My cell vibrates from the treadmill cup holder in my workout room, and I let the hand weight fall on the mat with a clink. I scrub a towel over my face and pace over to check it. A number I don’t recognize flashes on the screen. It has to be her—she’s the only person who has this number and isn’t already in my contacts. It’s been more than a week since the failed buyout negotiations. I don’t know what to expect from the call.

That thrills me.

“Nate Stone here.”

“Hey, Nate. This is Emma. Vance.” Her voice is even, almost cold. The low, raspy quality it had when she was turned on is absent.

“I’m glad you called. How did it go this weekend?” Today should be the last day of the tournament.

“Ah—fine. Good. First in my weight class.”

She sounds distracted. She won a national competition but is blowing it off. Either winning is expected, or something else is bothering her.

“Congrats. Do you get a belt or something?”

“A medal. Look, thanks for the necklace.” She says it fast and low, like a kid being forced to apologize to a sibling.

“Emma, it’s important to me that you know it was a personal gift. Not business. The business center, that was personal, too. I didn’t have an agenda when I went there, and I hate that you walked away thinking I did.”

I pause for her to respond, but I get only silence.

“I mean, I want you to understand that I want SocialTech, too. I don’t intend for this deal too fall through, and we’re working on something. But I hope you like it—the necklace.”

Well that was a spectacular display.

She sighs. “No, really, Nate. Thank you. It’s actually kind of perfect. I loved the necklace, and I’m wearing the shirt now. Everyone’s jealous.” The teasing note in her voice sounds like a smile.

I swivel the mouthpiece away from my face and exhale, closing my eyes. I hadn’t even realized I was so hung up on her liking the necklace.

“Nate? Still there?”

I swing the phone back. “Yeah! Yeah, just thinking.”

“Hey, I’m sorry I was bitchy about it. I’m a little gun shy about expensive gifts.”

I chuckle. “That might be a first. I thought everyone liked presents.”

“Yeah, until some asshole thinks every woman has a price. Presents aren’t much fun when you realize they’re just a tool. Give a woman some diamonds, and she owes you for the rest of her life.”

“What kind of douchebag would do that?” I hold the phone to my ear and walk over to pour some water from the dispenser.

“The crazy ex-boyfriend kind.”

“Ah, I see why you’re a kickboxing badass.”

She finally lets out a genuine laugh, the kind that starts in the belly and bubbles up.

“He can’t do too much damage from Spain. I just have to dodge phone calls most of the time.”

Jackass ex-boyfriend who can’t take no for an answer and lives in Spain. Good to know.

“Is your tournament the one in Vegas?” I hold up an arm to assess sweat level. I hadn’t been working out long when she called.

“Uh yeah. Why?”

“Can I convince you to have dinner with me tonight?”

“You’re in Vegas?” Her voice rises in alarm on the last syllable.

“No, not a stalker. But my plane can touch down in a little more than two hours. Plenty of time for a dinner date, if you’re interested.”

One breath. Two breaths. “This is unexpected. What do you want, really? Is this personal or business?”

“Can’t it be both?”

“I don’t know, Nate. It sounds like a bad idea. I like to know where I stand.”

“Give me a chance to have this discussion face to face. Make a decision then. But I’m telling you now that my personal interest in you is independent of my business interests. Whether or not we acquire SocialTech, I want to see you again. If you want, I’ll keep my hands to myself until you tell me otherwise. I’m not going to pretend I don’t want you. But there’s no reason either interest has to be compromised by the other.”

“I’m not going to lie, my confidence level is pretty low that you’ll be decent if we can’t come to an agreement.”

“Then let me impress you. Dinner for now, and see where that goes.”

“All right. Beta test, but drinks only.”

She can’t even go on a date without negotiating. It’s freaking adorable.

“Deal. Pick you up at nine?”

“I’m at the Cromwell. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

Marble and glass, leather and crystal, sequins and neon lights: Vegas glamour is splashed everywhere, even in a boutique hotel like this one. I wait for maybe five minutes before she saunters into the room in tight black pants and a loose maroon top that makes me think of what I can’t see. It swishes around her as she walks, and blood surges downward as I watch it cling and release. Her thighs curve with muscle. I’d give my left nut to have them wrapped around me again. The dark waves of brown hair falling over her shoulders gleam golden in the hotel’s lights

A glint of gold at her throat makes my stomach twist with hope. If she’s wearing the necklace I sent, I’ve got a shot.

