Page 17 of Tempting the President
“Is it?” His smile suggests he doesn’t believe me for a second. “I own the building, darling. I’m here quite often.”
Of course he is. Because the universe clearly hates me.
“How nice for you,” I manage, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole. “We were just leaving, actually.”
“Were we?” Elissa asks, not moving an inch from her comfortable position. “I could have sworn we just got here.”
“Dr. Stuart,” Patrizio says, his gaze never leaving mine, “I was hoping to continue our conversation from last week. Perhaps somewhere more...private.”
“Private?” The word comes out embarrassingly squeaky.
“My office is upstairs,” he explains, gesturing toward the elevator at the back of the café. “We could continue discussing Annie’s academic progress without...interruptions.”
The way he says “interruptions” makes it clear he’s referring to our previous meeting, which was indeed interrupted...by my complete mortification when he found my Kindle.
“I don’t think—”
“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Elissa chimes in, the backstabbing betrayal complete. “You two clearly have academic matters to discuss.”
I shoot her a look that promises painful retribution, but she just blinks at me like she’s suddenlynotthe smartest person I know.
“See you at home.”
And then she’s gone, abandoning me to my fate like the traitor she is.
“Shall we?” Patrizio gestures toward the elevator with that same knowing smile that makes my stomach flip.
Having all eyes on us is the only reason I struggle to keep my cool as he walks me to the elevator. I don’t want to cause a stir. I have my reputation as a respectable college professor to think of. That’s all there is to this, and I am absolutely not excited to be alone with him.
I swear!
The elevator opens directly into his penthouse, which is exactly as intimidating as you’d expect from a man who owns buildings and psychologically torments professors for entertainment.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. Furniture that’s just so perfectly themed it has to be custom-ordered. Art that looks like it belongs in museums. It’s the kind of space that makes you intensely aware of your own tendency to spill coffee on expensive things.
“What would you like to drink?”
I’m about to tell him I don’t drink when I realize he’s already headed to an espresso machine that looks so complicated I feel like you need an advanced degree in chemistry just to find the power switch.
“Do you want your usual?”
“Yes, please.”
I’m pretty sure he has no idea what my usual is, but oh, the arrogance of this man to still offer making it.
I hear his machine get to work, and I can feel my body relaxing as the scent of coffee soon fills his living room. Mm. Maybe that was his plan all along? To lower my guard with a caffeinated attack?
“You can sit down, Jayne. I’m not going to bite.”
Yeah right.
I perch on the edge of his sofa, which is leather and probably Italian and definitely the kind of furniture that normal people aren’t allowed to sit on. Everything about this place screams wealth and power and the sort of casual dominance that makes smart women do stupid things.
Like follow strange men to their penthouses for “private conversations.”
A few more moments pass before Patrizio joins me in the living room and hands me my coffee.
Careful, Jayne.
