Page 67 of Ricardo

Halstead Club.

Ask for something small, he told me.

Unfortunately, the small thing is not so small and involves walking into Ricardo Conti’s office and asking him for help.

I stand before I can talk myself out of it.

The hallway is quieter than usual. Midday movement hums behind closed doors: muffled voices, distant phones, the click of someone typing too aggressively. I carry the file against my chest, which feels defensive, so I lower it to my side, which makes me feel vulnerable.

This is ridiculous.

I am twenty-six years old. I went to Yale. I have negotiated gala budgets with men who thought complimenting my dress counted as philanthropy. I have convinced donors to increase pledges while their wives glared at me over champagne flutes. I have survived dinner with my parents, a broken engagement with a politician, and one near-fatal encounter with Mario’s espresso machine.

I can ask Ricardo Conti for a car ride to a private club.

His door is partially open. I pause outside and knock lightly on the frame.

Ricardo looks up from behind his desk.

The office suits him. Dark wood. Leather chairs. A wall of shelves holding files, books, and objects that look too old and too expensive for this century. His jacket is off, folded over the back of his chair, and his white shirt is open at the throat, sleeves rolled once at the cuffs. He has a pen in one hand and a pair of reading glasses in the other.

Oh God, he’s so sexy.

Have reading glasses always been that sexy?

His gaze settles on me, and the rest of the office becomes background.

“Julia.”

“Mr. Conti.”

A faint curve touches his mouth. “Have we returned to surnames?”

“Only when I need something.”

“Then I am already intrigued.”

I step inside before I can linger over those words for too long. “Do you have a minute?”

“For you?” He sets the pen down. “Yes.”

My stomach pitches.

I close my fingers more securely around the file. “Mario needs a signature collected from Alistair Valecourt today.”

“Valecourt.”

“You know him?”

“Yes.”

His tone reveals nothing.

“He’s at the Halstead Club until midafternoon,” I say. “His assistant said he will sign if someone brings the document. Lorenzo was going with me, but the lender issue came up.”

Ricardo leans back in his chair, watching me with that calm attention that always makes me feel as if he is hearing more than I'm saying.

“And you need a member.”