The Fakers

6: Gemma

George, the maître d', was leading me through Mastro's when my YSL clutch began to vibrate. Emile's name flashed across my phone screen, which was odd considering I was meeting him for dinner at this very steakhouse and I was right on time.

George slid open the heavy door to the private dining room, and I was greeted by an unpleasant surprise. I counted to three and exhaled slowly in an attempt to calm myself. It didn't work, and I answered the phone still seething.

"What the hell, Emile?"

He sighed into the phone. "I really should have washed your mouth with soap more as a child."

There were a lot of things he should have done more when I was a child, but even so, I probably should have greeted my father with a little more couth. It was becoming increasingly difficult for me to control my sharp words and reflexive actions as of late, and I wondered if it was cause for concern.

"Gemma, forgive me, but I got caught up at work," Emile continued. "I'm afraid I can't make dinner."

"I know, seeing as you're not here and I am," I said, trying to keep my voice even. My blood was boiling as I watched a frantic George beckon to a waitress. She rushed in holding...

"I got you a Domaine de la Romanée-Conti to apologize," Emile said.

"What year?" I asked, eyeing the exquisite bottle of pinot noir. My blood was cooling to an easy simmer.

"1990," Emile and the waitress said at the same time.

This particular bottle had a price tag of well over $20,000. My body temperature finally returned to normal.

Damn you, Emile, you brilliant, conniving man.

"All I ask is that you woo a potential client," Emile said. "And something tells me he won't need much wooing. What do you say, Gemma?"

I narrowed my eyes at Liam Black, who was innocently sipping his water and trying not to smile. What a smug, colluding bastard. They both were. If Emile wanted me to sell my soul, it would come at a steep price.

"I say... I'd like to reopen discussions about a salary increase."

There was silence on the other line.

"Fine."

"Fine."

I hung up.

After George had seated me, the waitress came over to our table with the Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. She held it out lovingly, as one should, and gave me a bright smile. "Would you lik-"

"Yes," I interrupted. "Please."

* * * * * *

Ignoring the good-looking asshole sitting across the table, I watched the angel beside me pour liquid heaven into my glass. I bit my lip to keep from confessing my love to her. After giving it a swirl, I took a slow sip of my wine, allowing the liquid velvet to envelope my tongue. As the complex notes danced about in my mouth, I felt the tension leave my shoulders. It was impossible to be in a bad mood after half a glass of this pinot noir.

I leaned back in my chair, finally appeased. "Emile seems to like you," I said, turning my attention to Liam.

He was wearing a navy blazer and a crisp white button-up, and his blue eyes were actually sparkling, which just wasn't fair. Those eyes coupled with his thick, arched eyebrows gave him a devilish air – or maybe he just had that air about him naturally. In fact, if he admitted to being Lucifer himself, I wouldn't be the least bit shocked. It would actually make a lot of sense, as I was always attracted to the worst type of guy.