The VIP Room(53)

“From what I’ve heard, Tristan Blackwell is one hell of a playboy. I’m pretty sure his company—hell, even his family—knows what type of person he is.” Larene was always the voice of reason. “So…have you Googled him?”

“No.”

“Don’t you want to?”

I bit my lip. I’d been tempted the moment I returned to my office from the Blackwell Financial consultation. But something stopped me. I was scared at what I might find. “No,” I settled on.

“Noelle…” Larene said firmly, as though I was a petulant child throwing a tantrum. “Don’t you think having all the information would be for the best? That way, you aren’t flying blind for the next month.”

“Ugh,” I moaned, flopping my head back on my couch. “Okay, you’re right. Let’s just get this over with. Like ripping off a bandaid, right?”

Larene looked like a kid being told Christmas came early. She dashed off the couch and snagged my laptop, which had been charging next to the TV. She dropped it into my lap, narrowly missing my pint of ice cream, before scooting in next to me once more.

Sighing, I gave her my pint while I opened a browser window. Pulling up the search engine, I slowly pecked out ‘Tristan Blackwell,’ trying to delay the inevitable. I hit ‘enter.’

Larene gasped.

My face paled.

Because right on the front page of all the search results, under recent news, a grainy picture of Tristan and a woman in a tight black dress and stripper heels revealed itself. And that woman, under the curled hair and expertly applied make-up, was me.

The headline read, Banking family heir’s HOT night out. Someone had managed to capture a picture of us as we were emerging from Valoir. It was a bad quality photo. Perhaps from a cell phone? I didn’t remember anyone taking pictures. Surely, I would’ve noticed that.

I let out a few choice curses once I regained my ability to speak. “What if Annie sees this?” I asked, beginning to panic. “What if she just happens to do some research on our client and she sees this picture? I’m off the project, for sure!”

“Calm down,” Larene soothed. Even through her tranquil tone, I could see the uneasiness written all over her features. “Maybe she won’t even recognize you. I mean, at first glance, it doesn’t really look like you. You don’t dress like that normally. Besides, she probably won’t be reading up on gossip websites.”

I groaned. “You don’t know Annie.”

“Click on the article.”

We both read all about Tristan’s ‘HOT night out.’ I was labeled the ‘unidentified woman.’ A small reprieve, I realized. One I was truly thankful for.

From the article alone, it seemed these ‘hot nights out’ happened quite often. Tristan, as Larene said, was a notorious playboy. From club nights in Italy to dinner dates in New York, he was rarely ever pictured without a pretty woman on his arm.

No wonder he had no qualms about kicking me out on Saturday night. He’d had a lot of practice. Looks like Tristan Blackwell had perfected the art of ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am.’ Hell, I even got the ‘thank you.’

We clicked on several more gossipy articles, each more damning than the last. We clicked onto his Wikipedia page and my eyes skimmed over a few facts. He was thirty, just five years older than me. Internationally educated. He went to Oxford for his undergraduate degree in business and economics and then he went to an Ivy League for his MBA.

Larene whistled. Apparently, he was one smart cookie. I was, begrudgingly, impressed.

We read on. His mother passed away six years ago and since then, his father married a young socialite. He had one younger sister, who rarely appeared in public.

I started to feel uncomfortable. It felt like I was prying into his life, even though everything was public knowledge. Still…

I shut the laptop forcefully, ignoring Larene’s groan of dismay.

“We didn’t even get to his net worth yet!” she protested.

“No,” I said with a shake of my head. “I don’t need to see anymore.”

We sat in silence for a little while, absorbing. Larene scraped up the last bits of rocky road from the pint.

After a few moments, I realized that searching his name had been a good thing. Seeing Tristan with all those women just drove home the fact that he wasn’t the kind of man worth being upset over. Sure, he was handsome, rich, and great in bed—or, up against the wall in my case—but he was also superficial and he used and discarded women as easily as tissue…even if he was educated at Oxford.

Why was I getting myself worked up over someone like that?

A smile spread over my face. “This is great.”

Larene looked at me like I’d lost my head. “Oh no. You’ve gone nuts.”

“No, seriously. Of course, I still have to make sure that Annie never finds out. If she happens to see the picture, I will deny that it’s me to my grave. And now I know I can handle Tristan if we’re ever alone. He isn’t worth it.”

“Uh huh,” Larene drew out slowly. She didn’t believe me. Not one bit.

“I’m serious! In fact, I don’t want to spend any more time talking about him.”

Larene sighed. She knew I had a stubborn streak a mile wide. “Alright then.”