Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
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.
He’s handsome and has this powerful edge to his personality.
He’s comfortable taking center stage; in fact, he’s probably comfortable on every stage.
The crowd is silent as they all hang on his every word. They take notes and laugh on cue. The women all look up at him in awe, wanting him, and the men all want to be him.
Me . . . I just want to punch him in his pretty-boy face.
I hate that everything comes easy for him. He was born into this entitled family. Wealthy beyond measure and charismatic as all hell. It’s just not fair that he is ridiculously handsome to add to the mix.
I get a vision of him and the girls he must have falling at his feet. He must be a real player—probably has five girls on the go at a time.
I go over our last conversation that we had over the phone.
“I wanted to see if you would like to have dinner with me on Saturday night,” he asked.
“You’re asking me out on a date?”
“I don’t like the way we met. I would like to start again.”
“You have got to be kidding. I wouldn’t go out with you if you were the last man on earth. Money and looks don’t impress me, Mr. Miles.”
“Our meeting was nothing personal, Claire.”
“It was very personal to me. Go and find a bimbo to wine and dine, Tristan. I have no interest in dating a cold, soul-sucking bastard like you.”
That was so cool.
I find myself smiling goofily into space. He asked me out. Tristan Miles asked me out, and I know it was just so that he could try to schmooze his way under my radar, but damn it felt good knocking him back.
“Claire Anderson.” I hear a voice from the stage.
Huh?
I look up to the stage in horror. Wait . . . did he ask me something?
How can he see me?
He’s moved and is now on another stage and in my line of sight.
Shit.
He holds his hand in the air, palm up. “Please share.”
“I beg your pardon.” I frown. “I didn’t hear the question.”
A trace of a smile crosses his face as his eyes hold mine.
“I asked everyone to recall a time when they felt satisfied. A time when they were really proud of themselves.”
“Oh.” My eyes widen.
“And, judging by your grin, I’m assuming you recalled something amazing.”
I stare at him.
“Please.” He rolls his hand out in an overexerted way. “Let us share in your pride.”
Asshole.
I glare at him. Is he for real?
He puts both hands into his suit pockets and begins to pace. “We’re waiting, Claire,” he says in a condescending tone. I feel my underarms heat with perspiration as everyone in the room waits for my answer. Holy shit, this man is infuriating.
“The last time I felt really satisfied was when I refused a date with a cold, soul-sucking bastard. Even if he was the last man on earth,” I announce.