Page 75 of Chandelier Sin
I gave his receptionist a nod before entering Cameron’s office.
“They teach CIA operatives not to lean against things,” I said in jest. “It’s an American trait.”
“I did hear that once.” He looked over his shoulder at me. “Though I have no intention of becoming a spy anytime soon.”
Me neither—unless you counted me going rogue yesterday up in the Santa Monica mountains of Beverly Glen while spying in that house.
It was easy to be impressed by the two floors of his office. Wooden stairs led to a second open level, where there were shelves stacked with books lining the entire back wall.
On this floor, where we calmly stood facing each other, the setting reflected his refined taste.
The elegant sophistication of the décor mirrored his brilliance. His mind was always working on a multitude of levels.
A portrait of Carl Jung hung to the right of his desk, as though he could reach back in time and seek the psychoanalyst’s counsel.
Several pieces of art were in evidence here and there, inviting introspection. Like the intricate lock on the coffee table.
“Unlocking the mind.” I nodded toward it.
He raised his gaze to meet mine, proving I was correct in my assumption. There came that familiar rush I always felt from being alone in a room with infinite intelligence.
Still, I could verbally joust with Cole when it came to subjects like the work of Leo Tolstoy and Hemmingway. I could critically spar over new findings in science and analyze complex historical events to convey how they shaped the present.
I could also match him in the ranks of BDSM.
But I’d never taken up fencing like he did with many of our mutual friends—inviting them to hone their precision in a match he’d win.
I had those skills already, and I didn’t feel the need to risk being on the receiving end of a penetrating sword to prove it.
“You need a minute?” he asked, seeming to pick up on my mood.
I needed a lifetime, or perhaps a fucking century, to process what had happened yesterday at that Beverly Glen mansion.
Maybe I never would.
Cameron waited, his expression thoughtful and kind, seeing I wasn’t ready to talk just yet.
This peace I felt was like standing in a ray of light—no expectations, no judgment, just him giving his time.
The centerpiece of his office was his mahogany desk. Mythical creatures spiraled up the four carved legs. It made me wonder about the carpenter who’d lovingly created it, considering how long it had taken him. What had inspired him? Did he have any idea where his masterpiece might end up?
Cole observed me with an unmatched intensity. “Belonged to my grandfather.”
“Fabulous piece.” Easy to covet.
On the desk sat an antique microscope, reminding his more astute clients he was a scientist at heart, and that within seconds he’d have them beneath his own personal lens.
Like he had me, now.
Cole leaned against his desk, his patience and profound wisdom showcased by that easy charm.
“I just saw you at lunch yesterday,” he said. “But it’s good to see you again so soon.”
“I should have called.”
“Friends drop in on each other. I much prefer it.”
That made me smile. “Any update from what happened at the yacht club?”
