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“Better than expected,” she says.

“There are a few inconsistencies between the Geneva and London records, but nothing that can’t be reconciled.”

“Good.”

She studies me for a second.

“Was that all you came down to ask?”

“No.”

One corner of her mouth lifts.

I look at the open files around her, then back at her.

“I wanted to see how you were doing.”

Blaire’s expression softens slightly.

“I’m doing fine.”

“I can see that.”

Someone at the other end of the table asks for her opinion on a valuation note, and Blaire turns immediately toward them. I leave her to it. As I head back upstairs, I realize I am smiling. Not because I want her in my bed—but because she is remarkable.

Chapter Ten

Ross

When we return to the hotel that evening, the rest of the team has scattered in different directions. Blaire and I meet downstairs an hour later, and she has changed out of the suit she wore during the day and into a fitted black dress that leaves her shoulders bare. Her hair is down again, softer around her face, and when she crosses the dining room toward me, I have to remind myself that we’re still in public.

The hostess leads us to a curved booth tucked into the back corner of the restaurant, private enough that we can speak without worrying about who’s listening. Blaire orders a martini, and I order Scotch. By the time the first course arrives, the tension of the day has eased from her shoulders.

“This is better,” Blaire says, lifting her glass.

“Better than the archive?” I ask.

“Much,” she replies.

“I like the work. I also like being fed after ten hours of it.”

I smile and take a drink.

“You looked perfectly happy in there.”

“I was,” Blaire says. She studies me for a moment before adding,

“You looked pretty happy too, considering you were supposed to be upstairs handling your own meetings.”

“I was working.”

“You were watching me work,” she replies.

I don’t bother denying it. We’re well past the point where either of us needs to pretend.

“You do that a lot,” she says.

“I know.”