The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(13)

“It’s so lovely to see you, Tris. Let’s hang out and sing ‘Kumbaya’ around a campfire. I’ve missed your good looks and witty charm,” she replies without missing a beat. She smiles sweetly and bats her eyelashes for effect.

I smirk and clink my glass with hers. “Cheers. That’s more like it. Glad you’re getting into the spirit.”

She moves her chin in a come-here gesture, and I lean in, waiting for what she has to tell me. “Go away, Mr. Miles,” she whispers.

I chuckle, excited for the first time in a very long time. “No.”

Her gaze goes in front of her again. “I see you’re still as annoying as ever.”

“And I see you’re still taking those bitch pills.”

“Ah, yes.” She sighs. “Let’s blame my distaste for you on meds, shall we? There couldn’t possibly be another reason why you repulse me, could there now?”

My eyebrows rise in surprise. Women just don’t speak to me like this. “Repulse is a rather strong word, isn’t it?” I say as I join her in staring straight ahead. “I think the word you meant to use is fascinate.”

Her mouth curls up at the corners, and I know she’s struggling not to smile. “Go away, Mr. Miles,” she repeats.

“Do I fascinate you, Claire?”

“Call me Mrs. Anderson,” she whispers. “And you don’t have what it takes to fascinate me.”

Our eyes lock, and for the second time tonight my stomach flutters.

She has this aura surrounding her, elusive and enticing.





Controlling.


I bet she’d be fucking wild in bed. I get a vision of us together, naked, and I feel the throb of arousal between my legs. I purse my lips to hide my delight.

“Goodbye.” She walks off through the crowd, and I stare after her.

All right . . . I’ll admit it.

That woman is insanely fucking hot.

I watch her walk across the room as I troll my mind for a plan. This is possibly the only place I am going to see her. Hmm . . . what to do.

I take out my phone and call my brother. He answers after the first ring. “Hello, Tris.”

“Jameson,” I say as I watch her strike up a conversation with another man. “Change of plans.”

“How so?”

“I was only going to stay at the conference for the opening day.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve decided that I’m staying on for the week. There is an . . .” I pause as I search for the right wording. “Opportunity . . . that I would like to investigate further.”

“Okay, when will you be back?”

“Monday, next week.”

“Yeah, of course. Listen, I’m in a meeting. I’ll call you later.”

“Okay.” I hang up and put my phone back into my pocket, and my eyes rise to watch Claire Anderson across the room once more.





This conference just got interesting.





Claire

“I’m just going to get a drink,” Nelson says. “Do you want another?”

“Okay, thank you.”

“I’ll be back shortly,” he replies, and I watch him as he walks over to the bar.

He’s a nice guy.

I’m surprised—this has actually been a great night. We had dinner, and then there was dancing. I’ve been chatting with everyone, being sociable. Marley would be so proud of me.

“Ahh, alone at last.” I hear a voice. I glance over to see Tristan Miles standing beside me. Great. I roll my eyes.

“Where did your disciple go?” he asks as he sips his drink.

“Who’s that?” I frown.

“The boring Goody Two-shoes.”

I bite the inside of my cheek so that I don’t smile. He hit the nail on the head. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Nelson Mandela or whatever his name is.” He waves his glass in the air toward Nelson.

Unable to help it, I smile. “I have no idea what his surname is, but I’m pretty sure it’s not Mandela, Mr. Miles.”

“I told you to call me Tristan.”

“And I told you to go away.”

“You know . . .” He pauses, as if getting the wording right. “If I wasn’t at a work conference and being professional, I’d have a lot to ask you.”

“Such as?” I question.

“I’m working,” he says as he straightens his tie.

Eager to know what he wants to say, I reply, “Consider yourself off the clock. Anything you say to me will be considered a private matter.”

“Why do you hate me so much?”

“Well, there’s a lot to dislike.”

“Such as?”

“You want my company, Mr. Miles.”

“No.” He sips his drink. His tone makes me think he’s annoyed. “I made an honest offer for your company, and you rejected it. End of story. I haven’t approached you since, and I have respected your wishes.”

Our eyes are locked. I can feel the energy, and it bounces between us. It’s almost as if our bodies are speaking to each other without words. I can pretend not to notice it all I want, but the truth is Tristan Miles is a sensory overload.