She spots me about ten feet away, and I wonder if my face reflects the poorly suppressed excitement hers does. I peck her on one flushed cheek, the barest pressure, then step back. Hands off, as promised. But I hope she didn’t notice the way I stealthily inhaled against her skin, relishing the sense memories triggered by her perfume.

“You look lovely.” My gaze lingers on the necklace laying against her skin.

She touches the pendant and smiles. “It really is perfect. Thoughtful.”

“Yeah, it’s safe to say you’ve been on my mind.”

“So I see. I’m still not sure where I stand on this business-pleasure hybrid.”

I wave her toward the door, and we start walking.

“I’d rather you be on the fence than on the ‘no’ side. For now, no business. Tell me about the tournament.”

She tells me about her matches—one forfeit, one easy KO, and one grueling slog for the title—as a chartered Rolls takes us to Mitsuki’s, a small, posh bar with dark wood paneling, intimate seating, and dim pendant lights splashing a warm glow over each table. A woodsy incense drifts around the entryway as I give my name to a server. She leads us past the tables and around a corner to an area hidden from casual patrons. As she passes me, I usher her forward with a hand on the small of her back, a habitual gesture. My palm burns where it touches her, even through the silky texture of her billowy shirt. I freeze and let her walk ahead. Hands off. Even an innocent gesture like that leaves me nearly panting with lust. She walks like she knows I’m watching her perfect ass. I walk like someone just punched me in the balls.

The smaller room has comfy seating clustered around low tables. We select a pair of deep purple, overstuffed armchairs and order drinks. I cross one ankle over the other knee and settle back into the chair. Emma’s chair is next to mine, but angled away. Although she sinks into the chair, her back stays straight.

“So tell me about the beginning of SocialTech, Emma. What made you decide to go with a startup instead of selling the technology?”

She stiffens. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I’m interested in finding out what the numbers don’t show. And I’m interested in you. If any other date asked you this, it would be acceptable small talk.”

“You’re not any other date, though.” She’s not scowling, but her flat gaze feels hostile. “You’re the guy who wants to take over my company.”

The server ghosts our drinks on to the table and disappears almost soundlessly. Emma snatches her gin and tonic and squeezes in a lime.

“Buy it,” I stress. “And only because you considered selling. It’s not like I’m forcing a takeover. We wouldn’t be here if that weren’t something you wanted, too, even if we don’t agree on terms. Yet.”

“Fine. My undergrad thesis was a forecasting project, which spurred my interest in predictive analytics.” She pauses as if this is where people usually tune out. “I was doing independent research during the whole of my master’s degree—internet sociology, some of us called it—and finagled a graduate internship at a massive marketing firm while I was finishing up the MBA. I saw what they were doing right and what they weren’t, and correlated it to the research we were discussing in class. And I coded. I built models and scrapped them. Universities have access to some interesting data sets.”

She stirs her drink. Her full lips press against the glass and leave behind a hint of magenta lipstick. She sucks her bottom lip in, savoring the taste of the bitter cocktail. My dick surges to life again, and I wrench my eyes away from her face.

“So what’s your real secret? Is it algorithms or something else?” I address the question to my whiskey as though I’m appreciating its aroma, not avoiding filthy thoughts of her.

“Honestly, I think we got lucky to a degree. Yes, my work is the backbone of everything SocialTech is built on, but our team—and I’m as proud of the team we built as of the tech—is the flesh and blood.”

“You know, most tech executives I see fall into two categories. Inept managers and iron fists. It looks like you avoid that trap.”

“My philosophy is primarily collaborative. I have certain lanes marked out where I’m the sole decision maker or share that responsibility, but I reward both individual breakthroughs and collective achievement.” She leans in, eyebrows knitting in a scowl. “I would hate to see SocialTech lose what makes it successful.”

“So would I, obviously.”

Emma had been leaning forward as she talked, inching closer. She lets her hand fall on the arm of the chair, and it lands close to mine. She pulls it back to her drink and scoots back into the chair. She stretches her legs with an appreciative sigh. Muscles tense under the fabric of her pants.

“What about you, Nate? Online poker for the first cool million, and then what?”

