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  Trenton folds his hands on the table. “Nor have I.”

  “Really?”

  He tosses me a stern look. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

  I shrug. “You just seemed so assertive in your attack, like you’ve had plenty of practice.”

  Trenton leans forward. His gaze looks so intense that I feel exposed, despite that the questions are focused on him. “I’m confident when I know what I want and my actions reflect my desires. It has nothing to do with practice.”

  “See, but that’s the thing.” I fiddle with the napkin in my lap. “You don’t even know me, so how can you, well, want me?”

  “I know enough. I’m a very good judge of character and my instincts are always spot on. I refuse to skate around my feelings for you. You must accept that’s how I operate.”

  “So you have a MO you use on all women?” I shake my head. “Thanks, that makes me feel special.”

  “There are no other women.”

  “Maybe not now, but how many conquests like me have you had in your past?”

  “I’ve never met anyone like you, Sara. And that’s the truth.”

  “You didn’t answer my question, Trenton. Exactly how many women have you wined and dined only to toss away once you’ve gotten what you wanted from them?”

  “I’ve never brought any women home with me.”

  “Ever?”

  “Ever.”

  “Why not?

  “No one has intrigued me enough to hold my interest.” His fingers drift to my cheek. “Until now.”

  I take a hold of his hand and guide it back to the tabletop. “We met less than twenty-four hours ago. That’s hardly enough time to come to that conclusion.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “Why me?”

  “Why not you?”

  “Please don’t answer my question with a question.”

  “Fine.” He leans back in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re passionate, independent, practical, stubborn, and straight-forward. Your directness comes from a place of honesty and innocence. Those traits appeal to me. As a matter of fact, they fascinate me.”

  I roll my eyes and pick up my fork. “So you’re interested in me because you find me a challenge.”

  Trenton seizes my wrist. “This isn’t a game to me, Sara.”

  “Then what do you want from me?”

  The grandfather clock chimes. I jump in my seat.

  “To get to know you better in every way.” Trenton releases his grip.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not an insecure person. I’m just trying to understand where you’re coming from since upon first impressions we seem to come from opposite worlds. In particular, we run in different social circles and I believe that puts us at a serious disadvantage.”

  “So this is about money, then?”

  “How can it not be?” I gesture to the elaborate dining hall. “You’re not just well off, you’re super rich. Meanwhile, I’m forced to work overtime so I don’t get booted out of my tiny apartment or fall behind on my student loan payments.”

  I shove a forkful of pie into my mouth.

  Trenton shakes his head. “In my opinion, romantic relationships are not formed according to the most advantageous financial merger for both parties.”

  “What made you pursue me so strongly at the hospital? You knew nothing about me except that I was a nurse and I was aggravated by your preferential treatment. That’s hardly enough to warrant a kiss or a sudden invitation to your faraway castle.”

  “My financial stability offers me the opportunity to look for a woman with the positive qualities that are important to me, instead of judging her based on how much money is in her bank account. At the hospital I observed qualities in you, like those mentioned earlier, that I found endearing, so I acted on instinct.

  “You may find it forward, but as I told you, I’m not a patient man. I wanted to kiss you, so I did. I don’t regret it and I won’t apologize for it. As for my dinner invitation, I wanted to explore the connection I feel toward you; that’s the reason I wanted you here with me tonight.”

  Trenton’s eyes sail to my breasts before darting back to my face. “I can’t help that along with my interest in exploring your other attributes I also have an overwhelming desire to sleep with you.”

  A smirk plays across his lips as my face ignites.

  I clear my throat, struggling to find my voice and diffuse the sexual tension. “So you’re saying, even though you’re rich, and you’ve made a career out of managing rich people’s money, when it comes to romantic relationships, money isn’t important to you.”

  Trenton leans back in his chair again and tents his hands under his chin. “Your argument about our difference in finances holds no merit, Sara. My father is a structural engineer, who comes from old money. He met my mother in the late 1970s when they both volunteered in Tanzania. She’d been working there for a year prior to his arrival, lending a hand as a Red Cross aide, and she had not a dime to her name. Neither did her parents back home in the States. In Africa, she lived in tents with other volunteers, went for days without showering, and had hardly any food and water. She wore rags as she worked; she endured poverty in order to help others for no compensation whatsoever.

  “My parents fell in love after working alongside each other and they’ve been married for thirty-four years now. Money was never an issue because their relationship was built on true, unconditional love. I believe this is why their marriage has withstood the trials life brings.”

  “So you’re looking to recreate what your parents have, then? You want to be the rich, accomplished bachelor who sweeps the poor public service worker off her feet and offers her a better life?”

  Trenton looks at me pointedly. “I’m simply saying I wasn’t raised to look down on others because of their financial or social status. My parents taught me the significance of holding other, more important values above money, and I listened to them, despite choosing business as my line of work. It seems you’re the only one here who wants to focus on my pocketbook.”

  My blush returns. “Oh.”

  Trenton taps his fingertips together, gauging me with a calculated precision. “You’re the first person to view my wealth as a negative.”

