You've Been Warned

I STEP OUT OF THE CAB in front of the Old Homestead Steak House in the heart of the meatpacking district. As if the location alone isn’t enough to scare off vegetarians, there’s a humongous cow over the entrance. Very subtle.

Who am I to talk?

If there’s a list of what never to do when you’re having an affair, I’m pretty sure crashing your lover’s business dinner is right up there at the top.

I walk into the restaurant and breeze by the maître d’ as if I know where I’m going. I don’t.

In front me there’s a crowded bar and an equally crowded lounge area, beyond which begins the crowded dining room. The way it’s laid out, I can see only the first few tables.

As I make my way to a better view, one thing becomes clear. With its dark wood paneling, leather club chairs, and portions that could choke the Lincoln Tunnel, this is definitely a place for guys. In fact, there are very few gals to be seen.

“May I help you?”

The voice startles me. I turn around to see the maître d’. So much for blowing right by him.

“I’m just looking for someone,” I say.

“Perhaps I can help you.”

“No, that’s okay.”

He glances down at what I’m wearing—a black Elie Tahari waistcoat over jeans and an Armani Exchange sweater. Stylish, perhaps, but not exactly “female executive” attire.

“Really, I insist,” he says.

I more than catch his drift. He’s not asking if he can help me, he’s telling me.

“In that case, his name is Michael Turnbull,” I say. “He comes here fairly often.”

“Yes, of course. Come this way; Mr. Turnbull’s seated in the back with his guests.”

I hesitate. “Actually, would you mind telling him that I’m here?”

“I see. And you are?”

Clearly not his wife.

“Kristin,” I say.

There’s an awkward silence between us.

“I’m his assistant,” I tack on. Immediately I regret it.

The maître d’ smiles—a little too knowingly—and disappears into the dining room.

Good one, Kris! Why not just grab a bullhorn and scream out, MISTRESS ALERT! MISTRESS ALERT!

I continue berating myself while I wait for Michael. All I can hope is that he’ll be more surprised than angry and not the other way around.

But it’s not Michael who appears from the dining room a few moments later.

It’s the maître d’ again.

Chapter 15

“HE WHAT?”

“Mr. Turnbull asked that you join him at his table,” repeats the maître d’.

I look at the guy so sideways I nearly lose my balance. “Are you sure about that?”

“Very.”

The next thing I know I’m being led to the back of the dining room. It dawns on me. This is sooo Michael.

So confident. So in control.

So much why I love him.

It’s no surprise he runs such a successful hedge fund. He never met a risk he couldn’t minimize.

“Ah, there she is!” he says.

It’s a large round table and yet there’s little doubt as to who’s sitting at the head. Michael stands up from his chair, flashing his killer smile. As he walks over to me, wineglass in hand, he throws the maître d’ a quick wink as if to say, I’ll take it from here.

He certainly does.

“Kristin, come meet my friends from the Royal Queen Bank of Sweden.” Michael turns to the table and actually puts his arm around me. “Gentlemen!” he announces. “Jag vill att ni alla möter min sekreterare, Kristin.”

I blush slightly as the entire group—all men and each blonder than the next—proceeds to raise wineglasses and smile. They don’t look like bankers; they look like a rowing team.

An inebriated one at that.

I wait for the guys to resume their revelry before leaning toward Michael and whispering, “What did you say to them?”

“I told them you were my love slave.”

“Ouch. A little too close to the truth, don’t you think?”

“I’m kidding,” he says. “I introduced you as my secretary. It is what you told the maître d’, after all.”

“Sorry about that. Not too believable, huh? I said ‘assistant,’ by the way.”

“Better than claiming to be my niece, I suppose.”

“Funny, the thought did cross my mind.”

Michael shakes his head, amused. “Hey, kiddo, I’m forty-two, not sixty-two.”

“Thank God for that,” I say.

I watch him calmly take a sip of his red wine, his hand steady as a rock. Amazing. Not only doesn’t he flinch when I unexpectedly appear at his business dinner, he invites me back and introduces me to his clients, all nine of them.

That’s balls.

That’s Michael.

“So, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Madame Secretary?” he asks.

“I needed to see you,” I say. I don’t elaborate, of course. I can’t get into it right here. I wouldn’t even know where to start.

“You know I was going to call you later, right?”

“Yes.” I half smile. “I guess I couldn’t wait.” I pant a little against his ear.

“Ooh, I like the sound of that. Check, please.”

Before I can say anything more, Michael turns back to the table and shows off some more of his Swedish. Again, I have no idea what he’s saying.

But when he finishes, everyone reaches for a pen.

Chapter 16

“WHAT DID YOU SAY to them this time?” I ask.