He’s my son’s boss. I have to be civil, and he knows it. Bastard.
“Tristan, if you don’t mind . . . we are in the middle of a business meeting,” I reply.
“I thought you were on a date?” he replies calmly.
“She is. We are,” Gabriel fires back.
Tristan steeples his hands in front of him, as if amused. His eyes are alight with troublemaking mischief.
“What do you want, Tristan?” I snap.
“I need to talk to you, Claire.”
“About?”
He sips his drink, clearly amused at his bastardly arrogance. “Fletcher.”
“What the fuck do you want to talk about Fletcher for?” Gabriel snaps.
Tristan turns his attention back to Gabriel. “Do you mind with the coarse language? Fletcher is my intern, and I need to speak to his mother. So if you don’t mind . . .”
“Fletcher is . . . ?” Gabriel’s face falls. “Fletcher is working for Miles? Why, Claire?” he gasps.
“He wanted to work for the best.” Tristan smiles sweetly. His eyes hold Gabriel’s in a silent dare.
I haven’t seen Tristan Miles in full swing yet. He’s so arrogant that it’s a joke, and I hate to admit it.
It’s fucking hot.
“You want to talk to me now?” I ask.
“Yes. Now.” He looks over at Gabriel. “Goodbye. This particular meeting is of a private nature.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Gabriel snaps.
Tristan’s eyes come back to mine. “I could always come to see you in your office tomorrow, Claire . . . on your desk.”
“You mean at her desk,” Gabriel replies.
Tristan gives me a slow, sexy smile. “I know what I meant.”
Oh . . . fuck a duck.
I feel the blood drain from my face. He’s going to let Gabriel know that we’ve been together. Shit. I need to diffuse this situation right now before there’s an all-out fight. “Gabriel, just give me ten minutes to speak to Tristan about Fletcher. Why don’t you go and order us some more drinks?”
They glare at each other for what feels like forever, and finally Gabriel stands. “You have five minutes,” he warns him.
Tristan smiles, unfazed by the threat, and then he turns his attention to me. His face drops, and he stares at me flatly.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He sits forward, unable to hide his anger. “What are you doing?”
“I’m having a drink with a friend.”
“You’re friends with Gabriel Ferrara?” he scoffs.
“Yes, I am, actually,” I fire back.
He sips his drink as he glares at me. “What kind of friend, Claire?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“So let me get this straight: you don’t want to see me because of what I do for a living . . . but you are-”
I cut him off. “I don’t want to see you because you’re a coward.”
“How the fuck am I coward?”
“One meeting with my children, and you run for the hills,” I blurt out before I put my brain-to-mouth filter on.
He clenches his fists, barely able to control his anger. “You told me you didn’t want to see me before I even met your children. Do not fucking lie to me, Claire,” he growls.
I sit back, affronted. I hate that he can see through me.
“I know who the coward is here, Claire, and it isn’t fucking me.”
“You arrogant prick. Have you ever considered that maybe I just don’t like you?”
“No. I haven’t. Because I know you do.”
I screw up my face in disgust. “I know that you think that every woman in the world is in love with you, but I can assure you, Mr. Miles, I am not.”
His eyes hold mine, and he gives me a slow, sexy smile, as if he knows a secret.
“What?”
He leans in so that only I can hear him. “I know for a fact that if I wanted to take you home, I could have you riding my cock all night.”
I get a vision of myself naked and on top of him, his thick body deep inside of mine, and my body clenches in appreciation.
“The hell you could,” I sneer.
He leans closer and puts his lips to my ear. His breath sends goose bumps down my spine. “It wouldn’t bother you that I didn’t like your children if you didn’t want me.”
I clench my jaw, annoyed with myself for saying that out loud. “Fuck you.”
He smiles darkly. “Admit it, Anderson; you think about me . . . just as much as I think about you.”
Shocked by his admission, I swallow the lump in my throat. “You think about me?” I whisper.
“All the fucking time. You’re driving me insane.”
Electricity buzzes between us . . . and I hate that it does.
“On that note”-he stands-“I’ll let you get back to your date.”
Don’t go.
“It’s not a date. He’s just a friend,” I blurt out.
Our eyes lock. “Prove it.”
The air between us is heavy with anger and want; it’s a heady combination.
“Call me in two hours,” he replies.
“Why would I do that?”
His dark eyes hold mine. “Because I’ve never needed to please a woman as much as I crave to please you . . . let me.”
I get a vision of his head between my legs, his thick tongue taking what it needs from me, and arousal begins to heat my blood.
I don’t want to want him . . . but God, I really do.
This isn’t good.
Without another word, he turns and walks off, back to his friends on the other side of the bar.
I stare into the space he just left. Every cell in my body is tingling, every inch of me craving what he has to give.
Good God, the devil really does wear Prada.
I’m totally fucking screwed.