Yeah, okay. That’s quite enough of that. “Who's answering the phone while you're in here?” That’s admittedly a mean thing to say to a pregnant woman, but her questioning has hit a nerve, and I’m ready to fight.
She heaves a sigh. “Sheesh, fine. It's a donor. No more questions.” She gives me a sly smile. “I'm going to make sure I’m sitting at the front desk exactly at noon. Your mystery donor had the sexiest voice. I want to see what he looks like.”
Lovely.
It would be far moreconvenient if Damien had a potbelly and a wart on his nose. Unfortunately, when he shows up, he looks like sex on a stick.
I've seen Damien in a suit, and I’ve seen him naked. Today, he's neither. He's wearing dark jeans and a white linen shirt rolled up to the elbows. Sunglasses hide his eyes. He used to be clean-shaven when I knew him, but sometime in the last ten years, he’s grown a beard, a neatly trimmed one. It suits him.
Donna's eyes are very round. Great. We’re going to be talking about Damien Cardenas for the next week, at minimum.
“There you are,” I say brightly, making a vain effort at rushing him out before Donna gets more water-cooler material. “Let's go.”
His eyes flicker to the receptionist, who is staring at him avidly. His lips twitch. He knows that I'm trying to get him out of there, and he's deciding if he's going to cooperate.
“I’d love a tour of the facility, Sophia.”
Jackass. I hate him. “Let’s do that later. I'm starving.”
“Of course.” He waits until we get outside, looks around to make sure there’s no one in earshot, and then murmurs, “After all, I do know what a healthy appetite you have.”
My body remembers that voice. My insides tighten. My heartbeat speeds up. I stop dead in my tracks. “No,” I say flatly. “If this is going to be a lunch filled with sexual innuendo, I'm not playing. We are going to discuss work. Nothing else.”
He glances my way and realizes I’m dead serious. Contrition fills his face. “Fair enough,” he says. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
He sounds sincere. Why am I not buying it? Oh, wait. It’s because it’s Damien Cardenas who can, if he sets his mind to it, charm the pants off anyone. Including me.
We walk to the parking lot. “I can drive myself,” I tell him. “Where are we going? I’ll follow you in my car.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He throws me a deeply exasperated look. “Are we going to fight about every single thing? Get in the SUV, Sophia.”
He is a donor, I tell myself, not for the first time. He might give your organization a lot of money. Be nice.
The SUV in question is a brand-new Range Rover. A large, muscled beast of a vehicle. I open the passenger door before Damien has a chance to get it for me and hoist myself into the seat. “Is this yours?”
“Yes.”
I have to bite my tongue to keep from making a joke about the size of his penis. It takes superhuman effort. If I say something about compensating for his equipment, Damien will remind me that I’ve seen his cock. He might ask if I need a refresher to remind me. There will be banter. I might enjoy the battle of wits, but it would not be professional. Not at all.
“Where do you live?” I ask instead.
He pulls out of the parking lot. “If I’m being grumpy, I would tell you that I live in airport lounges. I maintain a residence in Hong Kong and one in Toronto, and of course, there’s the lake house in Highfield. But I divide my time largely between New York City and Lima. Why?”
Simon bought a new truck last year for his contracting business. He’d agonized over his decision, spending weeks wondering if he could take on the additional cost. Meanwhile, Damien Cardenas maintains residences in Hong Kong and Toronto, and of course, there’s the lake house in Highfield. It must be nice to be rich. “Is the SUV a rental?”
“A rental?” He looks puzzled by my line of questioning. “No, it belongs to me. Renting is too much of a hassle.”
I open my mouth to say something about how out of touch he is. Then I shut it. He has offered to give your organization a million dollars, Sophia. That money will go a very long way. Remember your resolution to be nice?
“Why do you own a lake house in Highfield?”
“That’s a simple question with a complicated answer,” he replies. “But first, Italian or Mexican for lunch?”
“Highfield doesn’t have a Mexican restaurant. Just the taco place out on the highway.”
“Taco Gus. Julian told me the food there was good.”
“But Taco Gus is…” My voice trails away. Taco Gus is a dive. I love the place, but I can’t see Damien fitting in. “It’s not fancy,” I warn him.