is exhausting. His mercurial nature ever changing and confusing, keeps a girl on her toes. With a renewed energy he bounds off the bed and goes to the mini bar.
“Let’s toast to getting to know each other, Sophie and Rhys, fast friends.” The emphasis falls on friends, as he pulls two crystal rocks glasses and a crystal decanter of amber liquor from the bar, adding ice cubes to the glasses from the silver bucket on the room service cart. Climbing back on the bed, he hands me a glass with a smile that makes him look so young and carefree. He pours one finger for me and then for himself before placing the crystal decanter on the bedside table. He raises his glass to me. “To Us, Sophie, new friends and first impressions.” I don’t take my eyes off of him as we toast, waiting for his mood to shift.
“Why is it so important to you that I didn’t know who you are?”
“Clearly you do not read gossip columns. I grew up in a bubble. Everything was dictated by my father and his standing, our name. From a young age, I have been in the public eye, I have never been anonymous. People know about me and think that they know who I am. They see pictures of me and think they know me. People project who they want you to be and then are disappointed when you don’t measure up. Women can smell the money from a mile away. They always want more. I learned from a young age how to give people what they want, without giving them a piece of me. It can be exhausting,” he reveals himself without hesitation. “It is refreshing to meet someone who doesn’t know me, or better yet, want something from me. I can truly be myself.” Relief emanates from his body, he is visibly relaxed. He has removed his mask.
“So, the idle chatter and general excitement that you rouse in these women is what, unwarranted?”
“No, I am aware of my reputation. And I have earned it,” he quips with a sly grin. “I am not opposed to the occasional casual encounter. I enjoy the company of women and have cultivated a very healthy set of skills. But, it has been a very long while since I have dated. I prefer to keep things light. One night, any more than that and people start to get the wrong idea. What they do once they have moved on is not my concern.”
“So you collect virgins?”
“No, not virgins,” he chokes. “But, I suppose you could call me a collector. I collect beautiful things, beautiful women.” He taps his temple. “But, women are fickle. I give them what they expect from me, and not a drop more. I don’t encourage emotion. Emotions are messy. I’m not in the business of investing emotion in others.”
“So your life is one endless one night stand? That sounds sad.” And lonely, I think to myself.
“I prefer to think of it as tidy. Let’s change the subject,” he begs, not meeting my eyes.
“OK. Who is your father?” I ask. The look of utter shock on his face is priceless. Either I am truly out of the loop or this man’s sense of self importance is bordering on delusional. He lets out a burst of laughter and shakes his head.
“My father is Michael Slate.” He waits for the information to sink in. I search the recesses of my mind for that name.
“The shipping guy?” I question, less than eloquent. I vaguely recall recently skimming an article about the expansion of his holdings in Europe. His net worth is practically immeasurable. He could support a small country. Shipyards on both coasts, International holdings and a family name that reaches back a century or more. How did I not make that connection?
“Shipping, among other things, yes.” I turn my eyes on Rhys in question and forget to run my thoughts by the internal editor.
“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you because your daddy is a billionaire? You are barking up the wrong tree.” I take a deep pull from my glass in an effort to stifle my biting tongue. Rhys laughs a
“Let’s toast to getting to know each other, Sophie and Rhys, fast friends.” The emphasis falls on friends, as he pulls two crystal rocks glasses and a crystal decanter of amber liquor from the bar, adding ice cubes to the glasses from the silver bucket on the room service cart. Climbing back on the bed, he hands me a glass with a smile that makes him look so young and carefree. He pours one finger for me and then for himself before placing the crystal decanter on the bedside table. He raises his glass to me. “To Us, Sophie, new friends and first impressions.” I don’t take my eyes off of him as we toast, waiting for his mood to shift.
“Why is it so important to you that I didn’t know who you are?”
“Clearly you do not read gossip columns. I grew up in a bubble. Everything was dictated by my father and his standing, our name. From a young age, I have been in the public eye, I have never been anonymous. People know about me and think that they know who I am. They see pictures of me and think they know me. People project who they want you to be and then are disappointed when you don’t measure up. Women can smell the money from a mile away. They always want more. I learned from a young age how to give people what they want, without giving them a piece of me. It can be exhausting,” he reveals himself without hesitation. “It is refreshing to meet someone who doesn’t know me, or better yet, want something from me. I can truly be myself.” Relief emanates from his body, he is visibly relaxed. He has removed his mask.
“So, the idle chatter and general excitement that you rouse in these women is what, unwarranted?”
“No, I am aware of my reputation. And I have earned it,” he quips with a sly grin. “I am not opposed to the occasional casual encounter. I enjoy the company of women and have cultivated a very healthy set of skills. But, it has been a very long while since I have dated. I prefer to keep things light. One night, any more than that and people start to get the wrong idea. What they do once they have moved on is not my concern.”
“So you collect virgins?”
“No, not virgins,” he chokes. “But, I suppose you could call me a collector. I collect beautiful things, beautiful women.” He taps his temple. “But, women are fickle. I give them what they expect from me, and not a drop more. I don’t encourage emotion. Emotions are messy. I’m not in the business of investing emotion in others.”
“So your life is one endless one night stand? That sounds sad.” And lonely, I think to myself.
“I prefer to think of it as tidy. Let’s change the subject,” he begs, not meeting my eyes.
“OK. Who is your father?” I ask. The look of utter shock on his face is priceless. Either I am truly out of the loop or this man’s sense of self importance is bordering on delusional. He lets out a burst of laughter and shakes his head.
“My father is Michael Slate.” He waits for the information to sink in. I search the recesses of my mind for that name.
“The shipping guy?” I question, less than eloquent. I vaguely recall recently skimming an article about the expansion of his holdings in Europe. His net worth is practically immeasurable. He could support a small country. Shipyards on both coasts, International holdings and a family name that reaches back a century or more. How did I not make that connection?
“Shipping, among other things, yes.” I turn my eyes on Rhys in question and forget to run my thoughts by the internal editor.
“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you because your daddy is a billionaire? You are barking up the wrong tree.” I take a deep pull from my glass in an effort to stifle my biting tongue. Rhys laughs a
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