Page 11 of Keep Him Like Secrets

Brown.

Her eyes were light brown, but seemed to have a little gray starbursting through the iris.

And, fuck, where was that strawberry sweet cream scent coming from?

Her hair?

Neck?

Sprayed between her breasts?

I wanted nothing more than to lean in close and find out for myself.

“Mr. Vale,” she said, gaze unflinching. And I’d been told that my steely gaze could make a billionaire mogul cower. “I hear you want to open a nightclub with me.”

Oh, there was a long list of things I wanted to do with her.

But, sure, we could start with the nightclub.

CHAPTER FOUR

Saff

“I’m just saying, when did you become Mr. Manners?” I grumbled as Bastian and I walked into the elevator. The kind that didn’t stop at all the floors—just soared right up to the top. Because heaven forbid King Vale brush shoulders with the common folk.

“Men are supposed to open the doors. That’s not even an obscure one, babe.”

“I can open my own doors.”

“You can. But a woman of your stature,” he said with a quick glance up and down my short body, “in the world, I mean, wouldn’t open her own door when she has employees right there to do it for her.”

“Fine,” I grumbled, accepting that maybe Bass did know more about this sort of thing. I mean, what did I know about manners? I’d been traded like a game of hot potato from one foster home to the next, barely staying long enough to know where the extra toilet paper was stored, let alone which side the forks and knives went on. Once I got sick of that life, I skipped my way out of the system. And, yeah, there were no manners when you’re living on the street. Especially as a young girl.

“Babe, just relax,” Bass said as I shook my hands, feeling like they were buzzing.

“Easy for you to say. You’re just the assistant. I have to come off as some big-shot businesswoman. I don’t even know what a ‘portfolio’ is, let alone how to get one.”

“Luckily, he’s only going to be asking you about the club, about your vision for it. That sort of thing.”

We couldn’t say anything else as the elevator doors slid open to a swanky little waiting room.

It was all dark wood floors, gray walls, and light gray couches sitting parallel a few feet in front of a long glass-walled conference room.

How did they get a table that big up here?

I followed behind Bass as he went over toward the reception desk to greet the pretty middle-aged woman, introducing himself—though he now had a made-up last name—and me.

I went to offer my hand. That custom, at least, I was familiar with.

But Bass pushed my hand back down.

The woman—Teresa—led us toward the conference room.

And it was only then that my gaze swept across the table to find the man standing at the head of it.

My step faltered.

This was Soren Vale?

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