I give my own phone a call. “Now I have your number, too,” I say, handing him back his phone, and he takes it with a nod.
I try to ask him a few more questions, but he turns to the person on his other side and they get into a conversation about vested interests, and soon, it’s just me and my food.
Kingsley comes back then, pulling his chair closer to me again before he picks up his fork. “This looks good, doesn’t it? Everything they cook here is good. Don’t tell Theodore—he gets jealous when I tell him about good meals I’ve had somewhere else.”
I stare at him. Suddenly he’s Mr. Chatty again. “You sure no one spiked your drink?”
He holds his glass out to me. “Wanna check?”
I eye the glass and then look up at him. “I’m good. I’m enjoying the gin and tonic that Perry got for me.”
“Put that down,” he growls, tilting his chin at the drink in my hand.
“Why?”
“Because I have something else for you.”
An argument tickles on the tip of my tongue, but just then, a server comes over with two wineglasses and an open bottle of red wine on his tray.
“Mr. Baxter, Miss Pham, I have your wine.”
Kingsley and I both lean back, making room for the glasses, and watch him pour some into the glass.
“Santé, to The Hamilton Group.” Kingsley picks up his glass and holds it out to me.
I gently clink my glass against his and take a sip.
“Fuck.” I let out a long sigh as the wine fills up my mouth, swirls around my tongue, and slides down my throat.
He takes another sip and sets his glass down on the table, swilling the almost purple-tinted crimson liquid in the glass. “It’s from my, well, my and my brother’s winery in Barossa Valley, Australia. Our Pinot from five years ago. Still a little young, but that’s actually probably best for our meal.”
I take another sip, savoring the textures and the differences that the foreign terroir has brought out in the varietal. “It’s delicious. Thank you, Kingsley.”
As he smiles, his eyes lighten to a crystal blue I feel he reserves just for me. “You’re welcome, Luna. I like seeing you enjoying your meal.”
“Well, no danger of that ending anytime soon.”
His hand twitches on the tablecloth, and for a moment it feels like it’s only us in the room. “Maybe sometime we can—”
“Baxter!” Cal booms across the table. “That mouthy beauty distracted me before, and I forgot to ask you about what you think of Gurney going under!”
Kingsley springs away from me, and it’s like a concrete barrier slams down between us. All air, all warmth, instantly sucked out of the room, and he’s the one who activated the vacuum button.
Hot and cold. In the space of milliseconds.
I sit back, trying to enjoy the meal but feeling like I’m alone in a room of marionettes.
Finally, when the plates are cleared and dessert and the port have been served, Kingsley’s attention still focused on anyone but me, my leg starts to cramp up, and I stand up to walk around the room.
The Maven club is a London institution and was one of the top must-see destinations in my travel guide. What they don’t tell you, though, is that all the best parts of the club are behind locked doors like this private dining room.
To the far side of the room is a painting in a style I know well, and cradling the last of my port, I wander over.
“It’s a Karnth,” a man says, joining me in front of the painting. He slides his eyes up and down my body and finally up to my eyes with a grin.
“I see. I’d know that mix of chartreuse and viridian anywhere.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You know your art.”
