Page 81 of Return Billionaire to Sender

Or does she? She’s smarter than she looks. She’smorethan she looks in every way. Does nobody else see her but me? It’s difficult to imagine, but I also prefer it. I wouldn’t like the idea of other men seeing her the way I see her.

I prepare for today’s negotiation, turning our conversation over in my mind—the money, the tie, even that video and the drama of the bike rack, which I have definite opinions on, and if I were keeping that building, I would locate it in the obviously perfect place that the dancer picked out. A couple of the first-floor guys wanted it in the back of the building and it’s just an obnoxious place for it.

I have my New York PA make a reservation at my favorite place on the bay for the next night. It won’t be easy to get, but I’ve given her leeway to spread some money around.

I get down to the lobby early, looking forward to seeing her and having the secret knowledge between us. It’s a new feeling for me.

I’m surprised when she’s not there; my country mouse is primly punctual in addition to being secretly full of heat. I frown, not liking that. I see Lawrence coming and I take out my phone. I want to talk to Elle, but not anybody else. Luckily, Lawrence has his phone out, too.

The rest of them come. I stay apart. I want to ask about her, but I don’t want to show extra interest in her.

Coralee is the one to finally turn in the brilliant observation that Elle, who is typically the first to arrive, is currently late. I stay fixated on my phone, ears perked up.

Lawrence is laughing. “I’ll be surprised if she shows up at all,” he says.

I frown. “Elle not coming?” I mumble.

Nisha is glaring at Lawrence, trying to shut him up it seems.

“What’s going on?” I demand.

“Nothing,” Coralee says. “We went out dancing last night, that’s all.”

She went dancing? With Walt? Lawrence? The team?

“And it got late, let’s just say.” Lawrence seems to be trying to conceal a smile.Late? What the hell does that mean?

“Yes. Late,” Coralee agrees.

Finally Elle appears, fast walking across the lobby, complexion green, dark circles under her eyes, toilet paper stuck to her shoe.

“Hey, soldier,” Walt says.

She mumbles her hello. She can’t even look me in the eye.

So she went out after we were together and got drunk? A wave of unease blooms through me. Was our dinner that upsetting that she had to go get drunk? And now she can’t look at me? How drunk did she get? Is she okay? Did she think to hydrate?

I should ignore her—I really should, but I can’t. “Elle and Coralee, ride with me.” I head toward the cars and get in, determined not to pay any special attention to Elle. I’m usually having to remind myself to paymoreattention to women, to remember to ask about their well-being and what they’ve been up to.

We start rolling and I sit silently, willing them to talk about their night, but employees never talk about their personal lives in front of me. Why start now?

“Night out at the club,” I say.

Coralee seems alarmed. “We just wanted to check out a big club, that’s all. See some of this famous San Francisco nightlife we’ve been hearing so much about.”

“And? Was it all it’s cracked up to be?” I ask blithely.

She looks at me, surprised. “Pretty amazing.”

“Very amazing,” Elle says, expression carefully blank. What is up with her? Coralee goes on about the décor and the lights, as if that’s the part that I’d be interested in.

The car drops us at the curb in front of the Kendrick building. “Elle, a quick word on today’s proceedings.”

“Catch you later!” Coralee says, heading up the steps.

Elle clutches her brown bag to her chest. She has on her most somber of butterfly ties, a light brown affair with black dots.

“What’s going on?” I demand.

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