S H A D E S

Terms and Conditions

The cab ride through the heart of Manhattan was brief. Pulling up outside of Park Avenue, I wasn't surprised to see that Tristan had set himself up in the best that New York had to offer. I was, however, surprised to discover that he'd landed an apartment so quickly.

The world, it seemed, presented no resistance or obstacles to the likes of a successful multimillionaire on the rise.

"Miss," the porter tipped his hat as I scooted out of the cab, handing over a twenty to the driver on the way out. "Are you here for Mr. Shade?"

"Yes," I smiled although inside I wanted to laugh. "He's expecting me."

"This way." I followed the porter into the lobby of the luxurious building and tried not to sigh in repressed envy. Not in my wildest dreams could I hope to afford an apartment here, and I certainly couldn't expect to sway the stodgy board with my meagre salary of five hundred thousand a year.

No, no. This was for the crème de la crème. The veritable Kings and Queens of New York. An elite inner circle I could only hope to penetrate through social connections, if I was that sort of woman to play such a hand.

"This elevator will take you straight up to the penthouses." The porter smiled, a kind and toothy grin in a warm face. His voice carried a hint of native Caribbean, which Island I couldn't be sure. And before I had the presence of mind to ask, the elevator doors whisked open and he nudge me inside.

"PH12." He gestured to the gleaming panel. I punched the button just as the doors shut and hummed a few bars of something I'd caught on the radio on the way over. The inside of the elevator car was lined with mirrors, and I deliberately fixed my eyes to the numbers inside of worrying over my reflection.

I'd come casual—slim tailored jeans and blouse, my waves of auburn hair loose and tousled in a just rolled out of bed sort of manner. I wanted to project and effortless and easy sort of confidence to say I wasn't the least bit anxious about being alone with Tristan in his home.

And I wasn't. The fact that my stomach was presently flip-flopping had nothing to do with it. When the doors pinged open, Tristan stood there, bracing the wall. Barefoot, dark wash jeans and a navy long sleeve sweater rolled up on his arms.

"Ms. Pierce." He swept out a hand as I stepped out from the elevator. "Welcome to my home."

"Thank you for having me." I thrust out a hand when he moved to embrace me, and he accepted it in both of his. His touch warm and lingering.

"I hope you've come with an appetite."

I angled my wrist, took note of the time. "It's almost eleven."

"Too late for you?"

"No." I answered, following as he led me into the heart of his home. It was comfortably decorated. Not as rigid and modern as I would have expected. A large sectional dominated the main living space, all opened up to the dining area and impressive kitchen. I set down my purse on the couch as Tristan head towards something that smelled like heaven wafting from the gas range.

"I hope you aren't afraid of pasta," he called out. "I've made bolognaise."

"Sounds perfect." There on the glass coffee table, were two glasses and a decanter of wine, already poured. Sitting down, I brushed my hands over my thighs and took in the view. The length of the apartment boasted a wall of large windows giving a clean, unobstructed view outside. Mr. Shade, I was quickly learning, had a thing for killer views. A luxury hard to come by in New York.

He returned with two plates with perfectly nested coils of spaghetti dredged in rich, meaty sauce and powdered shavings of Parmesan.

"You look lovely," Tristan commented as he joined me on the couch, plate perched on his lap. "I'm glad you agreed to join me this evening. We had a very...tense first day, and I would like to clear the air."