  “It’s just a complication I’m not used to. Look, I want to learn more about you—your hobbies, your likes, and dislikes. But I feel you’re doing everything possible not to give me a good insight into who you really are.”

  Trenton rises from his seat. “We’re continuing this conversation in the garden.”

  I pout. “I haven’t finished my pie.”

  He narrows his eyes.

  I drop my fork and stand, placing my napkin on the table.

  Trenton takes my hand and leads me out of the dining hall. We walk along many corridors, all of them draped in fine fabrics and painted with dark colors, until we come to yet another marble atrium. The double French doors located in the back appear to lead outside.

  Trenton punches a code into a control panel mounted on the wall. Two loud beeps sound. He opens one door and gestures for me to go first. I step outside into a balmy spring night. A full moon hangs in the sky. Floodlights and lanterns—not those cheap paper kinds, but wrought-iron ones—illuminate a lush, colorful garden and a glistening turquoise swimming pool. Beyond the patio sits a large barbeque grill, hot tub, and a waterfall that trickles into a pond.

  “Oh, Trenton.” I place my hand to my chest. “It’s beautiful.”

  Without a word, he escorts me to a white gazebo situated next to the pool and assists me up the steps. I sit on one of the cushioned loveseats and cross my legs. Trenton remains standing. With a pensive gaze cast at the swimming pool, he tugs at his tie until the knot falls away, and unfastens the top two buttons of his dress shirt. The water reflects in his blue eyes.

  “It’s so peaceful,” I say. “You must spend a lot of time out here.”

  Trenton reacts to my comment with a sud
den jerk and glance in my direction. “In the summer months, I do. But overall, I spend most of my time at my penthouse in the city.”

  “Do you own other homes?”

  He focuses back on the pool in a manner void of the pride he showed in his weapons room. “A villa in Tuscany, apartments in London, Paris, Barcelona, and three residences in California. My family owns a country home in the Hamptons . . .” He sighs. “I own more. I rarely visit them.”

  “Why do you have so many if it’s just you?”

  “Because I can.” His eyes drift across his property, surveying the brightness of the pool and the darkness beyond. “You know, my fondest memory of this place is of me sitting here in this gazebo alone, for hours, sometimes until the sun came up. I’m no Gatsby. I don’t throw lavish parties to show off my wealth in hopes of being the talk of the town and accepted by strangers who mean nothing to me. I always enjoyed the simplicity of just me and the silence.”

  Trenton turns to me, blue eyes framed by thick, dark lashes and saturated with yearning and despair. “I thought that’s what happiness was—the solitude, the quiet—but now that you’re here, Sara, I’m not so sure anymore.”

  I pat the seat cushion next to me. “Trenton, come sit down. You said your career is lucrative, but what are you passionate about? I want to know more about you.”

  Trenton cocks his eyebrows. “I’ve been interviewed countless times . . . but no one has ever asked me that.”

  “That’s because I’m asking you questions for different reasons.”

  He takes a seat next to me, but keeps his distance. “I don’t know what else to tell you. I’m thirty years old, an only child, and I grew up on Long Island.”

  I know that already, thanks to Wikipedia, but I play dumb.

  “That’s cool. I’m twenty-two, an only child, and I grew up in San Francisco.” I pause. “May I ask you something more personal?”

  Trenton shrugs. “Sure.”

  “Have you ever been in a long-term relationship?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I never purposely set out to have brief relationships, but that’s how it turned out because of my work schedule and the fact that the women I dated never lived up to my expectations.”

  “But you still have your demanding career so what’s changed?”

  Trenton pauses before answering. “Nothing.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “My career isn’t my whole life, Sara.” The reply spews from frowning lips.

  “So what do you do outside of work?”

  Some of the tension in his face dissolves. “I’m actively involved in a dozen charities and I do volunteer work.”

  “I guess you inherited your parents’ charitable values.” I smile, thinking of how passionately he spoke about them in the dining room. “They must be proud.”

  “They are proud of me . . . more so than I deserve.” Trenton’s voice is as distant as his gaze.

  “I doubt that.” I move closer to him. “So what volunteer experience of yours stands out the most?”

  “Haiti was, um . . . interesting. I, uh, flew down there to help out after the earthquake.”

  I’m taken aback. I’ve never heard Trenton um and uh his way through anything.

  “Really? What was that like?”

  “There was a lot of devastation there, Sara.” He clears his throat and shifts in his seat.

  “I remember watching it on the news. It looked awful.”

  “The news . . .” Trenton sneers and shakes his head.

  A thick silence develops between us as I reconsider my line of questioning.

  “Listen, Trenton, we don’t have to talk about it if you—”

  “You know how you work in the ER and deal with serious cases as soon as they walk in the door?” Tenacity tightens his features. “You work on the frontline and experience their pain and suffering firsthand . . . before they get their treatments, their drugs, their tests . . .”

  “Yeah, I mean, I do see a lot.” I speak the words slowly, wondering what he’s getting at.

  “Well, Haiti was like that. I worked on the frontline, too, clearing debris, witnessing firsthand the despair, the destruction, the tears . . . the hope . . .” He exhales a deep breath and shakes his head slightly, as if he’s trying to clear his thoughts.

