Hard Sell (Page 24)

His gaze drops to the spot where his fingers continue their slow caress of my palm, before moving in a teasing circular motion that immediately calls to mind all the places I want his touch.

I try to jerk my hand back, but he holds it firm and looks up to study me. “You’re jumpy.”

I’m facing the front of the restaurant, and I do a quick scan to ensure Matt’s bosses haven’t come in yet. There’s no sign of them.

“Save your moves for when they’re actually here,” I say, gently extracting my hand from his.

He lets me go with a thoughtful expression, and it takes all my self-control not to ask what’s going through his head. I know how to deal with snarky Matt, charming Matt, even irritable Matt. But this version, the one with the soft eyes and secretive thoughts . . . he throws me off-balance.

I hate being off-balance.

I pick up the menu once more. “Okay, what are we getting? Do you like sushi?”

“Nope. Came to a sushi restaurant but can’t stand the stuff,” he says sarcastically.

I don’t bother to look up. “Yes, well, you came to a restaurant with a woman you can’t stand, so you’ll excuse me if I don’t take your actions at face value.”

“Who says I can’t stand you?” he asks.

I lift my gaze to his. “Um, you? Every time you look at me, snap at me, pick a fight with me . . .”

“That’s a two-way street, Ms. Cross.”

“I never said it wasn’t.”

Matt runs a hand over his face. “I swear to God, talking with you is impossible.”

“I’m happy to sit in silence until the show starts.”

“I don’t—Damn it, I don’t want to sit in silence, and I don’t want to fight.”

I set the menu back on the table with an irritated slap. “Well, it’s you and me, so silence and fighting are the only options.”

“They don’t have to be. If you weren’t so damned stubborn—”

My jaw drops. “Do not put this on me. I’m here because I signed a contract, and in no part of that contract does it say that we have to like each other. I committed to convincing others that I’m wildly in love with your playboy ways, but don’t think for one second—”

“Matt. Sabrina. We certainly seem to have the same taste in restaurants this week.”

Matt’s heated gaze snaps away from mine as we both look up to see The Sams standing over our table, along with Jarod Lanham, who looks just as put together and appealing in person as he does in pictures.

Matt recovers quickly, standing to greet them. “Nobu is definitely the best cure for sushi cravings.”

“Indeed,” Samantha says, looking torn between admiration and wariness at the fact that Matt’s so clearly manufactured a way for us to end up in their path. Again.

I give Matt a quick, deliberately shy look, as though not quite sure how he wants me to handle it, then turn my sheepish smile on them. “You must think I’m the worst influence, dragging him out for a lunch date on a workday.”

“Nonsense,” Sam says. “I have my heart set on an ice-cold martini myself. Do either of you know Jarod Lanham? Jarod, Matt Cannon’s one of our best brokers. This is Sabrina Cross, his . . .”

“Girlfriend,” I say with a self-depreciating eye roll. “Don’t mind me.”

Matt extends a hand to Jarod. “Mr. Lanham. A pleasure.”

Jarod Lanham’s an attractive man—tall and lean, with a strong jawline to balance out his otherwise narrow features. Dark hair with just the slightest gray at the temples that promises excellent silver-fox potential. And when he smiles, like he’s doing now, the laugh lines and straight white teeth flashing against tanned skin make him even more appealing.

“Mr. Cannon.” He shakes Matt’s hand. “Of Wall Street Journal fame.”

I keep myself from wincing. Barely. The Sams’ poker faces aren’t as good. Sam visibly flinches, and Samantha’s eyes close in brief exasperation.

Matt’s shoulders stiffen slightly, but he keeps his expression friendly and lets out an easy laugh. “Ha, yes. Note to self: check for cameras when attending a bachelor party.”

“You should party with me sometime,” Jarod says. “No cameras. Plenty of private entertainment.”

The billionaire’s dark eyes drift my way as he says it, and though I’m braced for a smarmy, smug dismissal, his gaze is frank and assessing.

And appreciative.

I’ve been around long enough to know when a man likes what he sees, and I’ve definitely gotten the stamp of approval from Jarod Lanham.

Matt knows it, too, his blue eyes narrowing just slightly. I nearly smile, because I bet in all of Matt’s carefully calculated scenarios of how his first meeting with his dream client would go, Jarod admiring his “girlfriend” wasn’t part of any of them.

“Ms. Cross. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” He extends a hand.

Finally? He knows me? “Likewise,” I say, placing his hand in mine and trying to hide that he’s caught me off guard.

“You’re a . . . consultant.” His eyes lock on mine as he says it. The confidence in his gaze makes me realize he knows full well what I do, but since people don’t go around dropping the word fixer in meetings like this, he’s stuck with my more generic title.

“I am.”

He nods. “I’m familiar with your work. I may actually be in the market for your services in the near future, but that’s for another time.”

I feel a little flutter of surprised pleasure that the Jarod Lanham might want to hire me, but I push it aside, remembering that I’m here for Matt.

Jarod glances at our table, the barely touched wine. “If you haven’t ordered yet, why don’t you join us?” He glances at The Sams. “If that’s okay with you.”

I press my lips together to hide a smile. Jarod Lanham could have told Sam and Samantha he was bringing a rabid raccoon to lunch, and they’d have put the animal at the head of the table with champagne and caviar.

“Absolutely,” Sam says. “Matt’s one of our best. I think you’ll enjoy talking with him. You know he joined us when he was twenty-two?”

Jarod runs a thumb along his jaw. “That so?”

Samantha turns to the hostess, who’s been standing a discreet distance away. “Is a table for five available?”

The woman’s eyes widen in panic. “Five? Well . . . I’ll have to check. We have a limited number of tables for larger parties, especially during the lunch hour, but, um—”

“Actually,” I interrupt. “This is sort of a lifesaver. I had a work issue come up, but I didn’t want to leave Matt to eat alone. If you all don’t mind my begging off, you’d just need a table for four.”

Samantha and the hostess practically sag in relief.

“I hope we’re not running you off,” Jarod says as I lift my purse from the back of my chair.

“Absolutely not. It’s just that duty calls.”

“Understood,” Jarod says quietly, clearly still assessing me.

I swear I hear Matt let out a faint snort, which reminds me why I’m here in the first place: damage control for Matt’s career.

I give Jarod a vague smile in response, and after nodding goodbye to The Sams, I move around the table to Matt. My touch on his upper arm is for the group’s benefit.