The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(10)

He’s handsome and has this powerful edge to his personality.

He’s comfortable taking center stage; in fact, he’s probably comfortable on every stage.

The crowd is silent as they all hang on his every word. They take notes and laugh on cue. The women all look up at him in awe, wanting him, and the men all want to be him.

Me . . . I just want to punch him in his pretty-boy face.

I hate that everything comes easy for him. He was born into this entitled family. Wealthy beyond measure and charismatic as all hell. It’s just not fair that he is ridiculously handsome to add to the mix.

I get a vision of him and the girls he must have falling at his feet. He must be a real player—probably has five girls on the go at a time.

I go over our last conversation that we had over the phone.

“I wanted to see if you would like to have dinner with me on Saturday night,” he asked.

“You’re asking me out on a date?”

“I don’t like the way we met. I would like to start again.”

“You have got to be kidding. I wouldn’t go out with you if you were the last man on earth. Money and looks don’t impress me, Mr. Miles.”

“Our meeting was nothing personal, Claire.”

“It was very personal to me. Go and find a bimbo to wine and dine, Tristan. I have no interest in dating a cold, soul-sucking bastard like you.”

That was so cool.

I find myself smiling goofily into space. He asked me out. Tristan Miles asked me out, and I know it was just so that he could try to schmooze his way under my radar, but damn it felt good knocking him back.

“Claire Anderson.” I hear a voice from the stage.

Huh?

I look up to the stage in horror. Wait . . . did he ask me something?

How can he see me?

He’s moved and is now on another stage and in my line of sight.

Shit.

He holds his hand in the air, palm up. “Please share.”

“I beg your pardon.” I frown. “I didn’t hear the question.”

A trace of a smile crosses his face as his eyes hold mine.

“I asked everyone to recall a time when they felt satisfied. A time when they were really proud of themselves.”

“Oh.” My eyes widen.

“And, judging by your grin, I’m assuming you recalled something amazing.”

I stare at him.

“Please.” He rolls his hand out in an overexerted way. “Let us share in your pride.”

Asshole.

I glare at him. Is he for real?

He puts both hands into his suit pockets and begins to pace. “We’re waiting, Claire,” he says in a condescending tone. I feel my underarms heat with perspiration as everyone in the room waits for my answer. Holy shit, this man is infuriating.

“The last time I felt really satisfied was when I refused a date with a cold, soul-sucking bastard. Even if he was the last man on earth,” I announce.

Our eyes lock, and he raises an eyebrow.

Game on, asshole . . . don’t fuck with me.

“Ah . . . but, Claire, how sad that the best thing you recall about your own life experiences is one that revolved around another. I think that says a lot more about you than it does him. I want a real answer this afternoon. Reflect on it until then.”

He smiles out at the audience, completely unfazed.

I step back, infuriated. What in the actual fuck does he think I’m going to learn from reflecting on what kind of person I am? I know who I am, and I’m completely happy with her.

Jerkoff.

This conference is just so typically him.

“And besides.” He gives me a slow, sexy smile as he continues to pace back and forth across the stage. “You’ll probably be begging that soul-sucking bastard to ask you back out one day . . . not that he ever would.”

The crowd laughs, and he moves on to his next victim. “You, the girl with the long blonde hair. What is your proudest memory? And I want you to really dig deep on the answer.”

I feel my blood pressure rise. Perspiration begins to bead on my forehead, and I want to march down and kick Mr. Fancy Pants straight up the ass and knock him off the stage.

Damn him . . . can I not have one fucking week away from life and forget who I am?

Why the hell is he here?

Over the next hour, Tristan Miles holds the audience captive, and I stare into space as I imagine myself torturing him to a grizzly death.

I should have stayed in my seat. Not only do I have to listen to his crap—I now have to stand up for it. I’ll just look stupid if I walk out now.

Wind it up already.

He’s only here today, and then he goes back to New York, I remind myself. I’m so annoyed with myself that I gave him the satisfaction of saying he wouldn’t ask me out again anyway.

How uncool can a person be?

God, he’s probably happily married by now . . . to a supermodel or an Instagrammer.

Ugh, I hate this guy. He turns me into an idiot.

“There will be a short recess now. Morning tea is catered in the lounge, and then we will go into our goal workshops. We set our goals on the first day and then again on day five to see how much you’ve grown.” He looks at his watch. “See you in the Boronia Room in half an hour from now.”

I exhale heavily and make my way down to the lounge for morning tea. Everyone is chatting and happy. I make myself a coffee, grab a slice of chocolate cake, and then stand in the corner and take out my phone. I google massage parlors in this area.