  “That must have been very difficult.” I take his hand.

  Trenton’s eyes soften as he looks down at our intertwined fingers. Then, abruptly, his expression becomes guarded and he pulls away and rises to his feet. I watch him walk the length of the gazebo . . . back and forth . . . back and forth . . . lithe and restless, like a caged animal.

  After a few moments, he faces me, half cloaked in moonlight and half in the colored glow of the lanterns. His eyes display a vulnerability so striking, my heart hurts for him.

  “Sara, I experienced things . . . things that made me re-evaluate my life and the choices I’ve made: pulling men, women, and children from the rubble weeks after the earthquake. The stench of rotting flesh, notifying their surviving kin who had hoped they’d made it out alive . . .”

  Trenton leans against the frame of the gazebo’s entrance, turning his back to me and placing his hands in his pockets. His posture takes on a melancholy slope. “I had this inhuman strength—an adrenaline rush—fueled by my desire to help. I tossed metal beams aside with the locals and other volunteers. Wood, concrete, garbage, you name it. I just grabbed at whatever I could.”

  I stand and step closer to him. Although he won’t look at me, I feel like I’m finally getting a glimpse at the real Trenton, the man behind the money and power.

  “I built my company up from nothing, strategically planning and overseeing its growth, brick by brick, every detail. Then, at the height of my success, there I was in Haiti, freeing dead bodies from the remnants of the places where they had lived, homes they built with pride and dedication.

  “In one instant, everything they worked so hard for collapsed around them, and with this collapse, their lives were taken. These were good people—honest, hardworking people—who didn’t deserve such misfortune. They were suffocated, crushed by what little they had. Meanwhile, I was able to return to my life in the States unscathed. It made no goddamn sense. Life seems unpredictable to me now, Sara. Precious.”

  I’m stunned by Trenton’s passion as he relates his experience. I also sense that what he took away from his humanitarian work goes way beyond a carpe diem attitude. Rage burns at the core of his story, but it’s stoked by something else —regret and perhaps even shame—as if the plight of the Haitians cast a shadow over how he views his own life and all of his success.

  “Things were just beginning to show promise there before the earthquake. A new government was in place. The police force received funding. Criminals were rounded up and sent to jail. People felt safe, their communities began to thrive. But that all changed when the quake hit. Thousands of criminals escaped the National Penitentiary in Port-au-Prince and set off a whole new wave of violence. It’s worse than ever there now. To the gangsters of the world, it’s a haven for drug and weapon smuggling, corruption, you name it.” Trenton bows his head. “Anyway, I’m done talking about it.”

  I place my hand on his shoulder. “Don’t feel you have to hide things from me. I’m not here to judge you.”

  His jaw tightens. “Next question.”

  I retract my hand. “Fine, next question. You obviously care a lot about your parents and charity work, but what about friends? Do you even have any friends that tolerate this attitude of yours?”

  The short hostility between us lightens with the appearance of Trenton’s smirk.

  “Sean and Chris,” he says, returning his attention to the pool. “I’ve known them since I was six years old. We played polo together and went to the same school up until college. We’ve always kept in touch. After I established my business, they were the first guys I called to head up my security detail. I trust them with m
y life. They’re my brothers.”

  “That’s nice that they came to work for you.”

  Trenton nods. “I employ many people, but they are two of my best. They’re loyal, kind, and honest men. It’s hard to find people to trust like I trust them.”

  “And what about Randall?”

  “Randall is another person in my inner circle who I hold in the highest regard. He’s worked for my family for many years.”

  “Why do you have so much security?”

  Trenton’s demeanor shifts suddenly. He slips his hands from his pockets and stands tall and rigid. “They travel with me simply as a precaution.”

  “Do all CEOs take that kind of drastic precaution?”

  Trenton shrugs, but the way his eyes dart around the yard tells me my questions on this topic make him feel uneasy.

  “And if you travel with so much security all the time, why were you alone when you arrived at the hospital last night?”

  Trenton clears his throat. “I told you I went for a walk.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Drop it, Sara.”

  I glare at him. “You may not feel comfortable opening up to me completely yet—I get that since we only just met—but before we move onto another subject, I need you to answer one last question explicitly, without getting defensive.”

  Trenton leans against the gazebo frame and stares ahead. “What is it?”

  “Have you been completely truthful with me about everything since last night?”

  The faint trickling of the waterfall is the only sound in the night.

  “Have you?”

  Trenton turns and pulls me into his arms. The way he holds me—the tenderness, the carefulness—gives me hope that we’ve made great strides tonight.

  He brushes his lips to my forehead and whispers something in what I think is French.

  I look up at him. “What did you say?”

  His eyes fall to mine. “Yes, I’ve been truthful.”

  I smile so widely, my cheeks hurt. “Thank you.”

  An indecipherable emotion flickers across Trenton’s face before his gaze dims with unmistakable lust. A cool breeze hits me out of nowhere. I rub my hands up and down my bare arms to combat the chill.