeller Center during the holidays, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.”
I don’t tell him that at about half those events, it had been my dad and Felicia who’d brought me, not my dad and mom. Not because my mom wasn’t all about the New York stuff but because it gave her an opportunity to spend the day with her flavor of the month. Because that’s the sort of fucked-up thing my parents did that was okay in the name of “modern parenting.”
“Never done any of that,” he says, lifting his glass of red wine and swishing it thoughtfully. “Think I’d like to.”
“It’s overrated.” I pick up a fry, cram it into my mouth. “The parade’s crazy, the tree’s the same damn thing every year, and don’t even get me started on musicals.”
He gives a slight smile. “You’re awfully cynical of your city.”
“None of that’s my city,” I say emphatically. “Not the real city. We New Yorkers may be used to the touristy stuff the same way we are used to the chaos of Times Square or the exorbitant price to get to the top of the Empire State Building. But the heart of the city is its people, not the famous places or events.”
Lanham thinks on this a moment, then nods in approval and sips his wine. “I like that. Hell, I like the city.”
I eat another fry, watching him. “You contemplating a move?”
“I am.”
Huh. Normally I’d be thrilled. If he signs on as a client, and that’s still a big if, his local status would make my job easier. Easier to meet with him in person to discuss strategy, easier to schmooze him and keep him happy so that his money stays with Wolfe.
Now, however, I can’t help but wonder if his reasons for staying have something to do with someone.
I mentally slap myself for being ridiculous. He’s met Sabrina twice, and one of those encounters had lasted fewer than five minutes.
He sets his wineglass back on the table and pushes away his salad plate. Arms on the table, he leans forward slightly, his expression intent. “Let me ask you something.”
“Sure.” I push aside thoughts of Sabrina, forcing myself to focus on my job. On saying the right things to land this dude already.
“If I sign with you . . .”
My pulse thrums with anticipation.
“Does that mean your bosses will get off your back about the Vegas shit?”
I manage to keep myself from tensing, but barely. “Sorry?”
He smiles. “Come on. You’re telling me they didn’t ride you hard about damaging company brand after getting caught with a hooker and coke?”
“It was a mediocre lap dance, and I don’t touch the hard stuff,” I say through gritted teeth.
“I believe you,” he says in a quiet, no-BS tone that tells me he means it. “But I also know that this business, hell, most businesses, run on reputation. You can’t tell me your bosses didn’t shit themselves in panic and threaten to send you to rehab.”
I lift my drink and say nothing.
He leans forward even more. “You didn’t go to rehab, but you did the next-best thing. You got yourself a gorgeous woman to stand by your side and dilute your playboy reputation.”
My eyes narrow in warning, and Lanham holds up his hands in a placating motion. “No judgment. I’d do the same thing. Hell, I have done the same thing. People love a good playboy, but they’ll turn on you just as fast if you take it too far. You’re smart to hitch your wagon to Sabrina’s.”
I maintain my silence, but he doesn’t let it drop.
“You guys serious?”
Again, I try to maintain my silence, but my irritation slips out. “Why all the interest?”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“Yeah,” I snap. “We’re serious.”
He studies me, then nods and resumes eating. “All right.”
“That’s not the answer you wanted, is it?” I say.
He shrugs. “Sabrina’s very compelling. But I don’t make moves on another man’s woman.”
I grit my teeth. Sabrina’s very compelling. Damn straight she is. And I don’t believe for one second that this billionaire wouldn’t make a move the moment the opportunity presented itself.
“So, are there wedding bells in your future?”
I resist the urge to grab his fork and stab him with it. “People can be committed without being married.”
Lanham lifts a shoulder.
“You don’t think so?” I ask, ignoring the fact that of all the conversations I’ve ever pictured having with Jarod Lanham, this isn’t one of them.
He sits back in his chair and looks at me. “Call me old-fashioned, but I like the idea of a man and woman committing to each other. One person. With vows.”
I’m careful to hide my surprise. The Jarod Lanham I’ve seen in tabloids hardly seems the marrying type. He’s had girlfriends, sure, but he’s had a lot of them. Back-to-back. Nothing about the guy has ever indicated he wants to settle down.
He gives a rueful smile. “You don’t agree?”
I shrug and keep my answer deliberately vague, since I barely know the guy. “Doesn’t matter if I do or not. It’s your life. You want to walk down the aisle and spend a fortune on a wedding, that’s your business.”
Lanham shakes his head. “It’s not about the wedding. It’s about what comes after. I don’t give a shit about being a fiancé, but I wouldn’t mind waking up to the same face every morning. Having someone to share my life with. A companion.”
The words are so familiar, I think for a moment I’m experiencing déjà vu, and then it hits me. I have had this conversation before, but not with Lanham. With Sabrina.