As the investors found their seats Dominic dispensed with a greeting. “This shouldn’t take long,” he said curtly. “Everyone’s familiar with the prospectus?” It wasn’t really a question.

Mindful of the last aborted meeting, the fact that Miss Hart was not in attendance was noted by all the industrialists as they settled back in their chairs. Very soon, the attendees also took note of Dominic’s poisonous mood. Related? No, not with Dominic, they all individually concurred. But he was conspicuously less accommodating, more prickly, quick to reject any quibbles about money. And in the end, he essentially offered them a take it or leave it proposition.

With Dominic’s track record they all took it, but they grumbled after he got up, brusquely said, “You gentlemen will be much richer after today,” and walked out of the room without so much as a thank you. A little courtesy wouldn’t have been out of place when they were investing billions.

Max was left to soothe outraged egos.

Sometime later, Max walked into Dominic’s office, bit back his comment about the half-empty bottle on Dominic’s desk, and forced himself to speak in a measured tone. “You could have been more polite, Nick. It’s going to take them a while to cool off.”

Dominic drained his drink before looking up, his half-lidded gaze indifferent. “I gave them the full extent of my charm in Hong Kong. I didn’t feel like kissing ass again. If they want to make money, they can buy in. If they don’t”—Dominic shrugged—“I don’t give a shit. I’ll cover it myself.” He coolly met Max’s gaze. “Is there anything else?”

“You’re drinking a lot and you’re drinking alone,” Max said pointedly. Dominic had never been a solitary drinker.

“So?” He refilled his glass.

“So you’re getting hard to handle.”

“Point noted. Is there more of this lecture? I hope not, because I’m already bored. And not that it’s any of your business, but I only drink at night.” He glanced at the clock and a muscle twitched along his jaw. Three fifty p.m. “Today’s an exception,” he muttered. Seeing the same men again had brought back the horror of their last meeting, when Katherine had seen the disastrous e-mail with the licentious photos of him with other women and everything had gone into the tank. “As for drinking alone,” he said with biting sarcasm, “it’s never too late to learn.”

Max sighed softly. “The lecture’s over. How you choose to go to hell is your own business. But try not to use that snarky tone with Lillibet. She’s new, she’s an excellent analyst, and I wouldn’t want to lose her because you’re an asshole.”

Dominic lifted his glass to Max. “Consider me warned. Lillibet will be treated with extreme deference. Is she some politician’s daughter? Just asking.”

“No.”

“Thank God. Politicians can be demanding.” Dominic smiled tightly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He drained his glass, reached for the bottle, and shot a look at Max, who hadn’t moved. “Do you mind? I’m busy.” Uncorking the bottle, Dominic poured himself another drink, leaned back in his chair, and put the glass to his mouth. He didn’t hear the door shut because he was calculating how much liquor it would take tonight to erase the memory of Katherine’s tears when she’d looked up from his laptop that day in Hong Kong.

He was still there after the office had gone dark, another opened bottle in hand. The wall of muted TV screens opposite his desk was the only illumination in the room, and his eyes were half shut against the glare.

The door slowly opened and a beautiful, leggy blonde quietly entered the room, shut the door behind her, and leaned back against it. “I’m the last one here, Mr. Knight,” she said in softly accented English. “I was wondering if you needed anything before I leave.”

Innuendo was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Explicit enough to penetrate the layers of Dominic’s despair.

He automatically looked up at the familiar tone of voice and crooked his finger. “What’s your name?”

“Tatiana,” she said, moving toward his desk.

“Surname?” He’d loosened his tie and collar, his attire otherwise unaltered since the meeting, his white shirt a vivid contrast to his dark suit in the heavily shadowed room.

“Ismay.”

No relation to a politician he knew, nor a family of his acquaintance. That didn’t make it necessarily safe, but safer. “How long have you worked here, Tatiana?” he gently queried, instinctively surveying the lovely young woman. Max had good taste.

“A year, sir.”

“Have we met?”

“Twice, sir.”

“And what do you do for us?”

“I’m one of your attorneys.”

“And you were wondering if I needed anything?” he murmured.

“Yes, sir.”

His gaze narrowed at that third sir and he wondered if they’d met somewhere other than the office. Or were his vices common knowledge? “Why did you think I might need something?”

“You were all alone in the dark.” Opaque glass panels framed the door.

“Drinking.”

“I see that.”

“Would you like a drink?” A gratuitous impulse or perhaps a mechanical prompt in a situation like this.

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

He shut his eyes, the bittersweet phrase like a punch in the gut: he’d said it to Katherine during their first breakfast together at the Garden House, and again after the cocktail party in Hong Kong, both occasions lush with memory. “Actually, I would mind,” he said, his voice suddenly crisp as he shoved himself upright from his lazy sprawl. “I’m sorry, Miss Ismay.” He smiled politely. “I’m too drunk to be good company. Although I appreciate your concern. It was a pleasure to meet you”—he dipped his head—“again. Have a pleasant evening.” He grabbed the bottle, pulled out the cork, and thought about offering an additional apology when she didn’t move. But he stared at her instead until she did move because he had no intention of fucking her. Now or ever.