bought was too tight, too low-cut. It felt like a costume. She smoothed down the fabric, her stoma

t. She stopped in front of the private dining room. Th

d a large round table, their laughter dying down as she

his eyes crawling over her body. "Well, well. Mrs. Ruiz. I have to say, Clark is a lucky m

way, her skin crawling.

d toward the head of th

able was sitting with his back to her, swirling a glass

eft Isold

t suddenly overpowered the smell of cigars. It was him. The

dez, this is Isolde Ruiz. She's here to m

gendary Jacques Valdez was notoriously private, never giving interviews, his face never gracing the covers of financial magazines-only

dable. He leaned back in his chair, his long fingers tapping

out. She thought of Bria. She thought of

the table and poured a generous amount into a shot glass. "

at the clear liquid. She couldn't drink. She n

, his face flushed. He reached out

eyes, bracing he

ic

solde's eyes flew open. Jacques was holding a thick Cuban cigar, t

ues's voice was quiet, but it c

t Mr. Valdez, it'

, ignoring Rudy entirely. He held out

. But the look in Jacques's eyes left no room for argument. She walke

s's face. He was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from hi

e liar." he murmured, his voi

hand closing over hers. His grip was firm, his skin hot. He held her

rectly into her face. Isolde coughed, stepping back.

er now." he said, his voice r

er ribs. Little liar. He knew. He knew she had

Every time she looked up, Jacques was watching her. His gaze was

rrupted him. "Mr. Kowalski, I believe the structural report for the Hudson pro

documents. Isolde took the oppo

" she mumbled, not wa

llway. She needed air. She needed to think. She needed to