The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(12)

My eyes scan the room. Where is she?

“So, Mr. Miles, are you married?”

My eyes snap back to the blonde in front of me. “Please, call me Tristan. And no, not married.”

“A girlfriend, perhaps?” Saba asks.

“No.” I sip my drink. “Very single.”

“Really?” Saba says in a sexy voice. “Me too. Talk about great timing.”

I fake a smile. “It’s always a great time to be single, isn’t it?”

The girls all laugh on cue, and I look around the room. If she doesn’t come tonight, I’m going to be pissed.

“I just broke off my engagement,” Melanie replies.

I look her over. She’s blonde and beautiful—my usual type—and I make myself nod as I act interested.

“I just really want to focus on my goals right now, and my ex just wasn’t moving in the right circles—you know what I mean? He wanted a house in the suburbs with three kids, and I want more from life than that,” she continues. “I want a global empire.”

“Oh, totally,” the girls all agree.

“I had that too with my ex. Why don’t they get it?” one of the other girls says.

Oh fuck . . . get me out of here.

I wave at a colleague. “I’m going to see my friend.” I turn to walk off.

“Tristan,” Saba calls.





I turn back to her.


“Maybe we could do some revision of the notes I took today.” She smiles sexily. “Later, in my room.”

“Ahh . . .” I look between the women.

“I mean . . .” She shrugs. “We could all go over our notes together.” She pulls her fingers through her hair. “The four of us girls and you. Like a group thing.” The girls all smile sexily.

“Could make for a great night,” Melanie whispers.

“I have no doubt.” I smirk as I look among them. “Let’s see how the night goes, shall we?”

I turn and walk over to one of the other lecturers as I hear them giggle behind me. “Hey,” Elouise says.

“Hi.” I sip my drink.

“Let me guess; they’re all throwing themselves at you?”

“No.” I keep a straight face. “What makes you say that?”

“Because I’ve never seen a man so hit on in my life.” She grins wryly. “The women you attract are shameless.”

I chuckle into my drink. Elouise is a psychologist, perhaps fifty to fifty-five years old. She’s at a lot of conferences I go to, as she does the personality-trait testing. She sees a lot on the circuit. “Trust me, Elouise; it gets very boring after a while.” I glance around again and see Claire in the corner, talking with a group of men.

She’s here.

I watch her as she talks.

Her shoulder-length dark hair is full, and she’s wearing a black dress. It’s not showy or sexy. She’s understated. Sensible and undeniably alluring. So very different from the women I’m used to. My eyes roam up and down her body. She’s older than me, but I’m not sure by how much. Maybe a couple of years?

Elouise and I continue to talk, but my eyes stay fixed on Claire Anderson across the room. She’s talking and laughing with a man.

Who is he?





Hmm . . .


I’m going to go and talk to her. “Back in a moment,” I say as I head off in her direction. Just as I approach her, someone calls me.

“Mr. Miles.”

I turn and see an attractive blonde. She already hit on me at lunch. “Oh, hello,” I reply, feeling uncomfortable being in earshot of Claire.

“Melissa,” she says. “We met at lunch.”

“Yes, I remember, Melissa.” I smile.

The man who was standing with Claire walks to the bar, and she glances up, clearly hearing the woman and me.

“What are you doing later?” she asks. “Can we meet up for a drink?”

Claire rolls her eyes and turns her back to us.





Fuck . . .


“No, I don’t mix business and pleasure.” I fake a smile and keep walking to Claire. “Hello.”

She looks up at me deadpan, having heard what was just said. “Hi.” She sips her drink, unimpressed, and turns her gaze straight ahead.

“How was your massage?” I ask.

“Great.” She sips her drink.

God . . . she’s so rude.

“Are you going to look at me while I speak to you?” I ask.

Her eyes rise to meet mine, and my stomach unexpectedly flutters. “What do you want, Mr. Miles?”

I stare at her, confused as to what my stomach is doing. “Tristan. Call me Tristan.”

“No,” she replies flatly. “Calling you Tristan would mean that I want to be on a first-name basis with you.” Her tongue swipes over her bottom lip, and I feel it in my crotch. “And I don’t.”

“Claire.”

“Call me Mrs. Anderson.”

“Why are you being so rude?”

“I’m not being rude; I’m being honest. Would you prefer that I lie?”

Well . . . blow me down.

“Maybe,” I reply.