“According to your own sales pitch not five minutes ago. Capable of turning any rusted thing into a gleaming, squeaky-clean pillar of the community if you choose.”
There was no false modesty in her when she answered simply, “I am.”
“That’s hard to believe, if this is how you talk to your potential clients. All of whom can’t possibly be as laid-back and jovial as me.”
“You haven’t yet agreed to be my client, Mr. Grant.” She let him see the steel behind her smile, her gaze. “But I should warn you that I’m not talking about miracles, here. No one’s going to confuse you with the Dalai Lama no matter how brilliant a campaign we run. I’m a PR specialist, not the patron saint of lost causes.”
“That would be Saint Jude.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Saint Jude. Martyred with an ax a very long time ago, which had to have hurt, or it isn’t really martyrdom, is it? And since then, the patron saint of lost causes.”
“I wouldn’t have pegged you as the religious sort. More the blasphemous, deliberately profane sort, if your personal history and laundry list of paternity suits is any kind of guide.”
“Dismissed paternity suits,” he corrected her, a faintly chiding note in his voice. “And the fact I know the names of a few saints doesn’t make me a believer.”
Something hollow moved over his face then, but when Zoe blinked, it was gone, and he looked the way she assumed he always did. Vaguely challenging. Mocking. Arrogant and lazy, as if she’d only imagined he could be anything else, though she hadn’t the slightest idea why she seemed to want to do that.
“Doesn’t it?” she asked, but she was losing her grip on this conversation the more he watched her, as if she was edible and he was suddenly famished.
“It only makes me widely read.” He shrugged. “The more sacred cows you’re aware of, I find, the more fun it is to tip them over. One after the next.”
“And by ‘widely read,’ I assume you mean, what? Playboy magazine? I hate to break this to you, but I don’t think anyone’s likely to believe you’re in it for the articles.”
“I’m more of a doer than a reader, I’ll admit.” His expression shifted into dark amusement. “Want a demonstration?”
There was a crackle of something then, a kind of sharp, hot pang of awareness, and Zoe reminded herself that she wasn’t here to banter with this man. She had a very specific agenda. A plan, and he was nothing more than the perfect tool to execute it. There was no room for anything else. It didn’t matter that he was significantly more clever and far less drunk than she’d anticipated.
And besides, she knew exactly what he was. She knew what he’d done. Why was that so difficult to keep in mind now that she was this close to him?
“Do you imagine that I’ll be so easily seduced?” she asked, trying to keep her voice more arch than accusatory. “Is that how it normally works for you? You roll out a halfhearted sexual innuendo and they fling themselves at your feet?”
“I hadn’t imagined anything of the kind,” he said, and he was laughing at her, if only with those unnervingly clear eyes. “But I am now.”
“You’re not my type,” she said, sharp and smooth. “I prefer brains over brawn, for a start.”
“I beg your pardon.” But he wasn’t even remotely offended, she saw. If anything, he looked genuinely amused. It made his gorgeous face lighten, made those eyes of his very nearly shine. “I went to Harvard.”
“As did almost every single relative and ancestor you have, stretching back to the Massachusetts Bay Colony in the 1600s.” She kept her voice dry. “It’s somewhat less impressive to be a legacy times twenty. It would only be noteworthy if you didn’t go to Harvard.”
“I didn’t merely get into Harvard,” he pointed out, that gleam in his gaze never fading. If anything, it intensified, as if he really was imagining her at his feet, spread out before him like—she stopped herself right there. “I also graduated. That’s harder, even for someone with so much Crimson in his bloodstream.” He grinned. “Brains and brawn.”
Zoe shrugged. “I also don’t like sports. Especially football. Pointless and brutal little war games dressed up in silly costumes and pretending to be important.” She smiled. Sweetly. “No offense, of course. Just my opinion.”
“I pride myself on never taking offense at the unsolicited opinions of strangers,” Hunter said.
He shifted in his seat again, moving his strong legs beneath the table, making Zoe aware of how close they were sitting. How intimate it really was to be practically cuddled up in a private booth with this man. This terrible man. It took everything she had not to jerk back to a safe distance—but then, this was the game. This was what she had to do to win it. And she would win it.
“I was fired from the war games,” he confided after a moment. “If that helps.”
“And I don’t really like WASP-y Sons of the Revolution, either,” she said almost sadly. “With blood so blue it practically weeps, who still think the world is their own, personal fiefdom. It’s a strange character flaw of mine, I’m sure.”
That made him grin. “Given the research you’ve clearly done, you must know that I’m the black sheep of my WASP-y, Sons and Daughters of the Revolution family. They sigh heavily whenever they see me, which isn’t very often. I’m terribly scandalous.”
“Or maybe it’s just you, Mr. Grant. I can’t say I particularly like you.”
“And yet here you are,” Hunter said, something about that tone making it clear she’d be a fool to underestimate him, though he still grinned with every appearance of pretty-boy ease. “Giving me your sales pitch in a strip club at ten-thirty on a Tuesday morning. Do you know who does things like that, Ms. Brook?” There was something about her name in his mouth, that famously dissipated mouth, that worked inside her, making her feel looser than she should, as if he could melt all the ice and iron within her that easily. She told herself she was horrified at the thought. “Fans and stalkers.”
“I promise you, I’m neither.”
“Then why on earth would you take on the Herculean task of attempting to restore my good name?” He laughed. “It can’t be done.”
“I have my reasons. All you have to do is benefit from them.”
“Let me guess. The goodness of your heart?”
“I don’t have a heart, Mr. Grant. I have a plan. You figure prominently in it, that’s all.”
That intensity that spiked the air around him tightened then, like an implacable fist. And then he smiled, sending a shot of something silken and ominous down the length of her spine. It occurred to her that she didn’t understand this man at all. That her research hadn’t prepared her for this, whatever this was. For him.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” he said in a velvet whisper, the way another man might talk of sex and desire, and it shivered inside Zoe like a touch, “but I’m committed to my downward spiral, and that leaves no room for anything else. Certainly
