The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(9)

Nelson comes up behind me. “See you later. We’re having dinner in the restaurant downstairs at seven if you want to come, Claire.”

“Oh.” I turn to him, startled. “Thank you, but I have work to do. I’ll see you tomorrow?” I ask.

“Yes, for sure.” He smiles. “Have a good night.”

I turn back to the concierge with a smile. I feel more comfortable than I thought I would. I think this may actually be okay.

I sit in the swanky conference room with 120 other people. The room is abuzz with electricity. They’re all chattering and have their notepads and other papers with them.

Everyone here is so pumped to try to better themselves.

Me . . . well, I’m just here for the champagne and to have an excuse to take a holiday by myself. But anyway, yay for the pumped ones, I guess.

A man comes onto the stage, and everyone claps and cheers. He holds his hands out and smiles broadly. Hmm . . . I wonder who he is.

He waits for the cheering to die down, and he smiles broadly again. “Welcome,” he says. He has a small microphone attached to his shirt. “Welcome to Mind Masters. A place where you will find a better version of yourself.” His voice is loud and echoing, as if he’s giving a sermon or something. “Are you ready?” he cries.

Everyone cheers.

Oh God . . . so over the top. I clap along with the room as they all lose their shit. They are all standing and laughing as they clap. I frown as I look around at them . . . honestly, calm down, everyone.

This is like a fucking cult.

I glance down at my phone as I contemplate filming this shit for Marley. Even she wouldn’t believe it.

“And now, I would like to introduce our opening speaker. Someone that I know a lot of you follow on the circuit. A rock star in the motivational-speaking circuit and the developer of workshops that are changing the lives of people from all walks of life. He’s here for one day only, so please, without further ado—with his cutting-edge strategy, How to get what you want—welcome to the stage Tristan Miles.”

The air leaves my lungs as the crowd goes wild.

Tristan Miles walks out in a navy designer suit and his just-fucked dark wavy hair. He smiles broadly, holds his hands in the air, claps with the audience, and then takes a bow. Everyone is going crazy and yelling and clapping.

My eyes nearly bulge from their sockets . . . what the fuck?

I begin to hear my heartbeat in my ears as everyone else in the room disappears.

My fury begins to pump. I can’t even stand the sight of him—well, that’s not completely true. Damn asshole is a double-edged sword: gorgeous to look at, impossible to tolerate.

“Hello, everyone,” he says in the same echoing voice. “Congratulations.” He smiles as he waits for silence. Goose bumps scatter across my skin at the sound of his deep voice. He has a slight twang of an accent, a little upper-crust English mixed in with New Yorker. He sounds distinguished and intelligent—I don’t know, but whatever it is, it’s sexy as fuck.

Ugh . . . I hate everything about him.

“Welcome, and thank you for coming. You have taken a very valuable step in your personal development.” He looks around the room at everyone as he speaks. “I, for one . . .” Our eyes meet, and he stops speaking as he stares at me and then blinks.

Fuck.

He quickly recovers. “I, for one, am excited for you.”

He keeps talking, but I can’t hear him. I can only hear adrenaline screaming through the rapids that are my bloodstream. Last time we spoke, he was intent on stealing Wade’s company from my sons.

I’m not sitting here and listening to this vile bloodsucker give a motivational speech.

He ruins family businesses for fun.

How pathetic.

Of course he’s presenting at a conference called Mind Masters. This is right up his pretentious alley. He thinks he is the mind master . . . what a joke.

I stand. “Excuse me,” I whisper to the person next to me. I begin to shuffle past the people in my row as they sit in their seats.

“Claire Anderson,” he calls from the stage.

My horrified eyes meet his.

“Sit back down.”

“I . . .” I take another step toward the exit.

“Claire,” he warns.

I glance around at the 120 pairs of eyes fixed firmly on me and then back up at him.

“I said sit. Back. Down.”





Chapter 3

Fuck.

I fake a smile.

Who in the hell does this asshole think he is?

“I said sit. Back. Down.”

Well, I say go fuck yourself, you giant condescending twat. I raise an eyebrow as he glares at me, and I smile sweetly. Then, with deliberation, I walk toward the door.

He narrows his eyes and then recovers and goes back to his speech. “As I was saying,” he continues.

I go into the corridor that leads out of the room, just out of his sight, and listen to his speech.

For ten minutes, I fume in silence, unable to concentrate on anything he’s saying.

Just the sight of this man brings out a temper in me that I never even knew I had.

I peek around the corner and watch him walk back and forth on the stage. His voice is deep and commanding. One hand is in the pocket of his expensive suit trouser pocket; the other he moves around in the air with animation as he talks.