had come up with less than thirty accurate hits, and only after the usual ones featuring his recent purchase from Waverly’s. From those she quickly worked out that, while he owned a few properties around the world, he didn’t date supermodels, didn’t court the limelight and was intensely private.
Which meant a possibly interesting backstory in there somewhere.
“Tell me, what exactly do hedge fund managers do?”
He took the cup she proffered, palming it in one large hand.
“Well, in simplified terms, they manage a private pool of capital from investors and advise them on trading strategies.”
“And what do you get out of it?”
“I put in a percentage, so when the investors make money, I do, too. Plus, there’s the investment and management fees.”
“So it’s like playing the stock market?”
“Sort of.” He blew on the coffee before taking an experimental sip. “The term hedging means reducing risk, so it’s all about getting as much money as you can for as little risk as possible, then getting out. All funds aren’t the same, and returns, volatility and risk all vary. You can hedge anything, from stocks and bonds, to currency, to downturns in the market.”
“Like what happened in the financial crisis.”
She noted the way his shoulders stiffened, his brow creasing. “Yeah. But that…that was the result of a bunch of arrogant, irresponsible people who—” he took a breath and gave a tight smile “—who aren’t really fit to mention in polite conversation. And the only money I manage now is my own and a few select investors’.”
She shook her head. “I’m okay at math, but you must have some kind of superbrain to do what you do.”
He took another sip of coffee then said slowly, “It’s called an eidetic ability.”
Her eyes widened. “You have a photographic memory? You’re kidding me.”
“Oh, I’m not. I was the most frequently requested party trick at college when word got out.” His sardonic tone told her it wasn’t something he was particularly proud of, which was odd.
A college guy who didn’t want to impress everyone, be the life of the party and brag about himself? Intriguing.
“Your parents must be happy you’ve done so well,” she said now.
He made a noncommittal sound and shrugged, which was neither confirmation nor denial. There was a major story in his past, Vanessa surmised. One that probably didn’t end well, given his response.
So whose does?
In the awkward silence Vanessa sipped on her too-hot coffee, burning her tongue in the process.
“So how did you and Dunbar meet?” he finally asked.
Okay, moment over. “I think we established I’m not going to answer your personal questions.”
“I’m not about to go running to the press.”
“That’s not the impression I got in New York.”
He leaned back on the couch, those worry lines marring his forehead again, a sure sign he was uncomfortable. Uncomfortable with being rude? Or because she’d called him on it?
He sighed and suddenly his expression changed. “Vanessa.” His cup went down on the coffee table as he fixed her with his direct gaze. “I apologize for my behavior in New York. I was impolite and pushy and totally got the wrong end of the story. I’m sorry.” Oh. Those sincere blue eyes held hers and, after a few seconds, his singular attention started to make her giddy, the not-unpleasant feeling a little like a champagne buzz. “I must’ve come across as…”
She finally found her tongue. “Rude?”
He nodded, stunning her further. “Yeah. I tend to get steamed when people are trying to rip me off.”
“But I wasn’t.”
“I know. Look, this isn’t coming out right at all. I made an assumption about you and it turns out I was wrong. Normally I’m smarter than that.”
If that didn’t beat all. She sat there, unable to form a comeback. Truth be told, he was not at all what she’d first assumed, and she didn’t know what to think.
“What would it take for you to sell me that manuscript?” she blurted out.
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“You sure? Just about everything has a price.”
Was it her imagination, or did his expression turn bitter? “Not this thing. And anyway, I seem to recall you don’t have the money.”
“Not everything has to be about money.” At the look on Chase’s face, she added quickly, “Oh, wow, that came out so wrong. I didn’t mean… Did you think I…? Ewww.”
You weren’t thinking ewww two days ago, though, were you?
Obviously, he was disgusted by that thought too, because his expression tightened and he rose abruptly. “I’ve got to be going.”
She nodded, her face warm. “I’ll see you out.”
Vanessa honed in on his broad back as she followed down the stairs, gazing at the efficient haircut closely cropped at the nape. The skin was smooth and tanned beneath his collar—a jogger’s tan?
Great. Now she had an image of him running in a clingy, damp T-shirt, his pumped-up arms and legs gliding him effortlessly through Central Park.
Then he was at the last step and she was back in the real world.
Should she shake his hand? Thank him for coming? No, that wouldn’t be right. Say something, she urged herself as he reached the bottom then slowly turned back to her standing on the last step.
She was nearly eye to eye with him. A disconcerting thought.
“What are you doing Saturday night?”
She wrinkled her brow. “What’s on Saturday night?”
“The Library of Congress is having a thing and I’m on the guest list.”
“A thing?”
“A formal event. To celebrate some Egyptian display.”
“The Tombs of the Missing Pharaohs exhibit?” She crossed her arms, pulling her shirtsleeves over her hands as the cold began to seep in.
“That’s the one.”
“Aren’t you leaving your RSVP a bit late?”
“I’m a donor—I get a bit of leeway.”
“Right.”
After a moment’s silence,