“Not online,” I corrected her. “Smoky back rooms and shady guys in sunglasses.”

“And then?”

“Business school straight through, with a concentration in finance. Couple of Fortune 500 internships, some well-placed investments, then I bought my first company.”

“The glory trail of the white man.” She winks, so I guess she’s teasing—halfway, at least.

“What can I say? I didn’t grow up rich, but I worked hard and used what fortune gave me. I’m not going to apologize for going after what I want.” I hold her eyes so she knows I mean her.

“Not asking you to.” She takes another pornographic sip of her drink. “Is that all that gets you going, though? Do you dream of more than making a lot of money?”

I swirl ice cubes in the bottom of my glass. On cue, another round arrives.

Marge knows about my philanthropic work, but no one else. I’ve got a lot of reasons to keep it to myself, but if I want Emma to trust me, giving her a private piece of me will go a long way. She’s the first woman who’s demanded that there be more to me, and I want her to know there is.

“Yeah, actually.” I shrug and look at the brocade wall coverings. “Climate change.”

“You dream of climate change?”

I laugh and relax. “Nightmares, more like. But I mean what gets me going. It would be more accurate to say global problems. I fund a fellowship that includes one year of study and research, and seed money for implementing one invention, social innovation, or other practical, actionable solution. It’s my super secret save the world project.”

“Super secret, huh? I definitely didn’t see anything like that associated with your name in my research.”

“No, you wouldn’t. I wanted this thing independent. It’s small, one or two fellows per year. Surprised?”

“I can safely say everything about tonight was a surprise.” Her eyes glitter in the demi-darkness. “In a good way. You don’t look half bad yourself, by the way. Nice suit.”

“Ah, now you’re sorry you didn’t take me up on dinner, right? You should be. I had something amazing planned.” I bite my tongue over the other things I want to say to her. Dirty things.

“Tell me what I missed behind door number one.” The second drink down, she’s more relaxed, smiling more. I can faintly make out a flush over her cheeks.

“I’ll save it for next time.”

“Are you so sure there will be a next time?”

“You tell me. I can promise with 99 percent probability that I want to see you again. You called this a beta test. Are we gonna go live?”

“Signs point to yes,” she says. “But I’m still gathering data.”

We have a third drink, chatting about SocialTech, kickboxing, and the end of the world, as you do. I love to watch her laugh. Her full lips part and quiver at the corners just before she cuts loose with a full-throated belly laugh. She’s mesmerizing. It becomes a game—how many times can I score that laugh in one sitting?

Sometimes I lean too close, and a knee brushes hers. Or we talk so intensely, our upper bodies lean in, inching forward until one of us realizes how close we are.

She scoots to the edge of her seat an hour later.

“Nate, I’ve had a nice time, but I’m beat. Between the matches and an early flight home tomorrow, I need to get back to the hotel.”

“Wait.” I lay a land on her knee. The easygoing vibe evaporates. As desire floods my senses, heat flares in her eyes. I jerk my hand back and make space between us.

“I promised mixing business and personal interests in a non-offensive way.” I reach inside my jacket and take out the three typed pages, folded longwise, I’d stashed in an inside pocket.

“This is a summary of a revised offer. All I’ll say is look this over, and then let’s see where we are.”

She takes it without looking and slides it into her purse. “I’ll read it over on the flight tomorrow.” Her face reveals nothing.

I settle the drink tab and weave through tables behind her. Outside, the neon-hued Vegas night grates on my nerves after the cozy atmosphere of Mitsuki’s. I hand over my valet ticket and turn to her.

Even the garish lighting makes her glow. Hot pink highlights one side of her face. Four inch heels give her height, but she’s still several inches shorter than I am. If I kissed her now, what would she say? I want to slide my hand around the small of her back, right above the swell of her gorgeous ass, and pull her against me. Her lips part as if she’d welcome it, then she steps away from me.

She raises her hand for a cab.

“Are you kidding? No way,” I protest. “My car’s coming around. Let me take you back to the hotel.”

“Sorry, Nate. Non-negotiable. I’d prefer to ride back alone.”

I’m not going to beg, so I wait silently as the cab pulls alongside the curb. I open the door and help her in, a mostly useless gesture, and lean down when she rolls down the window.

“Good night, Nate. I’ll be in touch.”

“Good night, Emma.”